Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: This issue is the usual mixed bag, with a small cluster of slighty weird stories, plus some historic shorts by Ernest Favenc. 1: Fraulein von Heslau / Ernest Favenc 2: The Tiger Lily / J. S. Fletcher 3: The Prethereau Sapphire / Margaret Busbee Shipp 4: Never Save a Man from the Sea / Ernest Favenc 5: Brother Bill / Ellis Parker Butler 6: The Medicine Man / Reginald Campbell 7: Mad Marix / Ellis Parker Butler 8: Eyes of the Dead / Lieutenant Edgar Gardiner 9: The Circle of Illusion / Lottie Lesh 10: The Justice of Captain Dampier / Ernest Favenc 11: Cave of the Criss-Cross Knives / C. C. Spruc

PAST MASTERS 108

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.

6 December 2022

Contents

1: Fraulein von Heslau / Ernest Favenc

2: The Tiger Lily / J. S. Fletcher

3: The Prethereau Sapphire / Margaret Busbee Shipp

4: Never Save a Man from the Sea / Ernest Favenc

5: Brother Bill / Ellis Parker Butler

6: The Medicine Man / Reginald Campbell

7: Mad Marix / Ellis Parker Butler

8: Eyes of the Dead / Lieutenant Edgar Gardiner

9: The Circle of Illusion / Lottie Lesh

10: The Justice of Captain Dampier / Ernest Favenc

11: Cave of the Criss-Cross Knives / C. C. Spruce

12: Sleuth of the Air Waves / Emile C. Tepperman

13: The Shadow Jumper / Herman Howard Matteson

14: Night / Louis Joseph Vance

15: Le Maitres de l'Affiche / C Ranger Gull & Reginald Bacchus

16: The House and the Brain / Edward Bulwer-Lytton

17: The Bohemian Girl / Willa Cather

______________________

1: Fraulein von Heslau

Ernest Favenc

1845-1908

Evening News (Sydney) 16 June 1906

MY NAME is Carjava, and I was second steersman on board the yacht Arnhem when we left Amboina, in 1623, on a voyage of discovery to the lands eastward and southward of Java. We were accompanied by another yacht, the Pera. Although my name is Spanish, I, like my father, was born in Holland, and have always considered myself one of that nation.

All went well with us until we sighted land and skirted it for nearly two days' sail. The shore was fringed with mangroves, but from the masthead we could see that there was rising ground just within the mangrove belt, and one clear morning, immediately before the sun rose, the tops of snow-clad mountains could be discerned far, far in the interior.

From my position as second steersman, I, of necessity, knew something of these seas, and knew that the land before us was called Novo Guinea.

As our object was to steer south and examine the great Southland known to exist there, and it being doubtful from the report of the captain of the Duyfken as to the reception we should meet there from the Indians, it was decided to send ashore at the first likely place and replenish our water-casks.

It was not long before we came to an open beach, which promised good landing, and from aloft there appeared to be a lagoon but a short distance from the beach. All looked inviting.

We went ashore, a strong party, two boats from the Arnhem and two from the Pera our own captain, Jan Carstens, being in command. There appeared to be no Indians in the neighbourhood, nor was the fresh water a great distance from the sea, so taking our barracos and leaving a guard we proceeded inland and filled our casks at the lagoon.

We then returned to the boats. Captain Carstens and some men remaining behind to examine the country more closely as it appeared to be deserted and safe. We stowed the barracos, and were awaiting the return of our captain, when suddenly the silence was broken by the most awful and fiendish yells man ever heard. Naturally we made all haste to our captain and his men, for they had evidently been attacked, and met him retreating with his sailors, pursued by what seemed countless swarms of Indians. Tall, copper-coloured men they were, with great mops of yellow hair. They were discharging flights of arrows and throwing spears at the fugitives, and although we made as much speed as possible, and put on a bold front, we were too late; the lightly-clad Indians had overtaken our comrades and killed them.

The savages on seeing us approach, halted, and the men on the ship firing off a carronade, they took fright, and ran away. Alas, our captain and. all his party were killed. Having heard that these cruel wretches were cannibals we took the bodies on board and buried them at tea. It was useless to think of avenging them, for the Indians could evade us with ease.

The head-merchant, Gerrit Pietersz, now took charge and we sailed away from the ill-omened depot, which had determined the fate of our captain and eight of his men. It also determined the fate of myself ere many days. Our coarse was south, and we soon sighted the land that had been seen by the Duyfken. Here we were somewhat luckier, for we found a wide opening into which flowed a river which the boats could ascend and obtain fresh water witgou the men landing.

We kept on, skirting the land south and west, but found it everywhere shallow, barren, and of no use whatever to the Dutch East India Company, while the natives were gaunt, treacherous, and half starved, in no way so sturdy as those who had killed the captain.

Still following the land, finding the same low muddy mangrove swamps, we again turned north, showing that we had been sailing round a great gulf. On this course we finally came to a headland, and when we had rounded it the shore trended westward again, but here my voyage on the Arnhem came to a sudden end.

The head merchant, who had succeeded the captain, firfcs. not very friendly towards me, being in that respect very diiferent from my late captain, had had stood my very good friend on more than one occasion.

With Gerrit Pietersz, it was quite otherwise; he lost no opportunity to find fault end bicker with me; nor was I popular with the crew.  This arose from my Spanish name, for at that time the most bitter emnity existed between Spain and Holland.

One evening a quarrel arose amongst the sailors on deck, and one drew a knife, and stabbed another. I was close at hand, and, though too late to stop the blow, I immediately closed with the murderer, and wrested the knife from his hand. What was my astonishment, to find myself seized, and accused of the crime. Protest was useless. I was dragged before Pietersz, who had evidently prejudged the case. The sailors swore positively that I struck the blow, and that they had seized me with the knife in my hand.

Nay, the actual, murderer went further, and vowed that I had snatched the knife from his belt to commit the deed in order to fasten the crime on him. Against this I had only my protestations of innocence to offer, and, most unfortunately, the sailor who was killed was known to have carried a grudge against me.

I was put in irons in the hold and confined there all night. The next morning I was brought on deck, as I concluded, to be hanged; but a more lingering death was in waiting for me. The yacht was, hove-to, a boat lowered, and several articles of dunnage put in it. Then my irons were struck off, and I was roughly told to follow. I was to be marooned— left alone among the cannibal savages of the great South land!

I commenced to protest, but Pietersz cut me short and, pointing to the yardarm, said, 'You have your choice— one or the other.'

For a moment I felt tempted to choose the disgraceful death, but the next instant changed my mind and went myself into the boat. Three men followed, and, I was silently pulled ashore. Just there the land was clear and open, free from mangroves; and I and my belongings were quickly landed, and the boat backed out and pulled for the Arnhem.

As long as my enemies were in sight I maintained a firm front; but when the yacht had shaken out her sails, and followed the Pera, now some distance away, and the two discovery ships disappeared found a point of land, and I was alone, I threw myself down in a stupor of despair.

The heat of the sun aroused me. Rallying myself, I examined my poor belongings. I must confess that in this respect I had been fairly well treated, although I at once guessed that I owed it principally to the kindliness of the first steersman, for I remembered seeing him passing the things into the boat himself.

There was enough biscuit and pork to last me a month with care, a cook-pot, and, above all, a musket and ammunition, a hatchet and jackknife; and when I opened the bag of biscuit I found thrust within a pipe and tobacco, fishhooks and lines. These few possessions, and the knowledge that I owed them to a friend, put me in better spirits.

My first care was to remove my provisions to a place of comparative safety, and, determined to keep my courage up, I made an ample breakfast, for the last time, meaning to husband my resources hereafter. Then I started to see what sort of a place I had been left in.

The outlook was promising, the country being open, without any thickets to conceal the lurking Indians. As I proceeded a little further I came to a lagoon with water lilies on it, and many ducks and other birds swimming on its surface. I had not approached very cautiously, and when they caught sight of me they arose and flew with a great whirring and clapping of wings.

I was, however, hugely delighted at seeing them, as it relieved me from the fear of dying from hunger and thirst. I returned to the shore, and looked about for a place where I could sleep, tolerably secure from the Indians.

I selected a rock, elevated and hard to climb, also protected on each side by two more rocks. I took my hatchet, and lopped some boughs for my bed; then, thankful that my life was spared, I slept soundly all night.

And so two or three weeks passed. I saw no Indians, I caught fish, and occasionally managed to knock over a duck; but the loneliness was awful. I watched the horizon closely, for I hoped that the Pera might return alone, and out of pity take me off. I could only afford myself a small pipeful of tobacco every night, and I had finished this one night, and was sitting dozily dreaming, wqondering whether I should ever see a light shine out across the sealine, when suddenly I saw one. I sprang to mt feet in amazement.

IT WAS a light sure enough; Not only one, but two; and as I watched, two more shone out. There were four.

By the position and the distance between them I took tem to be four different craft lying a short distance off shore.  I must have slept unknowingly, and during my sleep, they must have come up in the darkness. I glanced at the stars, and saw that the night was well advanced. Even as I watched, with every nerve strained; my heart beating fast with hope and doubt, I heard a strange sound behind me  like a chorus of distant voices.

The Indians at last! Was I to die, just when a faint chance of life offered?

The lights were stationary. I turned my attention to the Indians. A soft whisper of wind brought me the voices more distinctly, and I thought I could distinguish a glow in the direction of the lagoon. I took my gun, and stole stealthily towards it.

When I reached the open space where I had first come upon the lagoon I saw at least five or six fires burning on the bank, and loudly I could now hear the savage chant rising amd falling. From out of the brilliant circle of light they could not well see me in the surrounding darkness; but I could safety watch them. It was not a reassuring sight for a solitary man to witness in the great unknown land I was then in. Round the largest fire circled in a peculiar dance about thirty Indians, theif black bodies streaked with white in a hideous manner, and as they wheeled round the blazing brands they looked like fiends rejoicing ovef a lost soul.

The women apparently were squatting apart, drumming on their laps, and droning forth a savage song, the men joining in now and then. Sick and unmanned  l stole back to the camp on the shore, butt the sight of those four lights at sea restored my spirits. They were stilt there, and I saw by the sinking constellations that daylight would soon end my suspense.

The dawn came and brightened, and I made out four high-peaked vessels close to the shore. The darkness had deceived me. I recognlsed them at once as Malay proas. The Malays were friendly with tht dutch, and I rejoiced. So engaged was I in  watehing the proas, that I had forgotten all about the Indians, when I was startled by a rustle in the bushes, turned, and there stood oiie of them not 20 yards away, with spears in his hand.

He gave a startled cry at my movement, for his eyes, like  mine,. Had been fixed on the proas. He jumped back and I ducked behind the rock. A shower of spears hurtled over me. I rose quickly and shot the nearest Indian; then crouched once more, and the spears flew wide.  So the fight went on, when suddenly there was the familiar grating  sound of a boat's keel, and a dozen Malay sailors rushed past me and put the Indians to speedy flight, following them, stabbing them with their krises. At the boat stood a corpulent old Malay, clad in a gorgeous sash and turban.

He smiled pleasantly enough at me, and said in broken Dutch, 'You sailor man?'

I nodded, and he said, 'Ship?' pointing to the rocks as though he meant to ask had she been wrecked.

I nodded again, and intimated by sighs that I  wanted to be taken off. This  he understood, and indicated that he would take me. Then a gleam of cupidity came into his eyes, and he field out his hand for the  musket I still held. I had no othet means of paying my passage, so gave it to him with the best grace I could, with the balls and powder horn. By this time the Malays were straggling back. With their bloody krises thrust in their sashes. Afterwards  I learned that these conflicts with the Indians occurred whenever they met. I had unconsciously done the Malays good service,  for the fight with me upset the ambush the Indians were preparing for them, this being a favourite place for the Malays to water their boats. How good it was to be once more among my fellow beings, even if they were only, Malay pirates. How good to leave behind me that great lone land of savage solitude.

Of my life with the Malays I have not much to say. It tasted some years, for although I could have returned to Java, I had no wish to be hanged for a crime I had not committed.

One day we were again off the coast of the Southland, but further west than we had ever been before, when we sighted a stranded ship, evidently a Hollander. I boarded her with a boat's crew to see if there was anything left on board, and from what I saw concluded she was not a discovery ship, but one on the way tp Batavia, driven out of her way by a violent stoarm.

At first I thought that she was deserted, but on entering the cabin I found three bodies in it. On a couch lay the form of a man dressed in rich uniform; and by his side knelt woman, her face buried in her hands. The third man lay in a huddled heap in one corner.

The dark storm clouds were breaking, and the cabin was not so gloomy.  I went over to the couch and its double burden,  and gently raised the woman's bead. To my surprise she was a beautiful girl dressed in the robes of a lady Of Quality. She was alive, but seemingly in a deep swoon. The man was dead, dried blood caked in hideous patches on his gay clothing. I went to the third, and as I stooped over him a ray of sunlight darted darted into the corner where he lay, and I recognised the features.

'Gerrit Pietersz!' I exclaimed.

To my surprise, he feebly opened his eyes.

'Who are you who calls me by name?' he demanded, staring at my dress.

'Juan Carjava, whom you marooned on this coast!'

'Alive! Lift my head and give me a drink. I would speak.'

I picked up a flask from those that were scattered on the floor, and supporting his head held it to his lips. It revived him a little, and he glanced over at the silent figures.

'Both dead?' he asked.

'The woman is alive. But what happened?' I demanded in my turn.

'Ask that beautiful hell-cat. A stout ship, a rich cargo, and five score lives sacrificed for a wanton's whims. You are exonerated: the rascal who did the deed confessed, and you can go back. I am glad; your fate has troubled me.'

He was growing weaker, but he managed to gasp out: 'Living or dead, cast her in the sea,' and, with a curse on his lips his spirit passed.

The serang came in to tell me that there was no one left on board, but there was much blood and marks of fighting; the weather was fast clearing, and the plunder— but words failed him.

Our fat old chief Ramma soon came off, and his delight at the prize was unbounded. I took him into the cabin to see the bodies, and the sole survivor, who was still unconscious, but the mystery of the wreck did not trouble them much. They were dead, and there was no one to dispute his claim.

Old Ramma had an island called Ratti, where he stored all his plunder, and a rich hoard he had there. Beside the piratical fleet, he owned many proas engaged in fishing or bech-la-mer on the northern shore of the Southland; and he was a man of importance among his countrymen.

We were some days transferring the loot, and though the fair lady soon recovered, nothing could be obtained from her in explanation of the tragedy. Her name was Von Heslau, and she was a niece of the Governor-General of the East India Company, and to his care she was coming out to Batavia.

Of the voyage she would say little or nothing, save that she kept her cabin very much, and there was fighting and bloodshed. Strange to say, when she heard that there were no other survivors, and that Pietersz had but lived a few moments, she quickly gained her spirits, and was as gay as though she had never known a care.

Ramma was in great good humour, and had all ber belongings, of which she claimed a great quantity, carefully stowed away to send with herself to Batavia as soon as we had arrived at Ratti.

The old villain was greatly taken with her grace and beauty, and, I believe, would have offered to make her Ranee of his island kingdom had I not pointed out to him the risk of offending the powerful Dutch Company. He was, however, anxious to secure a treaty with them about Ratti, so it was arranged that I should convoy Fraulein von Heslau to her uncle, and enter into negotiations with him on Ramma's behalf.

Arrived at Ratti, a proa was soon made ready for our trip, and the time came to say farewell. Ramma bowed gravely to the girl to whom he had behaved with distinguished courtesy.

'Child,' he said in the Malay language , 'when you want a friend, send to old Ramma. Bend your head.'

She looked at me, and I translated his speech. Laughingly she inclined her handsome head, and he slipped over it on to her neck a double string of splendid pearls of great value. She gave a loud cry of admiration and delight when she saw what he had done.

A fair wind soon took M to Batavia; that a memorable incident occurred on the trip. The Gnadige Frauleini had never deignied to exercise the spell of her fascinations over me— I was but a poor castaway; but once she stooped to speak of the past.

'Did Captain Gerrit speak of me ere he died?'

'He spoke but a few wandering words, Fraulein.'

'Truth to tell, they were evil words; but doubtless he raved.'

She looked sternly at me. 'It were well to forget a dying man's ravings. They hang men for piracy in these seas, do they not? And I have heard men speak of my uncle as a hard judge.'

She turned away, and left me meditating.

THE Governor-General received me graciously, thanked me for the care of his young relative, promised to guarantee Ramma against any molestation of his island by Dutch ships, and further offered me the post of first steersman, on board a ship bound for Holland.

I returned to Ratti on the proa, and told the satisfactory tidings to Ramma. He was very cordial, and when; I left a few weeks after, he pressed on me a heavy bag of dollars, in addition to my share of the loot, so that I, a naked, starving outcast when he rescued me, bade fair to return to Holland with some store.

I heard much of Fraulein von Heslau when I returned to Java. Of her wit and beauty, of the many fatal duels she had caused, and of more than one suicide. But of herself I saw nothing till just before my departure, and then I made bold to call a Javanese boy conducted me to the garden, where she was indolently reclining on a bamboo lounge.

She looked at me with languid surprise.

'Well, sailor, what is it?'

'Pardon me, Fraulein, I am the Dutch sailor who rescued you from the wreck. I sail for Holland to-morrow. I ventured to call to say farewell.'

'Ah, I did not recognise you without your pirate dress. It is just as well that you have, the air of Java may not prove healthy. Do you want money?'

'I am in no want of money. I have but to offer my respectful farewell.'

I bowed low, and was turning away, when she spoke again.

'Have you heard anything of that funny old Malay chief? I forget his name.'

And as she spoke I saw her fingers toying with the double coil of priceless pearls she wore round her white throat.

WHEN Abel Tasman made his second voyage of discovery to the south, Juan Carjava held a position of trust on the Limmen. A year before that the pest swept down upon Java, and among the victims at Batavia was the Governor's niece, Fraulein von Heslau.

_________________

2: The Tiger Lily

J. S. Fletcher

1863-1935

Munsey's Magazine April 1928

"YOU are wondering what brought me here," Narcissus said across the dining table to a stranger who, he perceived, was taking a thrilling interest in him. "I will tell you. I am looking for a woman."

There was an impressive pause.

"Indeed!" the stranger commented respectfully. "Your wife?"

"She is not my wife," replied Narcissus, "nor, of necessity, is she some other man's. I came here to look for her. I thought she would be here, but I cannot find her. It's very expensive and extremely annoying."

The stranger was more than interested— he was curious.

"Perhaps she is here," he suggested gently. "I may have seen her, if you haven't. Could you describe the type of woman to me?"

"Describe her?" said Narcissus, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Certainly! She's the soulless tiger lily type— half fragrant flower, half ravening beast; scented superficialities heaped upon a yawning sepulcher of greed; the canker at the soul of all society; the cancerous growth that seems to be ever on the increase; the vampire woman—" He broke off and leaned forward, his eyes dilating, and fixed them upon a man and woman who had just come into the dining room. "There she is," he whispered. "Look!"

The stranger turned his head and beheld a magnificently beautiful and trium phantly soulless woman, with an unobtrusive and unhappy-looking man.

"At last!" exclaimed Narcissus, keeping his glowing eyes on her. "The very woman I've been trying to run down! I will watch her every movement, listen to her every word, dog her footsteps, scratch up an acquaintance, wind myself into her confidence, dissect the woman's soul— her mechanism, I mean— to its very depths!"

"Are you a detective hunting down a criminal?" the other man inquired.

"No," said Narcissus. "I'm a dramatist hunting down a temperamental type."

"What a pity," said the visitor, who had a sense of humor, "that I'm not an interviewer after all!"

Narcissus colored with vexation. He had been certain that this conversation would meet his eyes next morning in the Daily Vulture. He rose with dignity.

"What an intense relief to talk to somebody who doesn't want to make a little money out of one's remarks!" he said.

It was not for nothing that his friends had christened him Narcissus. The first time that he looked into a mirror he had fallen in love with his reflection, and he had never fallen out of love with it since then.

He went into the drawing-room to await the coming of the Tiger Lily, as he called her in his mind, and to alleviate his irritation with a cigar.

He had not very long to wait before she came, drawing in her wake the unobtrusive man. Narcissus laid his head against the oriental cushions of the lounge in a particularly pretty pose, and watched the two under his long lashes.

"He is certainly her husband," commented Narcissus. "He looks so unhappy!"

The unobtrusive man reminded him of the keeper of a first prize exhibit at a dog show. He seemed perpetually conscious of his exhibit, his responsibility toward it, and his own insignificance compared to it.

"I am the keeper," his whole manner expressed. "I am only the keeper; but my duties are not so light."

"Yes, she is certainly his wife," Narcissus said to himself, "because she takes no pains to please him."

She was rather like a tiger lily to look at, too. Her beauty was of the rustling and self-advertising type; her satisfaction in herself was as good as a printed catalogue of her admirers. Her hair was reddish gold, turned back from a round, pale face. Her eyes were amber brown and her mouth was crimson. Narcissus leaned back, and his eyes foraged in her soul. If she was a tiger lily, then he was pulling her petals brutally.

" How she loves herself!" he commented. "How she adores her beauty, her dresses, her ornaments, her dinner! It must be a pleasure to her to blow her nose. A bourgeois act, but it draws attention to the hands, the rings, and the laced handkerchief."

Yes, she was no better than a magnificent pet dog, well combed, well washed, well fed, and with the same conviction that people lived to take her out and put food before her.

His curiosity about her was immense. Did she imagine, then, that she had a soul, or was she content to be no better than a prize exhibit? If the latter, seeing that her feelings and desires were of such paramount importance to her, why did the one need of a soul remain unquestioned? A common type, he repeated to himself, Heaven knows how common, and— how utterly inscrutable!

What was the creature? Was she woman, animal, or devil? Were the rudiments of immorality in her? Was her happiness the uncouth mirth of a mindless thing? Was her sadness the seeking of her nature for a spirit, or a passion of sulkiness, perhaps, because she could not feel? Narcissus would have liked to break her to pieces, as a child breaks a mechanical toy to find out how it goes. He made up his mind to speak to her, question her, cross-examine her, torment her, to find out if she could really feel.

Just then the woman moved to the mantelpiece. Her keeper, as Narcissus called him, followed her, and looked at her with a strange, appealing sadness in his eyes.

"He adores her," thought Narcissus immediately. "Does he know what he's adoring? Does he adore her because her soullessness has called out an unselfishness in him which a good woman might never have awakened? Or does he adore her because she represents the unattainable to him— because he knows she can never love him?"

The man made a little movement toward her— it might have been to arrange a fold of lace, or to touch her cheek for a moment. He caught his sleeve in a string of jewels that she wore. The string snapped, and the stones fell in a little tinkling shower.

The Tiger Lily burst into a passion. Her eyes flashed, her cheeks flamed, she showed her teeth.

"You stupid creature!" she cried. "You're always doing something abominably clumsy!"

"That proves conclusively that he is her husband," thought Narcissus. "It proves, also, that she has no soul. She shows the utter lack of dignity and selfcontrol of a mere animal."

He crossed the room to where the Tiger Lily and her husband were searching for the jewels on the rug.

"May I be allowed to help?" he said.

The husband was glad to find some one to talk to who would take a more lenient view of his clumsiness. The woman was glad to find some one else on whom to vent her passionate irritation.

"There were thirty amethysts in the chain," she kept on repeating, "and I've only found twenty-eight."

Narcissus was fortunate enough to discover the twenty-ninth; but nobody could find the thirtieth. The Tiger Lily was the first to give up the hunt.

"T shall leave you to it," she said to her husband with vindictiveness, "and you must look till you do find it!"

Narcissus and her husband were left searching on the rug. The man gave the dramatist a strange, appealing look out of his grave, tired eyes.

"Heavens!" thought Narcissus. "How she has made him suffer! How she de serves to suffer, too!"

Aloud he said to the man:

"She is very beautiful."

The husband flushed, as if he had been praised himself.

"It was stupid of me to break her chain," he said hurriedly. He looked at Narcissus again. "It is her one passion, collecting jewels. I have given her most of them." He paused. "But I can't give her as many as I should like."

They continued their search.

"A man," the husband added, "can do so little for a woman. She gives him everything. What can he give her?"

For a moment Narcissus was too much amazed to reply.

"You are tired," he said at length. "Let me go on looking. I won't steal her amethyst," he continued, smiling. "If I have the good luck to find it, I'll bring it back to her."

The woman's husband shook hands with him.

"I should be more than grateful," he said. He took out his card. "We have a suite on the third floor."

By dint of exhaustive searching Narcissus found the amethyst lodged in a crack of the floor. He determined to return it to the Tiger Lily in person.

ii

THE next morning Narcissus went up in the lift to the suite of rooms on the third floor. As it happened, the woman's husband was not at home.

"He has gone out," she said, " to see if he can buy another amethyst to match the set."

Narcissus held out the palm of his hand.

"There is no need for that," he said. "I found it."

She pounced at it as a cat pounces at a sparrow.

"Where did you find it?" she cried. She looked as if she could have kissed him, and Narcissus was man enough not to feel displeased. "It was a particularly dark stone. The deeper the color, you know, the more valuable the amethyst. I have some more that I will show you." She went into the next room and came back with a case of jewels in her hand. "Look!" she cried, as she poured them out upon the table.

"They would provide a feast for the whole of London's poor," Narcissus said, observing her, "and they have only bought one piece of womanhood!"

"My husband gave them to me," she replied, smiling.

"You will make him bankrupt," Narcissus warned her.

A look of intense vexation crossed her face,

"What, again? Has he been talking to you?" she exclaimed. "Sometimes he's so bad tempered I was afraid that there was something wrong. It would be too awful. What one goes through!"

"What ke goes through, and for what!"

"I can't help it," said the Tiger Lily, with complacence, "if he's so weak about me. I only admire things in shop windows. I never ask outright for them, and then he goes and brings them home at once."

"Are all these jewels his?"

"Not all," she answered, smiling contentedly.

"Other men's?" Narcissus asked.

"Well, yes— and one man in particular." She sighed briefly. "It was very sad— he died."

"You mean he took his life?" Narcissus asked.

"How did you know?" she asked, with her eyes round.

"Because I know what women like you do to men," he answered, watching her. "You maddened him, took everything from him, gave him nothing back, and ruined him. Then he shot himself."

"You must be very clever," she said with the foolish simplicity of a mindless child, "to know all that! I was very sorry about it; but men are so silly— they get desperate about me, and there's no reason for that."

"None, I agree," Narcissus said.

She looked angry for a moment.

"You're not serious," she said.

"On the contrary, I am. Men get desperate about you, trying to find something— anything— a soul, a heart, in you. They stake their last cent on discovering it. When they learn that there is something so terrible on God's kind earth as a woman who can't feel pity or love, they lose their minds."

She stared at him with her mouth open. He realized that some animal instinct warned her that she ought to be offended.

"Tiger Lily," said Narcissus gently, "there's a question about you that I should like to decide."

She knitted her brows in a frown. She was curious about him, flattered by his curiosity, vexed and completely baffled.

"Yes?" she said. "What?"

"I told you just now," he went on, "that you were incapable of love or pity. I am certain about the pity— I should like to be more sure about the love."

She shrugged her shoulders and turned down her lips.

"Love?" she repeated with a note of interrogative contempt.

"Your husband—" Narcissus began.

"Oh, my husband!" she said. "He gives me everything I want. He's very good to me."

"Thank you," Narcissus said, "for your definition of love. You Jove a man for what you get from him?"

"Oh, well," she replied, laughing coquettishly.

Narcissus rose to go. She followed, like an animal.

"But you'll come back?" she asked in her helpless voice. "You'll come back again?"

"Yes, I'll come back," Narcissus told her. "Your mechanism interests me. It's really ludicrously simple, so much so that it seems intricate."

iii

NARCISSUS began to go there very often. He was beginning to master the woman's mechanism. Sometimes the Tiger Lily's husband was there, sometimes he was not. When he was there, the three talked on general subjects. When he was not, Narcissus talked to the woman of nothing but herself.

"I often wonder where you'll go when you die," he said. "Heaven is a place for people who have used their brains and souls, Hell is a place for people who have not used them, or have misused them. You couldn't possibly be sent to heaven; but it wouldn't be fair to send you to hell for having failed to use your brain and soul. You can't use what you haven't got. I used to believe in a dogs' heaven. You might go there. No, hardly, because dogs desire to have souls—one can see it in their eyes— and you don't. A soul's the one thing you have no use for, as Americans say. It's very puzzling!"

Narcissus was the one man who had baffled the Tiger Lily. He gave her the impression that he was completely callous to her. His indifference stung her. She told him as much.

"Some day you may thank me," he replied.

"Why should I thank you, or any man, for anything you like to do for me?" she said with a vixenish note in her voice. "I don't ask you to do it."

"Not particularly," he answered, "seeing that your whole personality is a definition of the verb to ask, to beg. You live on other people, their money, their love, their lives, because. you have nothing of your own at all. It's not your fault, I suppose; but it's curious that it never occurs to you to be ashamed, or to want to give them something back."

She rose and came toward him, trying to subdue him, with a kind of malevolent passion, to her way of thinking, or not thinking; but she could not speak. She was filled with rage, because she felt suddenly, before Narcissus, that she was ignorant.

"Don't paw me," said Narcissus. "I think you were going to stroke my head, or cuff it— I'm not sure which. I particularly dislike my head being touched."

"You're hurting me!" she almost screamed. "You've no right to. I never have been hurt!"

"Have I the good luck to hurt you?" he said eagerly. "I am always clever, but this is a stroke of genius. What does it feel like to feel pain for the first time in your life?"

Suddenly a burst of anger— was it anger?— came over him, and he seized hold of her.

"You'd like me to kiss you," he said, looking close into her eyes. "Do you know what I should like to do? To prick you with a dagger!"

"You would like to kiss me," she cried, tears of fury in her eyes, "but you're afraid of confessing it!"

"Tears!" exclaimed Narcissus, examining them. " Are they, too, the first of their kind? What extraordinary good luck for me! What a stroke of inspiration! But take them back now. They are easy for you to make, so they will be as easy to take back. Tears are ugly; they inflame the eyes. I can't look; I cannot bear to look at anything unsightly."

He went away. During his absence he thought that he would let the Tiger Lily fall in love with him, would encourage her to do so. He had begun to make her sensible to pain. This was in itself a triumph. Suffering, he said to himself, is the seed of the soul. He had sown the seed himself. Now he would have the inexpressible satisfaction of nursing it through prolonged pain into actual existence.

Besides, he had grown fond of the Tiger Lily's husband. The poor fellow was unhappy, and Narcissus wanted to do something to help him. He wanted to awaken in his friend's wife the capacity, not for taking, but for giving love. Besides, his vampire woman play would be the rage of London.

The Tiger Lily began to grow thinner. A new look, which was not languor, but a kind of fire, crept into her eyes. Narcissus lost no opportunity of her companionship. He seemed to court it, even to pursue her. With the look of gratification in her eyes, there came a curious approach to wistfulness.

"You are beginning to feel ignorant," he said to her. "What a blessed thing! The consciousness of ignorance is the beginning of all wisdom."

Then he would show her the letters he received, asking for autographs, asking for sittings at a photographer's. He would show her letters from other wemen, telling him that he was "simply too sweet to look at," and inviting him to lunch. She began to grow a little humble, and she was certainly much thinner. Narcissus told her that it did not suit her. She was a type of splendid flesh, he said. When she lost that, her personality would become a cipher.

One day he went up to the Tiger Lily's flat for tea. Her husband had gone out, and she was alone. Narcissus brought out a letter.

"I have written you this," he said, handing it to her.

She tore the envelope open. Narcissus had composed a love letter to her, couched in burning terms of adoration. Her whole face changed as she read it. Then she got up and came toward him, holding it.

"You really wrote this, meaning it for ill," she said in a whisper, coming toward him. They were standing by the fireplace. Narcissus snatched the letter from her suddenly, tore it into pieces, and flung them in the grate. Then he watched her carefully.

"Oh!" she cried, kneeling down before the fire, her head down over the bars. "You couldn't be so cruel!"

She raked among the ashes for the scraps.

"Don't be a fool," Narcissus said. "You'll get your fingers black."

Suddenly she gave a cry.

"My head, my hair! What is it? Quick!"

"Heavens! your combs!"

She began to scream horribly.

"My head's on fire! It's burning— burning! Oh, be quick!"

He was spellbound with horror. He even wrung his hands.

Then he remembered to throw a rug over her head. He pressed it down over her head and face, and heard her cries and sobs stifled through the folds, while her hands fought madly at his wrists. His heart beat till he felt strangled, his legs trembled beneath him. At last he took the rug away, staring aghast at her, himself the embodiment of horror.

She put her hands up to her head.

"Oh, oh, it's coming off, it's coming off!" she sobbed like a child. "Look there, look there!"

With indescribable dismay Narcissus saw her hold out her hands full of great bunches of the marvelous hair.

The door opened, and her husband came into the room. She ran toward him, screaming dreadfully.

"I am all burned!" she cried. '" My beautiful, beautiful hair!"

iv

IT was ten days before Narcissus could persuade himself to call upon the Tiger Lily, to inquire for her in person. He had sent her notes, expressing himself anxious for her recovery from the shock that she had had; and to these she invariably re plied that she was not sufficiently recovered to see any one.

At last she wrote that she would "love to see him" if he would only come and not expect too much, The last half of the sentence was underlined.

Narcissus trembled when the drawing-room door opened and he heard the Tiger Lily's voice asking him to come in. He felt like a man who enters an operating theater for the first time. A feeling of faintness and distaste stole over him. His voice was weak when he spoke.

The blinds were drawn down in the room, and she sat with her back to the light. She rose, with a kind of tremor expressed in the action. She was wearing a large shady hat. He noticed how beautifully she was dressed, and that she wore more jewels than before.

"You are— better?" Narcissus said in a weak voice. "You are not changed?" he meant to say.

"Quite well," she said, but by her voice he knew that she was changed. Suddenly she burst out: "Why don't you look at me?"

"Look!" he repeated with a voice of fear. "I am looking." He brought his eyes around slowly to her face. There was nothing altered there. "Your hair!" he exclaimed involuntarily. "You have as much as ever. It has grown?"

She laughed mysteriously and bitterly.

"A switch!" he said to himself. Aloud he went on: "Your husband?"

"He is very good to me," she said.

"Still very good to you!" echoed Narcissus.

He scrutinized her closely.

"Why do you wear a hat when you are indoors?"

"Oh, because— because it's becoming," the Tiger Lily said flippantly.

Her hat seemed to fascinate him. He could not remove his eyes from it.

"Take it off," he continued.

"I don't want to," she answered.

"Take it off," he repeated with growing insistency.

He made a step toward her. Her eyes met his with an animal's appeal for mercy. She began to remove the hat.

"You are doing your hair differently," he went on. "It is all down over your eyes. It is vulgar, done that way. It spoils you. Put it back!"

"No, no— I like it best this way," she said, retreating from him.

He put his hand out and brushed it back from her brow.

"My God!" he said. Your face is burned, too!"

He took a step toward the door.

"You said I was exquisite," she cried. "It's not so bad. Look at me once again!"

"In— in a minute," he answered.

"Men loved me for my beauty," she cried. "Won't they ever love me for my face again?"

Narcissus was silent, standing with his back still turned to her. Then they both saw that the door was open, and that the Tiger Lily's husband was standing there, looking at both of them.

She ran to him, putting out her arms.

"Won't anybody love me for my face?" she said.

Neither of the men said anything; but her husband bent and kissed her neck, while she threw her arms about him, sobbing like a little child.

"Wouldn't it do— if some one loved you for yourself?" he said.

Then Narcissus shut the door and went away very softly.

________________

3: The Prethereau Sapphire

Margaret Busbee Shipp

1871-1936

Munsey's Magazine April 1928

THE gentle old prestidigitator beamed over the applause of his small audience as he went through his bag of tricks. They were neither new nor startling, but they were done with dexterity and were deceptive to the eye.

In his broken English he asked if any of the gentlemen cared to light a cigar, and then drew from his mouth a slender candle a foot long, lighted at the end. He chewed innumerable pieces of tissue paper, opened his mouth wide and fanned it, and out came tiny dry bits falling about him like snow. Of course there had to be the trick of putting a handkerchief up his sleeve and demonstrating astonishment as a rather limp pigeon fluttered out in its place.

Finally he asked for a ring, and the hostess, Lisa Davenport, gave him hers— which, after several false trails, was discovered inside of an Irish potato.

"I hope you weren't dreadfully bored?" Mrs. Davenport asked her guests after old Gascon was gone. "The poor old Frenchman is a sort of institution in our neighborhood. He won't accept charity, and it's the joy of his life to put on that dress suit of the early eighties and give his ' evening's select entertainment.' It's about all he has to live on, I'm afraid. Next week there'll be so many people here that I thought it would be simpler to have him while there's just our bunch."

"I think it was loads of fun," said Marta Fields loyally. "Anybody else yearning for a late paddle under the live oaks?"

Taibot Prethereau gave a smiling shake of the head.

"Pitch black night, Marta. It would be like paddling on the tarn that the House of Usher fell into."

"You're no fun since you became engaged, Tal. You're too moon-struck to see the stars!"

But another man thought it would be an adventure to skim in a canoe under the giant trees, and the two went out together in the darkness.

The veils of gray moss that festooned every limb of the live oaks had given Mrs. Davenport's house its name. Gray Oaks was a country place not far from Charleston which had belonged to the Prethereau family for generations. After her husband's death, Lisa's mother had made a brave attempt to hold it by taking " paying guests" during the hunting season. One of the men who came to hunt had fallen as irrevocably in love with Lisa, who was making her début that winter, as she had with him.

After their marriage he bought Gray Oaks at a price to make Mrs. Prethereau comfortable for the rest of her life, and began the task of retrieving the decay and dinginess into which it had fallen indoors, restoring it without changing it, so far as was possible. Out of doors the unchecked growth had added a wildness to its beauty. The gardens were not nearly so extensive as those at the Middleton place, not far distant, nor were there many japonicas; but the azaleas were superb, the live oaks were enormous, and the Davenports were firmly convinced that their crescent Brown Moon Pond, with the water coffee colored from the cypress trees and the banks a blur of color from azaleas in every shade of flame, scarlet, and orange, was the most magically lovely spot in the world.

They always came from their home in Connecticut for a month or more in spring, when the azaleas were in bloom, and Christmas and the hunting season brought them and their friends to Gray Oaks.

A house party was in order for the following week, but for their first week the only guests were Marta Fields, two men who were especial chums of Peter's, and Lisa's favorite kinsman, Talbot Prethereau.

Davenport was still glancing over the papers when Marta came back.

"Didn't like to go to bed until I knew whether I'd have to drag the pond for you two."

"We didn't go on the pond— it was as black as tar. I said that the mocking birds always sing at night, and we waited around awhile to hear them, but of course they wouldn't give a single chirp. Well, I'm off to bed!"

When Peter went to his room, he found Lisa waiting for him.

"There's bad trouble, Peter!" she said.

"Trouble? What in the world?"

She held out a ring on the palm of her hand. Her eyes were dark with perplexity.

"This isn't mine. This is a fake. Worse than that, faked on purpose!"

Lisa's ring was an old-fashioned miniature ring of pale gold, with a tiny oval portrait painted on ivory and encircled with small pearls, yellowed with age.

At first glance any one might have thought the rings identical, but the substitute was an inexpensive mourning ring of a later period, with an oval picture in porcelain, surrounded by tiny raised dots which resembled a pear! setting.

"You see, I slipped it on without looking at it. I always have the lights dim to help out Gascon; but when I took off the ring to-night I saw that an imitation had been substituted."

"But who on earth—" began her husband in deep perplexity. "You don't suppose old Gascon has become so down and out that he'd steal from us? Why, you're his best friend. Why should he steal when we've tried every way to give without hurting his pride? And what would he do with your great-great-grandmother's miniature?"

"It isn't Gascon," Lisa answered unhappily. "I've known him too long. The butler is new, but he seems a trustworthy man. Wasn't it he who brought in the potato?"

"I'll interview Aaron before he's ten minutes older," replied her husband.

At the door he turned with a laugh, because his wife had said, as he had absolutely known she would say:

"Don't be too hard on Aaron, Peter. Even if he took it, it was just as a child or a magpie takes a trinket. He couldn't possibly have any use for it."

As his wife was born a South Carolinian, and he a Connecticut Yankee, it was an inherent part of her upbringing that she "understood negroes" in a way that was constitutionally impossible to her husband. Now she ran to him with one of her swift, pretty impulses and kissed him.

"I do so adore you, Peter! Instead of scolding me for turning over my pet ring to poor old Gascon, you go methodically to work to get it back for me. She's such a nice slim-throated ancestor, and besides, she's the only proof left of the Prethereau sapphire."

Around the aristocratic throat in the miniature there was a tiny gold chain, with a sapphire pendant suspended from it. Small as the miniature was, the artist had taken meticulous care with the pendant, and it still showed the deep blue of the sapphire, while a magnifying glass gave a suggestion of a curious yellowish setting.

Now Lisa Davenport, born Prethereau, had been married to Peter for eleven happy years, and naturally most of her interests and intimacies were in Connecticut. Her children had been born there, her closest ties were there, and she always spoke of it as "home"— with one exception. Let the subject of the Prethereau sapphire come up, Lisa's blue eyes would widen and darken and her chin would lift as she told the story of the lost jewel.

It appeared that toward the close of the Civil War, Gray Oaks had been "infested with Yankees"— she always said " infested" in that particular connection— and that they had shown great discrimination in their loot. They had taken the Prethereau sapphire and a silver mug embossed in cherubs with a handle made of folded wings— a piece of seventeenth century workmanship which the first Prethereau who came to South Carolina had brought over with him.

The Prethereaus had been forced to part with silver and jewelry in the lean years of the reconstruction, so that the miniature ring was the only thing of any importance that had come to Lisa by inheritance. Peter was much perturbed at its loss, knowing how she valued it. He went to that part of the rear floor where the house servants slept. It occurred to him distastefully that the only other time it had been necessary to wake up the servants was the night when small Peter had been ill—and how concerned they had been!

He knocked at Aaron's door. Only a snore greeted him, but such a rousing snore that it sounded as if pretended. He opened the door and snapped on the light, but Aaron slept noisily on, his big body as relaxed as a child's.

"Somehow I don't believe he did it," muttered Davenport; "but I suppose I'll have to investigate."

He shook Aaron, he absolutely kneaded him before he could arouse him. Then the man saw it was the master of the house, and struggled to a sitting position as he asked:

"Please, sah, lemme wash a leetle of dis sleep outa mah eyes." He plunged his face in a basin of cold water and inquired respectfully: "You needin' me, sah?"

Davenport could not have been the successful lawyer that he was if he had not been quick to gain insight into the character of a witness. His voice became entirely friendly, asking help:

"Aaron, your mistress lost a ring tonight that she puts great store by, and I want you to help me find it. It was that ring in the potato. Somehow another ring was exchanged for hers. Can you remember who gave you the potato? You brought it in to Gascon covered with a napkin, you remember, with the ring in the salt cellar."

"Lemme study, sah. Miss Marta she was a helpin' po' ole man Gascon. She an' Mr. Talbot went out an' got de tater an' de napkin an' de salt cellah, like he axed for; but ole man Gascon he must 'a' brung his pigeon wid him, yessah—up his sleeve, I reckon."

A sudden sickening suspicion unnerved Davenport.

"That's all right, Aaron. Sorry to have had to wake you up. Good night!"

So Marta Fields had the potato, and afterward that freak desire to paddle at midnight! She had a dozen chances to hide the ring, and her work as an interior decorator gave her just the sort of rich clientage where anything so indispuiably ancestral would find a ready purchaser. A dear girl, Marta, but always hard up, always trying to recoup her losses at bridge— as if all her playmates didn't know that her no trump was apt to be thin and her double a bluff!

The loss of the ring, which had loomed large a little while ago, would be trifling in comparison with loss of faith in Marta Fields. Peter would have to ask Talbot's help. Perhaps Tal had seen something. Of course his own two friends, who had come only that morning, were beyond suspicion.

Ten minutes ago he would have sworn the same thing about Marta. What a muddle it all was, and how abominable to feel that Marta's passion for gambling might have corroded the finer part of her nature!

Davenport knocked lightly at Talbot's door. There was no answer, but he saw a thin line of light under the door, and after a sharper rap he opened it and went in. The room was dark, and he saw that the light had come from the bathroom, which was empty. He hardly knew what impulse made him go in.

Then he stopped as if he had received an electric shock, for there before him was his wife's ring, lying on the shaving stand, but in three pieces— ring, miniature, and tiny crystal. Neither Peter nor Lisa had known that it could be taken apart. He felt absolutely sickened at the sight, although he had never liked Talbot. Lisa was loyally devoted to him as her nearest kinsman and the last of the Prethereau name, but Peter had thought him rather a morbid young fellow, given to self-pity.

For instance, Talbot hardly concealed his grievance that it was Lisa and not he who owned Gray Oaks, which had belonged to their common great-grandfather. His own grandfather had inherited property which at the time was far more valuable— a home in Charleston and a great rice plantation, while Lisa's grandfather, who was the younger son, received Gray Oaks. The rice plantation had long since relapsed into jungle and marsh, and it was Davenport's money that had redeemed Gray Oaks; but somehow Talbot nursed a grievance.

Going back to his wife, Peter reported that Aaron was too sleepy to give much information, but that he was sure the butler wasn't guilty, and in the morning they would find the ring.

He was up early the next morning, restless and unable to sleep. As he passed Talbot's door he noticed that his shoes, put outside to be' cleaned, were caked with a heavy, dark loam. Law was Davenport's vocation, but gardening was his avocation and his passionate delight. He knew to a nicety which part of the grounds had that rich dark loam, which part had a clay substratum for roses, and which the light, sandy soil for bulbs.

ii

AT BREAKFAST Talbot Prethereau walked in jauntily and tossed the missing ring in his cousin's lap.

"You careless critter!" he laughed. "I slipped old Gascon a memorial ring I picked up in a Charleston antique junk shop, and you didn't even notice that it wasn't your own ancestor!"

Peter shot a warning glance at her, which she interpreted as a signal not to let her guests know that she had been alarmed.

"I did notice it, Tal. After I was upstairs I saw that I had the wrong ring, but I waited until this morning to exchange it."

PETER'S two friends, who had said that they never ate a heavy breakfast, because it made them feel logy for the rest of the day, were too busy over beaten biscuit, hot waffles, and chicken hash to pay any attention to the ring; but Peter was more perplexed than ever, and very far from being satisfied.

They motored to Summerville that day, to see the enchanting village, where wistaria hung in purple festoons from the long-leaf pine and tangles of yellow jasmine perfumed the air, where mocking birds sang riotously and spring seemed an actual pervasive presence.

"Very pretty!" said the men, hurrying to the golf course.

At night every one was tired from a day in the open. After they had gone to bed, Peter went into the bedroom opposite Talbot's and waited there for an hour in the darkness, his door slightly ajar. He had nodded off as he sat there in a big armchair, when he heard Talbot's door open softly. The light was on in the hall, and through the crack he could see that Talbot had changed his dinner suit for knickers and an old sweater, and that he had put on heavy shoes with rubber soles.

Peter waited until he heard the front door open and close, and then hurried to the part of the garden where the loam was thick and heavy.

Outside in the dark night, lighted only by stars, it was easy to follow, concealing himself in the thick shrubbery. Finally, from behind a great clump of azaleas, he watched Talbot pace off a distance— thirty-seven steps each time. Each time Lisa's cousin started from a marble fountain where a boy struggled with a dolphin, counted thirty-seven steps, and stopped as if dissatisfied, as if unable to solve some problem.

Then he took thirty-seven mincing steps, short as a woman's, and that brought him barely beyond a magnolia, the oldest one on the place. He took up a spade, which he had evidently concealed in the shrubbery the night before, and began to dig at the base of the magnolia.

For more than an hour he worked steadily. Toward the end he was so tired that he dug fiercely, spasmodically— but all to no purpose. Then, having gained nothing by all his effort, he put back the earth with his spade, patted it down, and laid back the surface sheets of moss which he had carefully lifted and set to one side. Whatever he was looking for, as the light began to grow brighter toward dawn, the expression of sullen disappointment in his face showed that he had not found it.

Though there was little of the night left for sleep, Davenport was in the old library before breakfast, keen to have a look at the original plan of the garden, made by the landscape artist who had so wisely planned the beauty of Gray Oaks. Lisa and himself had often consulted it in their desire to keep the place as nearly as possible in conformity with the original design.

Davenport located the fountain, made a tentative estimate of the distance of thirty-seven steps, and measured it with a ruler, laid straight down the main path. The line ended at a magnolia, to the right of the path. Now Peter knew that there wasn't any magnolia to the right of the path at that point, though there was a big tree on the left, nearer to the fountain— a tree which showed that once its branches on one side had been dwarfed by another tree growing too close!

After breakfast Davenport ordered two of his outside men to bring their mattocks and spades. He stepped off thirty-seven paces, and it brought him to a triangle of ivy. It was a pleasing spot, and it had been his idea to plant it thickly with red amaryllis, which sprang out of the ground and bloomed before its leaves shot up. The vy had supplied a green background for the handsome flowers, but it must be sacrificed to the mystery that he had determined to solve.

"Ole daid stump under dis part of de ivy," said one of the men presently. "Must 'a' been a big tree hyar one time."

"Dig it all up. Must get out all the ivy roots— they're choking the amaryllis."

It was not unusual for Peter to superintend operations in the garden and to take a hand in the actual work of pruning, so the men did not think of his presence as showing any special interest. Time went by, with nothing more exciting to show for it than getting out a great quantity of ivy roots and amaryllis bulbs.

"Needn't go any deeper," he ordered the men, when the whole surface of the triangle was clear and the soil beneath well broken. "Leave a spade here for me— I may want to heel in some of these bulbs. You men go to work on that bamboo I showed you yesterday. It wants to take the whole place."

He sent them off to work on the farther side of Brown Moon Pond, entirely out of sight and sound. Then he began to dig steadily around the spot where the old magnolia stump had been. He was beginning to feel rather a fool for his pains, though he realized that if anything had been buried there long ago, it would be deeper in the ground as the humus of years piled above it.

iii

"HELLO! Turned gardener?"

The tone was suave enough, but Talbot's eyes were suspicious, questioning.

"The ivy was choking out the amaryllis I imported from Haarlem," Peter answered casually.

"I should have thought you would let it bloom before digging up the bed. Makes a darned ugly spot," returned Talbot.

The uneasiness he could not hide gave Peter more assurance.

"I'm getting soft— exercise will do me good," he said, and resumed his digging with more confidence because of Talbot's palpable concern.

The minutes went by.

"Need any help?" asked Talbot, but Peter shook his head.

Suddenly there was a jarring sound as his spade struck against metal. "Good Heavens, what's that?"

Davenport's startled exclamation broke off before the concentrated fury in Talbot's voice.

"Of course it would be your damned luck to find it— you interloper!"

Peter looked up at the younger man, who had bitten off his words; and then there happened the one single thing which could have happened to bring the two men to a better understanding.

Talbot whitened. Every bit of color seemed suddenly to drain out of his cheeks and lips. It made him look very young and boyish, and it made him look like Lisa.

Peter had never forgotten the first time he had seen her angry, when a man on a motor cycle had run over her puppy and had dashed off without stopping. As she stood there looking after him, speechless, the dying puppy in her arms, all the warm color in her face had seemed suddenly drained out of it.

All at once, instead of a petulant, spoiled fellow, Peter saw the younger man as his wife's closest kinsman. He looked so strangely like Lisa as he stood there— dead white and speechless with anger!

Peter assumed not to have heard what Talbot said. With his habit of quick decision, he made up his mind in a moment as to what he would do.

"Lend a hand here, Tal," he said. "We don't want any of the gardeners around while we investigate our find."

Talbot muttered a single bitter word: "Our!"

Again Peter disregarded his tone and twisted the thought to a better purpose.

"Of course it's ours, or rather it's yours and Lisa's, if it's anything worth having. In buying Gray Oaks I didn't buy what your ancestors may have happened to put underground. Maybe it's a hidden scandal; but I'm out of it— it's a Prethereau responsibility!"

By this time he had uncovered what was evidently an old sole leather trunk, which had fallen apart, leaving a strong box exposed.

"Tell you what, Tal— get the wheelbarrow, and let's trundle this to the house and open it with Lisa there. She mustn't miss any of this 'Treasure Island' experience. Above all, we don't want any of the gardeners to find out about it, or they'll be burrowing holes like rabbits all over the place!"

Talbot's wrath had given place to keen excitement. He got the wheelbarrow, and together, with some difficulty, they managed to get the box into it. They covered their find with ivy and trundled it to the house, where they found Lisa in the morning room.

"Marta invited herself to go fishing with the men, and I sat down here to slay my correspondence, and now you two come crashing into my good resolutions! What ever have you got there, boys?"

As she asked the question, she spread the Sunday newspaper on the floor. The men deposited the box on it.

"We dug this up under the old magnolia," said Peter.

"Magnolia?" echoed Tal, bewildered. "But there wasn't one there!"

"Get a hammer, quick!" cried Lisa. "Oh, all my life I longed to find a hidden treasure! You were lambs to bring it here!"

The rusted hasp gave way with no need of a hammer. The box was filled with bags, evidently made of some stout handwoven material, for parts of them were still intact.

"Doubloons— pieces of eight?" demanded Lisa excitedly. "Pirates?"

Talbot had rubbed a tarnished coin against the rug until it glimmered bright and golden. "Twenty-dollar gold pieces. All seem to be the same. Hello, here's something else!"

It was an oblong package, once carefully wrapped in unginned cotton, for the seeds were still there. Lisa's hands trembled as she unwrapped it.

"Oh, Peter, it's the cup! The cup!" The exquisite lines of the Prethereau cup defied tarnish. "Oh, look at the fat little cherubs! Peter, do you see how the wings make the handle? Tal, don't you feel as if you'd always known just how it would look?"

Inside it was filled with the same fibrous stuff, which was plainly cotton, in spite of the change and discoloration. As Lisa began to take it out carefully, her fingers caught in a slender chain. Her voice was a tremble of rapture.

"The Prethereau sapphire! It's the sapphire! Oh, Tal, it's our great-great- grandmother's pendant! Oh, Peter, Peter!" Her arms went around her husband's neck as she kissed him impetuously. "The one solitary thing in the world I wanted! With you and our boys and Gray Oaks, I had everything else!"

She shook the slender chain, and, as if leaping to light after its long imprisonment, the sapphire seemed to glow with an inner blue fire.

"The diamonds around it are straw-colored, almost as deep as topazes. That's what gave it the color that we couldn't understand in the miniature. It's the very loveliest thing I ever saw in my life, and different from anything else anywhere!"

In her joy she noticed that Tal's eyes were somber.

"What's Tal's share, Peter?" she asked impulsively.

"The money, naturally," he returned. "The pendant is yours by inheritance, as it was willed to your mother. I'm claiming that cup for the boys to scrap over, and that leaves Tal the cash."

The pride in his wife's eyes was reward enough. Lisa knew that Peter had felt they could not buy a new car this year, because of heavy expenses connected with Gray Oaks, and that the money would have been opportune. She radiated pride in him as she said:

"Let's count it, Tal dear!"

He threw back his head challengingly— another gesture like Lisa's.

"I— I must explain things first," he stammered. "Lisa, you remember old Sawney?"

She nodded. Peter and herself had taken care of the old negro after he had grown too old to work.

"His mind had been feeble for a long time, but it seemed to clear toward the end. I dropped in one day to see him, and he said:

"Marse Tal, I'se gwine ter tell yer sumpin. I buried a trunk fer ole miss 'fo' de Yankees come. She diden want me ter know whah it wuz, so ef de soldiers come along an' axed me I kin say I dunno. Ef dey sez dey's gwine ter hurt me, all I kin say is I dunno. She tied a hankcher ovah mah eyes an' counted mah steps an' led me ter a place spang by a magnolyer saplin', cause I feel uv de bark. Den I dug a hole— lawdy, dat hole seem deeper'n a well! Den I buried dat ole sole leather trunk in de hole, de same one marster useter put on de back uv de buggy when he go ter de plantation ter shoot rice birds. De nex' day ole miss showed me dat ring wid de picter she all time wear, an' she sez, 'Ef anything happens ter me, Sawney, tell yer marster ter look under de picter in mah ring, an' he kin find out whah de trunk is; an' doan nebbah tell nobody but him.' I promised her, an' den she died herse'f atter dey tole her marster was kilt. I done promised not to tell nobody but marster, an' wid him daid I dunno what ter do. Now you'se de ve'y spit an' image uv marster, Marse Tal, speshly when he looked sorter upsot; so I reckon it's right ter tell you dere's money in dat trunk— eight thousan' dollars in sho' nuff money, not Confederick money, Marse Tal. Dat warn't no 'count atter marster died.' "

Lisa was leaning forward, breathless with excitement.

"You remember the night Gascon was here? I took your ring to my room, examined it under a powerful magnifying glass, and saw that one of the pearls concealed a tiny spring. Between the miniature and the gold back was a scrap of paper, on which was written:

Fountain— 37 steps— north of magnolia.

"Then I—"

A warning look shot straight at the younger man from Peter Davenport's clear gray eyes.

"That's enough," it said plainly. "I understand, old chap. Don't you dare trouble my wife with a confession!"

"Then we," amended Peter, "for it's my turn to leap into the limelight."

He gave a humorous account of the amaryllis bed, and the digging, and the help given by the chart of the garden. Lisa gave a happy sigh and clapped her hands when the story ended.

"I'm a pig!" she said. "Tal, old precious, I'm so awfully glad about your money that you won't mind if I'm still gladder about my sapphire and my cup?"

Talbot turned to Peter.

"Not a cent of this belongs to me legally, of course. It's your wonderful generosity, and I accept it more gratefully than you can know. It seemed to me that I just must have some money, now that Gabrielle has promised to marry me! We can manage on my salary, but it was humiliating to take her to our old home, which is so architecturally delightful on the outside, and inside needs every convenience from decent bathrooms to a furnace and clean paint. It makes every possible difference in my life— and I didn't deserve it!"

His young voice was husky as he put his hand on Peter's shoulder.

"I always had an inward conviction," murmured Lisa pensively, "that the Northern soldiers had nothing whatever to do with the loss of the pendant."

Behind her back the two men winked at each other. Not only had the Prethereau treasures been exhumed from the magnolia stump, but the specter of the "Yankee hoodlums" had received a decent burial!

___________________

4: Never Save a Man from the Sea

Ernest Favenc

1845-1908

Evening News (Sydney) 21 March 1896

THE sea beat fiercely on the rock-bound coast; only one little nook, well sheltered, invited landing, while the wind blew from the quarter, it was then in. Over and over again the two men in the boat scanned the uninviting shore before them, until they sighted the entrance to the little cove and the sandy beach beyond. Wearily, but hopefully, they pulled towards it; at the least it meant a rest from the tossing sea.

In time they reached it, and found that it was tne entrance to a large salt water creek emerging from the mangroves a short distance inshore.  They ran the boat on to the beach, and landing, enjoyed the luxury of a rest, which in the cramped area of the boat, had been impossible. Shortly, one of them got up and strolled round to inspect the spot that had sheltered them. Presently, he came across some rocks above high water mark, the sea- worn holes in which were full of fresh rain water. After taking a refreshing drink, he called to his companion, and when he came and had enjoyed the same luxury, they washed the salt scum from their hair and eyes, and sitting down began, for the first time, to talk

'Where to now?' asked one, in French; a shortset, black-haired, black-eyed man, of athletic build, although like his companion, much wasted with semi-starvation.

'That is a difficult question to answer. The ranges behind us are high, and covered with jungle. Whether to go north or south the sooner to srike a town I cannot say, but food we must have soon.'

The speaker was tall, slight, brown-haired and brown-eyed. He was evidently educated, and had once occupied a higher social position than his companion in misfortune.

'I thought you knew this coast,' growled the other.

'Know it,' said the brown-haired man, looking up with a flash in his eyes; 'of course I do, and if I knew where we are could easily find food and shelter; but how in the name of God are we to find out exactly where we are?'

'No, there are no sign posts about here, truly,' assented the other; 'but we can manage with what food we have left for three days, and get on for a day longer perhaps. Say four days. How far can we make in that time?'

'Not very far, if the country is bad for travelling.'

'In the boat?'

'Not so far; this wind from the south-east will blow for many months. I know him.'

'Seems a bad lookout, any way.'

'It does, but we can at any rate stretch our legs.'

The shorter man walked towards the mouth of the little inlet; the other began to trace out lines in the sand witn a bit of drift wood. A shout from his companion, aroused him, and he went towards him. A sail was in sight coming past their refuge, seemingly close inland.

'What will she be?' asked the darker man.

The other regarded her fixedly for some time.

'Pearl-shelling schooner,' he said at last. 'I think we had better try and signal them to pick us up; as a rule, they are good fellows, and not particular. Fetch the boat down, Francois, it is our only chance.'

The short man obeyed, and the fairer one remained motionless, watching the approach of the schooner. Very soon his comrade returned, sculling the boat, and entering it, both men pulled steadily to get into the track of the schooner.

They were seen, and the schooner ran up in the wind and lay there with flapping sails until they pulled alongside, and climbed on board. A colored crew were scattered about the deck, but a couple of white men were on board, and one stepped forward to interrogate them.

'Speak English?' he asked, having eyed them up and down, and decided on their nationality in his own mind.

'I do,' replied the fair one of the two.

'Humph!' I needn't ask where from; you've got the stamp of New Caledonia on you.'

'My friend and I have escaped from that hell of an island,' returned the other in very good English. 'But, I beg you to believe that our offences were political only.'

'So I suppose,' returned the other with a sneer; 'but it's nothing to me. I suppose you are half starved, and don't exactly know where you are. Well, you are about 200 miles from anywhere on the coast except a lightship, unless you can cross that range, and that's all jungle and stinging tree. Now what do you want me to do?'

'My name is Hyacinthe Merande; my companion is Francois Lepetre. He is a good sailor. I am an educated man; can keep books, or do anything clerical.'

The master of the schooner reflected for a moment. 'I will give you your choice,' he said. 'I can spare you some rations and water, and you can go ashore again and take your chance; or you can come with me to my station and help me for a year, without pay; then you can get a slant to get away, for the hunt will be over by that time.'

Merande, the spokesman, explained the offer to his companion, and after interchanging a few words with him, he intimated to the master of the schooner that they accepted his last offer.

'And the best thing you could do. There is only my station on the island, and no one will know of your being there, for we don't entertain much. But mind you, I make my men work, don't I, Tom?' addressing the other man, his mate.

'By —— you do,' returned he, somewhat grimly.

The skipper smiled, as if at a compliment.

'Is your boat worth anything?' he asked of the Frenchman.

'Firewood,' was the reply.

'Nothing in her you want?'

'Nothing.'

'Jump down Tom, with an axe, and start a couple of planks.'

Tom did so; the sails were shaken out as the wind once more caught them, and as the boat disappeared the schooner flew away to the north with her new passengers.

ii

THE STATION was fairly comfortable, situated on a small island in the Straits, named after Torres. A handsome, brown, island woman, the captain's wife by courtesy, presided over the establishment.

The said captain, whose name was Sween, owned a good number of luggers, and Merande soon found that the work was pretty constant and regular, as predicted. He kept the books, overlooked the stores, and did most of the land work, Lepetre being berthed on the schooner, and employed on the usual handy sailor's jobs.

Sween, however, was not ungenerous. He supplied both men with all requisite clothing, and treated Merande as one of his household. This naturally brought him much in contact with the beautiful half-caste girl Lurance, and the fire of a mutual passion was ignited. Naturally Lurance's uncurbed nature soon led to ber neglecting her protector pro tem, and quarrels between her and Sween became frequent; and Sween, who was a violent-tempered man, often had recourse to personal chastisement.

The end came at last. One night Merande was awakened by the hasty entrance of Lurance into his room. Her eyes flashed in the darkness, and when Merande struck a light he saw that she held a blood-stained knife in her hand.

'I have done it;' she said. 'He struck me again, and then I told him that I hated him, and loved you. He swore he would send you back to prison, and I snatched up the knife and stabbed him.'

'Is he dead?' asked Merande, somewhat overcome by the relation, which so suddenly broke up his own schemes for the future.

'Dead! Would Lurance strike twice?'

Merande pondered. 'Lurance,' he said, 'We must seize the schooner and fly.'

She nodded.

'I can easily forge an order in Sween's handwriting which will satisfy Tom,  the mate,' he reflected. Forgery was the crime he had been transported for.

'Lurance, go back and collect what things you want: meantime, I will write an order to Tom in Sween's hand to come ashore and bring four men. That, will leave two on board. With these, two, Francois, myself, and you, we can manage the schooner.'

Lurance hurried away, and Merande set to work at his desk. He was soon  disturbed. Lurance burst in, breathless with terror.

'He is gone. I struck not deep enough!'

'Confound your tongue, woman,' he cried, as it struck him that but for her boast he might have been safe. 'What devil made you confess that you love me?'

'But you do, Hyacinth, you do my love? We can both die together;' and she fell on her knees with her supplicating brown eyes turned up to his.

But her beauty had suddenly become abhorrent to him. All he wanted was to escape, but he was too late.

As he glanced at the door, it was burst, open, and Sween stood there leaning on Tom, the colored boatswain with them, all armed.

Both man and woman were secured, and taken on board the schooner, and with the morning breeze she stood out to sea. But Tom the mate and Francois Lepetre were left behind.

Six days afterwards the schooner returned, and taking these two on board, made sail for Thursday Island.

Arrived there, a signal for the water police boat was run up. Lepetre, quite unconscious of its meaning, was standing on deck when the Resident, his coxswain, and a couple more men stepped on board. Sween drew the Resident on one side.

'The dark man, there, is an escapee from New Calededonia, by his own confession. I have kept him at my sation on B— Island until I had time to bring him in. His name is Francois Lepetre.'

'I have been warned of his escape, but I confess, captain, that I believed you to have been the last man to have given a poor devil up.'

'I have my reasons,' said the other grimly.

The Resident signed to the coxswain, and the next moment poor Francois found himself between two men, handcuffed.

ONE of the steamers for China sighted a derelict boat, and as they drew near, saw that it was occupied. A boat was lowered, and in the derelict lay the body of a man shrivelled by the sun, but in his breast, thrust through a piece of paper, was a knife. On the after thwart was the bowed form of a woman tied by the wrists to a ringbolt. When the doctor went down to examine them, he found that her tongue was cut out.

The bodies, sewn in one canvas, were buried at sea with due solemnities, and the boat sunk.

On the paper was printed in plain letters, 'Never save a man from the sea; he will injure you.'

________________

5: Brother Bill

Ellis Parker Butler

1869-1937

Munseys, April 1928

THE great river, in falling, had left a row of shanty boats stranded in the mud below the railroad embankment in front of the town; but this caused no consternation, because it was just what the owners of the boats desired. When their floating homes were firmly embedded in the mud, even the town marshal could not expect them to move on.

Once more nature had been good to them. The argument that they could not venture upon the bosom of the ripsnorting Mississippi while the June rise made it a raging torrent had seemed valid to the marshal, and now the rapid fall of the waters had sealed them in for another summer. Beyond the shanty boats fifty yards of slimy mud that would eventually dry and surfacecrack now spoke for itself. The marshal went back uptown.

Rodge Tuck and One-Eye Hopper sat on the forward deck of their boat and watched the back of the marshal disappear down the railroad track.

"Law can't lick nature," Rodge said philosophically. 'He give one look at the mud, and he knew what was what. He never hardly cussed us at all."

"Not so it peeled any skin off us," said One-Eye. "He ain't much of a cusser, anyway. Look at who's here!"

Across the track was a section tool shed, and from behind this there came cautiously a man who was evidently one of those ceaseless wanderers who see the world while carefully avoiding work in any form. He watched the marshal until that dignitary had totally disappeared, and then crossed the track and smiled at Rodge and OneEye in a manner meant to be ingratiating.

"Hello, boss!" he said. "How about an eat?"

Rodge waved his brown and sinewy hand indolently.

"Drift by! Drift by!" he said.

Instead of drifting the man came to their side of the track and widened his smile.

"Well, strike me down if it ain't my old pal One-Eye!" he declared. "One-Eye as ever is, or I'm a loon! Well, you old snoozer— a boat and a clean shirt and everything! Just look at that now!"

"You wouldn't like it here, Fat," One-Eye replied promptly. "It's a hard life, this is. We got to fish, fish, fish, from morning to night, rowing a boat around and—"

"Scooping for mussels," said Rodge. "Dredging for mussels until your arms break off."

"And never moving on to anywhere," said One-Eye. "Just staying right here in one place. You wouldn't like it. Well, it's been good to see you again. So long! Good luck!"

The wanderer whom he had called Fat put his bundle down and sat beside it. From where he sat he could see into the shanty boat, and the eight small catfish that lay on the bench, skinned and cleaned and floured, ready for the pan, appealed to the most important of his senses. He had not eaten a fried catfish for months.

"How you been all this while?" he asked in a most friendly tone. '"You look fine."

"Anyway," said One-Eye, "we've only got two bunks, and there's no room for another."

Before their visitor could ignore this statement of fact, as he fully intended doing, Rodge Tuck raised a forefinger and wiggled it at his partner, indicating that he wished him to enter the shanty boat for a private conference. One-Eye followed him inside, and Rodge closed the door.

"Say," he began, without other preliminaries, "how'd he do for Bill?"

"What Bill?" asked One-Eye.

"Brother Bill," said Rodge. "He's the shape of him."

One-Eye leaned against the bench and considered this.

"We'd have to feed him," he said, "and he's a whale when it comes to feed."

"There's no end of carp," Rodge said. "He looks as if he'd eat carp; but we wouldn't feed him— she'd feed him. Maybe we'd feed him to-night, and give him a breakfast to-morrow, and then he'd be off our hands; and we'd make him divide up half and half. That would be the bargain— half and half, or we'd give the whole thing away!"

"It won't work," One-Eye objected. "She'll ask him things, and he won't know them. He'll give himself away the first question she asks him."

"No, he won't," said Rodge. "I'll tell you why—amnesia."

"What's that? What's amnesia?"

"It's a kind of disease, and you forget everything that happened. You forget your name and who you are and everything, and then suddenly it all comes back to you," Rodge explained. "That's what happened to this Bill out there— he's been amnesia. He went amnesia and stayed that way until all at once he remembered that his name was Bill Tuck, and that he used to live in a place named Riverbank. So he come along to here, tramping it, and he run into us— by good luck, One-Eye. He don't remember anything but his name, and that Riverbank was where he lived. The rest has got to come back to him gradual— bit by bit."

"He ought to remember more than that," One-Eye suggested. "Your sister Josie is bright, and a name and the name of a town ain't much. He ought to remember a dog or a cat or something— something she would know about, and he would know about, but nobody else would know about."

"I don't know that there is anything he knows about, and she knows about, and I don't know about," said Rodge doubtfully; "but that don't matter so much. She's eager to see Bill again. Bill was her pet brother, and she'll spill money on him, One-Eye."

"We could try it," One-Eye admitted. "If she finds out he's a fake, we won't be any worse off than before. He lied to us, that's all."

When they went out and proposed the plan to the fat man on the embankment, he readily agreed to be any one's brother. He would have agreed to be a sister to Rodge, at least until after the eight catfish were fried and eaten; and when he was told the details of the Widow Branch's worldly state he was more than eager.

"Five hundred chickens!" he said joyfully. "That's one a day for a year, and a lot over!"

"And more being hatched all the while," Rodge reminded him. "You can eat them as fast as they're being hatched. You'll have so much chicken stew you'll bust."

"You can't bust me with chicken stew," said the newly instituted victim of amnesia. "I swell, but I don't bust. What did you say my name was?"

"Bill Tuck," said Rodge; "and this town is Riverbank. You were born here."

"And she's my sister, and you're my brother?"

"Yes, and I recognized you the minute I set eyes on you," said Rodge. "I ran up to you as you came tramping along, and I grabbed you and cried: 'Bill! Dear old Bill!' "

"And I said 'Dear old—' What did you say your name was?"

"No, you didn't say anything. You didn't remember my name. Amnesia was ailing you. You sobbed out: 'Brother!' "

"And kissed you," suggested the newly made brother Bill.

"No," said One-Eye after a critical look at Rodge Tuck. "You didn't kiss him. There ain't no woman would believe you kissed him— not with that face he's got!"

The newcomer agreed to the plan in all its details, and with an eagerness that should have aroused the suspicions of the two owners of the shanty boat— and would have aroused them, had they not been so much interested in the scheme itself. As a conspirator, Henry Prenk had no hesitation in entering into an agreement to deceive a widow, get money from her, and divide it with Rodge Tuck and One-Eye Hopper; but this was not because he was an extraordinarily conscienceless man— which he was not. It was because he looked no further ahead than the eight small catfish, four of which he meant to have for supper. He fully intended to slip away after dark.

However, when Rodge Tuck and One-Eye Hopper got into a dispute over which of them should cook the pancakes in the morning, Mr. Prenk decided to be the Widow Branch's long lost brother Bill until after breakfast, at least. Thus it was that the hour of 9 A.M. saw Rodge Tuck and One-Eye Hopper piloting Mr. Prenk up the River Road to where Mrs. Josie Branch's nice little farm lay on a fertile hillside.

"Don't you be too eager," Rodge Tuck admonished him. 'You remember to forget. This amnesia has got you, and it has got you mighty bad. Don't you go and rush up to Josie and yell: 'Josie! Josie! My long lost sister!' or anything like that. Stand and look at her, and put a hand to your fevered brow and say: 'Is this Josie? Can this be Josie?' "

"How does he know who Josie is?" OneEye wanted to know.

"Drat it, he don't!" said Rodge.

"So you don't want to say anything, Henry," said One-Eye.

"Are you going to call him Henry?" asked Rodge. "If you are, we might as well go back now."

"Why shouldn't I call him Henry?" demanded One-Eye. "He had to be something when he didn't know he was Bill, didn't he?"

"How did you know his name was Henry, if you're so smart?" asked Rodge. "He came to the shanty boat and said his name was Bill, didn't he? Who told you his name was Henry?"

One-Eye stopped where he was.

"All right!" he said. '"You go ahead and have it your own way, and see where you get to. Every time you open your mouth you put your foot in it up to the knee. If you asked a man with some brains what to do, I'd tell you. It would be plain and simple, and a story anybody could believe."

"What like?" Rodge asked.

"The plain truth," said One-Eye. "You and me was sitting on the deck of the shanty boat when the marshal came down and looked at the mud, and went away again; and out from behind the red tool shed stepped this man I'd tramped all over the United States with and knew by the name of Henry Prenk. So I says to you: 'Hell! There's Henry Prenk, and I bet he comes and squats on us for the rest of the summer. Devil help us if he does, for he's the biggest loafer and greedy-gut in America, bar none.' At that you jumped up and said: 'Prenk? Prenk? That's no Henry Prenk— that's my long lost brother Bill!' Then you rush up the bank and grab him by the hand. 'Bill!' you says. 'Don't you know me?' Don't you know Rodge?' And Henry puts his hand to his brow and says: 'Rodge? Rodge? The name is faintly familiar to me; say it again.' And there you are, all open and above board, and if Josie asks me what I know about Bill when he was Henry Prenk, I can tell her."

"Not everything," said Mr. Prenk uneasily.

"Everything!" insisted One-Eye. "You had amnesia and didn't know any better."

"You go light on what you tell her, One-Eye," Rodge said. '"You've got to remember that Josie is a respectable woman, and a mighty little might turn her against her dear brother Bill. His looks is going to be a shock to Josie. He's changed— terribly."

ii

THE house of Mrs. Josie Branch, widow, born Tuck, was a neat little dwelling with roses twining the porch. It stood near the road, and behind it were the barn, the pig pen, and the chicken houses with their yard.

Mrs. Branch was in the chicken yard, scattering grain from an old tin dish pan, her face hidden in a pink gingham sunbonnet. What the newly elected brother Bill could see of her, however, made him feel that this adventure might not be such a bad thing after all. All the visible portions of Mrs. Branch suggested competent placidity. She did not scatter the grain nervously or stingily. Her plump hand grasped all the grain it could hold and threw it hospitably. From her plumply rounded shoulders to her trim ankles, her ampleness suggested ease and plenty.

Even when she turned her head and saw the spurious brother Bill, her gaze was calm; but when she turned it a little more, and saw her brother Roger and One-Eye Hopper, a look of suspicion came into her eyes.

"Well, what foolishness are you trying this time?" she asked sharply. "You got another husband for me?"

The question referred to one of Roger's mistakes. He had, with entirely too much enthusiasm, introduced One-Eye Hopper as a gentleman who would make a good second husband for Josie.

"There you go!" said Rodge. "Always bringing up bygones and slinging them at a feller! A man can't open his head before you snap it off. Always suspecting a man! No, I ain't got no husband for you; but that's the way you are. A man tries to do you a favor, and—"

One-Eye jabbed him with an elbow.

"Not that we're trying to do you a favor this time," One-Eye said placatingly. "This time we haven't got no husband for you— not at all."

"By no means," agreed Rodge, changing his tone entirely. "You couldn't marry this one if you wanted to."

"I wouldn't want to," said Josie, looking at Mr. Prenk again. "I can't think of anybody I'd less want to."

Rodge turned to Mr. Prenk.

"There!" he said, with almost too evidently assumed pleasure. "She feels it, too. As soon as she sets eyes on you, she feels the blood tie. I told you she would. She's sensitive, Josie is."

Mrs. Branch tossed the last of the grain out of the pan and came out of the chicken yard. She snapped the padlock into the staple in a way that almost had a meaning.

''Wimmin is more sensitive that way than men," said One-Eye approvingly. "They're tuned delicater. She felt right away that he was her brother Bill."

"Who was my brother Bill?" demanded Mrs. Branch. "What you talking about?"

"Hen Prenk here," said One-Eye, indicating that person, who shifted his weight from one foot to the other, smiled uncertainly, and coughed gently behind his hand. "The minute you saw him, you felt he was your brother Bill."

"Our brother Bill," said Mr. Tuck. "I felt the same way myself when I set eyes on him. 'One-Eye,' I says, 'that's brother Bill!' Did I or did I not, or am I a liar?"

"Yes," said One-Eye.

"Our poor, long lost brother Bill come back to us, Josie," said Rodge. "After long years," he added.

Mrs. Branch looked at Henry Prenk with new interest. She took two steps forward and looked up into his face. She had, indeed, constantly worried over the disappearance of her brother William, who had run away from home, never to be heard of again. Not a letter, not a message, not a word had ever come from him.

She studied the face of Henry Prenk. She tried to see in it the face of the brother whom she had so sincerely mourned. The years, of course, would have changed him.

"He's got amnesia," One-Eye said. "Just after he ran away from home he got a knock on the head and forgot everything, even his name. That's so, ain't it, Hen?"

"Yes," said Mr. Prenk, blushing slightly as he looked into Mrs. Branch's eyes.

"And he's had it all these years," said Rodge Tuck. "Nothing but amnesia, amnesia, amnesia all the time. Tramping around— just a poor, miserable tramp, kicked around everywhere; but all the time he had a sort of feeling he wasn't who he was. You did, didn't you, Bill?"

"Yes," Mr. Prenk said again.

"And then it sort of come back to you that your name was Bill, and that Riverbank was where you was from, didn't it?"

"Tt was a sort of beginning of a busting up of his amnesia," said One-Eye quickly. '' That's how the cure starts. You start to remember, and then you remember more and more. As soon as he saw Rodge, he said 'Rodge!' "

"Right off the reel," said Rodge. 'And I said: ' Bill!' I said, 'One-Eye, it's dear old Bill!' Didn't I, One-Eye? I recognized him instantaneously. ' That's Bill, or I'm a liar,' I says. So we took him in and we fed him; and tell her what you said, Bill."

Mr. Prenk coughed gently again.

"What did I say, Rodge?" he asked. "I said a lot of things."

"About her, I mean," said Rodge. "After we had talked awhile, Bill, didn't you say, of a sudden: ' Bill, things is beginning to come back to me. Didn't I have a sister I loved better than life? Didn't I have a sweet and gentle sister?' You said that, Bill?"

"Yes," said Henry Prenk. "It came back to me like through a haze. ' Bill,' I said right out of a clear sky, 'didn't I have a sister Susie?' "

"Josie," Mr. Tuck corrected quickly. "You said Josie."

"Josie, yes," agreed Mr. Prenk. '"The amnesia gets working in me, and I sort of forget now and again. Josie was what I said, Rodge."

"So there you are," said Mr. Tuck. "Here's dear old Bill back again, Josie, and we've got to do what we can for the poor old amnesiaed feller. We must try to fetch his brain around so it's sound and solid once more. You can see he's Bill, can't you, Josie?"

It was an anxious moment. Mr. Prenk put his hands into his pockets and took them out again. He felt the stubble of beard on his chin and shifted from one foot to the other, but he could not meet Josie Branch's eyes. The three conspirators awaited the verdict.

"Amnesia is a terrible disease," said Josie at last. "I've read story tales about it, and it's a dreadful thing to have. Can't you remember hardly anything at all, Bill?"

"No, ma'am," said Mr. Prenk.

"Don't you remember a dog you had named Bish?"

"No, you don't, Bill," said Rodge hastily, "because you didn't have any dog named Bish. You don't want to ask the poor feller false questions like that, Josie. It's the worst thing you can do. The way his brain is now, he's just as like to try to remember whatever you say he ought to as not, and the first thing you know you'll have his poor brain all muddled up, and we'll never get him well again."

"But you do remember how hard you used to work," said Josie to Mr. Prenk. "You remember how you were at it from morning till night, weeding the garden, feeding the chickens, plowing the lot, chopping wood, always busy and hustling, while Rodge loafed on his back or went off fishing in the slough— you remember that, don't you?"

Mr. Prenk cast a startled glance of query at Rodge Tuck.

"Of course you do," said Rodge. "'Didn't you say to me the minute you set eyes on me, 'If it ain't old Rodge, the loafer that used to let me do all the work'?"

"Maybe you've forgot you said it, Bill," said One-Eye. "The amnesia may be boiling up in you."

"T can tell whether he's Bill,'"' said Mrs. Branch, pushing back her sunbonnet and letting them see a smile that twitched at the corners of her mouth. '"Amnesia or no amnesia, Bill was fonder of work than of anything else. You often said what a fool for work he was, Rodge. If this is Bill, I can cure his amnesia."

"How?" asked One-Eye uneasily.

"The way they do in the story tales," explained Mrs. Branch. "I'll try names on him until he remembers them and joins them on to other things to remember. I'll try him with the kinds of food Bill used to be most fond of, and they'll remind him of the old home."

"That's a good idea," said Mr. Prenk. "Food always sets my brain to remembering things. The better the food, the better I remember. The more food I get, the more I remember. You ought to have been a doctor, Josie!"

"Don't you call me Josie, you big—" Mrs. Branch began, but she stopped short. "' Well, maybe you'd better, Bill," she said in a pleasanter tone. "We've got to use all the old names and words and ways, if I'm to get this amnesia out of your system. Josie I am, and Josie you may call me."

"It's a touching sight, Rodge," One-Eye said. "I never was so close to tears in my life— a loving brother and sister united once again!"

"And  especially work," said Mrs Branch.

"What?" anxiously asked Mr. Prenk. "What did you say?"

"I said work— especially work," said Mrs. Branch. "We've got to remind you of all your old ways and habits, and especially work— the kinds of work you were so strong at in the good old days."

"I wouldn't work him too hard right off," said Rodge, seeing the look of panic that crossed Henry Prenk's face. "You've got to remember that old Bill is enfeebled in body, and any heavy strain might be too much for him."

"You've got to remember," said OneEye earnestly, "that for a good many years he ain't done no work— not a lick of it. He's got out of the habit. I'd try him with food first— good, tasty food."

"I sort of feel that food will fetch back my memory quicker than work will," agreed Henry Prenk. "Work always confuses up my intellect."

"I won't overwork you— not at first," said Mrs. Branch dryly. "I can see that; but if I'm going to feed a big hulk of a man stewed chicken, and apple pie, and mashed potatoes, and baked beans with nice, thick hunks of pork in them, he's got to do some work. I guess the work he does won't hurt him. I've been doing all there was to do without help. You can sleep in the barn, Bill."

"Yes, ma'am," said Mr. Prenk immediately, for the menu she had mentioned had a strong appeal for him. "I'll sleep anywhere, any time."

"And I do hope," said Mrs. Branch, "you'll turn out to be my brother Bill. It would be a load off my mind. You don't look much like him now. He never would have got into the state of filth you're in; but maybe amnesia works that way. The first thing is to clean you up and get you looking more like a man and less like a hog."

"We're ashamed of you, Bill," said Rodge. "We forgive you, because we know that amnesia done it; but we hope you'll be different from now on. You can see how neat and clean Josie likes things to be."

The thought in Mr. Tuck's mind was that his prosperous sister was about to begin the good work of giving money to the recovered Bill; but in this he was mistaken. She did bid Bill to wait, and she did go into the house; but when she came out again she had in her hand not her purse, but a cake of brown laundry soap.

"Now, it's a nice warm day," she said cheerfully. "You can go down to some sandy place on the river and give yourself a good bath and wash your clothes and lay them in the sun until they dry. Soap's cheap, and I've got my work to do. When you're more like a human being and less like a tramp, Bill, you can come back up and I'll have dinner ready for you. You'd like chicken, wouldn't you?"

"We'll all come back," said Rodge eagerly. "It 'll be a reunion of the family."

"Nobody will come back but Bill," said Mrs. Branch. "I couldn't bear to have anybody listen to his sad struggles while his poor amnesia-sick brain tries to remember the dear dead days. And," she added, "I've still got the shotgun loaded— and always will have."

Mr. Prenk, holding the cake of soap as if it was a bird bath filled with precious jewels, went down the path, accompanied by Rodge Tuck and One-Eye Hopper.

At the gate they held a rather spirited conversation. Mr. Prenk said that he was willing to give up the job right there and throw the cake of soap as far as he could throw it. One-Eye Hopper said he couldn't see much in the business himself; but Rodge Tuck declared that it had all worked out much better than he had expected.

"What's a bath?" he asked. "You'd take one some time this summer, anyway, Henry, and you might as well take it now. You touched her heart, you did. She said chicken stew right off, and she never did say chicken stew to me. I'll bet there'll be dumplings in it!"

"She said work, too," objected Mr. Prenk.

"Woman's talk!" scoffed Mr. Tuck. "The females has got to show off. Work! Can she make you work if you don't want to?"

"Nobody has ever made me work, whether I wanted to or not," boasted Mr. Prenk.

It was finally agreed that he would stay until after dinner at least. Then, if he found being brother Bill too strenuous, he could quit.

"You watch!" said Mr. Tuck hopefully. "Josie will begin giving you money before you know it. She's generous that way; she gave me money until we had a quarrel one day."

"What did you quarrel about?" asked Mr. Prenk suspiciously.

"Politics," said Mr. Tuck, but this was not true. However, he did not think it wise to tell Mr. Prenk just then that Josie had ceased being liberal only because he refused to work, and Mr. Prenk allowed himself to be persuaded to proceed to the river where, in a nook sheltered by willows, the trio washed his inner and outer garments and dried them and in good time for the noon dinner Mr. Prenk reappeared at the farm.

"Move that log a bit closer to the wood pile, Bill," Josie suggested. "You might stumble on it when you're doing the evening chores."

Upset by this frank mention of work, Mr. Prenk heaved the heavy timber as if it had been a stick of kindling wood.

"Strong as ever!" Josie remarked admiringly.

When he stepped upon the porch, the delicious odor of stewing chicken issued from the kitchen. Mrs. Branch handed him a bowl of hot water, her late husband's razor, and a small mirror. It was a clean and shaven brother Bill who was finally admitted to the kitchen to have chicken breast and leg, dumplings, mashed potatoes, and gravy heaped on his plate. Mrs. Branch stood and watched him eat.

"Bill," she asked him, "does the name of Tige bring anything back to your mind?"

Mr. Prenk held his fork suspended in the air while he looked up at Josie. Tige, he considered, must have been a dog. Tige could be nothing but a dog. Mrs. Branch's Tige, however, had been a canary— a good singer but striped.

"I remember a dog, once, named Tige," he began; but as Josie's clear eyes rested on his face he felt the color rising to his forehead.

He let his eyes fall, and when he looked up again he was not afraid to meet her eyes. In fact, he grinned at her quite frankly.

"Ain't you ashamed of yourself?" demanded Mrs. Branch, but not unkindly. "A big strong man like you trying to deceive a helpless woman!"

"For a feed like this," said Henry Prenk, "I'd have amnesia every day in the week!"

iii

FROM time to time, as the early summer passed, Mr. Tuck and One-Eye Hopper went up to the farm to see how brother Bill's cure was progressing; but Josie guarded her patient jealously. "No," she would say, "you can't see Bill. Just the mention of you excites him and sets him back. He's got to have calm and quiet— that's the best cure for amnesia that I've heard tell of."

"Is his memory coming back to him?"

"You'd be surprised," Mrs. Branch might say, or, "You wouldn't believe what he remembers!"

From a distance they sometimes saw brother Bill at work. He did not, to tell the truth, work with an energy that would have caused any one amazement. If he crossed the little farm from one part to another, he paused often to look out upon the river, even leaning against a tree or sitting on a stump to enjoy the view at greater ease; but Rodge and One-Eye did not often walk so far up the river as the farm, the distance being considerable and the road hot.

But one bright September evening the amnesia victim himself walked down the track to where the shanty boat still rested in the mud. He eased himself down the railway embankment to where the two planks led up to the deck of the boat. As his foot reached the deck, Rodge Tuck turned toward him from where he was frying catfish on the sheet iron stove. One-Eye sat on the rear deck, looking out at the river and smoking his pipe.

"Now look who's here!" exclaimed Rodge. '"One-Eye, here's dear old brother Bill come to see us!"

One-Eye came to the door.

"If we'd knowed you was coming, Bill," he said, "we'd have skinned a couple more catfish. You cer'nly do look fine, Bill!"

"And how's it working out?" asked Rodge, who, like One-Eye, had noted that the visitor's appearance was greatly changed, and for the better.

"Just fine!" said their visitor. "Just fine! Josie sent me down—"

"And how's the amnesia?" inquired Rodge. "Is it gettin' cured up all nice and pleasant?"

"It's cured, Rodge," said Henry Prenk. "Not a sign of it left in me. I can remember every little thing— everything that ever happened to me— as clear as a whistle. She's wonderful, Josie is! You don't half appreciate Josie, Rodge. If she was my sister—"

"She is," Rodge reminded him.

"Pshaw, no!" said Henry Prenk. "She cured that hallucination out of me in no time. That was just one of the ways amnesia worked on me, Rodge; but that's all cleared up now. I'm Henry Prenk."

"Henry Prenk?"

"Yes, sir! That amnesia that made me think I was Bill Tuck is all gone, and a mighty good thing, too. It's terrible when a man don't know who he is and thinks he may be somebody else— terrible!"

"Great cats!" exclaimed Rodge Tuck. "You didn't let her prove to you that you was Henry Prenk, did you?"

"Yes, she did!" declared Mr. Prenk with most disconcerting happiness. "She did so, Rodge; and that reminds me what I came for. Josie sent me. She sent—"

He dug into the pocket of the coat of the brand-new suit he was wearing, and found two small squares of paper. He handed one to Roger Tuck and one to One-Eye Hopper.

"Some of our wedding cake," he said. "Brother Roger," he added, as if an afterthought.

For a moment Rodge stared at the small square parcel in his hand, and then he expressed his sentiments.

"Amnesia the devil!" he said bitterly.

___________________

6: The Medicine Man

Reginald Campbell

Reginald Wilfrid Campbell, 1894-1950

Munseys  Oct 1928

RAYMOND MANNERING, of the Siam Wood Company, was a lonely individual, for he lived in a solitary bungalow on the right bank of the Me Toom River at a point about two hundred and fifty miles due north of Bangkok. Europeans being conspicuous by their absence in that region, such pleasing distractions as bridge, tennis, dancing, gossip, and scandal were denied him. This state of affairs, however, left Mannering completely unmoved, for he liked loneliness and loved his work.

His duties were legion. He had to collect the thousands of teak logs that came swirling down the river during the rains, tie them up into neat rafts averaging one hundred and sixty logs apiece, and then dispatch them on their long journey down to Bangkok. He had to see that no jams occurred in the timber-crowded river. He had to settle the numerous quarrels that arose among the native raftsmen; and finally, as uncrowned king of the district, he was forced to perform certain tasks of which no one in distant Bangkok dreamed.

The men under his rule were a mixed lot. The raftsmen were Siamese, lean, swarthy, and of evil eye, while the carrier and compound coolies were simple Kamoos from over the border. All of them feared Mannering greatly because, as the nearest posse of police was exactly fifty miles away, he was wont, on occasions, to take the law into his own hands.

They were capable hands, were Mannering’s, but his features struck one the most. Thin, determined, and burned a dull brick red by the sun, they made him look older than his thirty years. His eyes were a cold, steely blue, reflecting icy intelligence; and natives who caught their hard, relentless gaze were wont to say that without doubt Mannering was a man to be respected. And respected he was, for even the neighboring villages, with their mixed Siamese-Lao population, held him in fear and awe.

The one exception to the rule was the village of Ban Toh, a collection of jungle shanties situated some eight miles from Mannering’s bungalow. Though built in the very heart of the forest, its name was known for miles around as that of a place haunted by fearful ghosts and devils. The inhabitants of Ban Toh were a strange people, so it was whispered, given to strange practices and owing allegiance to a powerful medicine man named Pin Sawn.

The rumors concerning this latter individual grew and multiplied exceed- ingly, till eventually his fame was such that several of Mannering’s raftsmen, prompted by a kind of terrified curiosity, were guilty of neglecting their duties in order to seek his counsel. It was then that the white man judged it high time to put a stop to Pin Sawn’s unholy activities. Accordingly, on a golden evening in March, when the rafting work was at its slackest, he finished off some arrears of correspond- ence and called for his boy.

“Ai Kong,” said he, when the servant stood before him, “to-morrow I go to Ban Toh. See, therefore, that my riding kit is ready and that the spurs are clean this time.”

Ai Kong, a Kamoo only lately in Mannering’s service, salaamed.

“The master will go visit Pin Sawn?” he ventured.

“That is naught to do with thee, Ai Kong.”

“Master, I know; but, speaking of Pin Sawn, there is even now in your cook house a maiden who has cause to hate and fear that man of magic.”

“And what does a Lao maiden do in my compound?” said Mannering sharply. “Has Ai Kong forgotten my rule that no women enter the Great Company’s premises?”

“Lord, the matter is naught to do with me. It was the cook who brought her in.”

“Ho, was it?”

“Lord, it happen like this. The cook go walking this afternoon along the river bank, and he meet a maiden who run swiftly. He stop her, and she say she run away from Ban Toh, being much afraid of Pin Sawn. Wherefore did the cook take pity on her and lead her to the cook house, where he give her rice. She eat much, and now she rest there still.”

“H-m!” breathed Mannering. “It would seem that my dinner to-night will be more uneatable than usual!”

“Lord,” said the boy frankly, “the dinner will be no worse than it always has been; for, knowing the cook, I, too, have been in his house since the girl arrived.”

Mannering stifled a grin.

“Bring the girl to me,” he barked with alarming suddenness.

The boy vanished, to reappear shortly in company with the maiden, whom the white man saw at a glance to be of extraordinary beauty. She was the tiniest thing, as graceful as a deer, but her hands twitched nervously and her sloe-black eyes looked haunted.

“Thy name, small one?” asked Man- nering.

“Lord, it is Chan Rawt,” she said.

“My boy has told me that Chan Rawt has fled from Ban Toh for fear of Pin Sawn. That is the truth?”

The girl hesitated for a moment. Then, with a swift movement, she flung herself down on the hard teak boards of the floor and raised two shapely brown arms in pitiful entreaty.

“Master,” she sobbed, “I have heard it said that you are all wise and all powerful, also that you fear neither man nor devil, being stony and hard of heart; yet do the people agree that you are just, and I crave justice!”

“It would seem,” said Mannering grimly, “that the time has indeed come for my visit to Pin Sawn. If Chan Rawt would tell me her story— You are dismissed, Ai Kong.”

And then, to the shrilling of the crickets that sang in hundreds from the trees within the compound, the Lao girl, speaking in the terse, monosyllabic native tongue, unfolded her tale.

It appeared that she, Chan Rawt, had for the whole sixteen years of her life dwelt in the village of Ban Toh, that she was now of marriageable age, and that the suitors for her small brown hand were many. First and foremost among them was Pin Sawn, the medicine man; but he, being middle-aged and ugly both in mind and body, had evoked nothing but repulsion in the maiden’s heart, and she had been rash enough to tell him so in plain terms.

Thereafter strange misfortunes had begun to shower thick and fast upon the village. Sickness, flood, and tempest had taken their toll of life and health. Finally three buffaloes had died unaccountably in one night, whereupon the inhabitants had consulted the medicine man in haste, for without doubt some very bad devil was abroad.

There had followed many incantations by Pin Sawn, and after much burning of candles and sprinkling of holy water the magician had made the discovery that there was indeed a devil in the village, and that it had chosen the body and soul of Chan Rawt as its dwelling place. The girl’s parents, with loud lamentations and frenzied wringing of hands, had visited Pin Sawn and begged for mercy; for, when a devil inhabits a human being, the only possible course is to drive that person into the forest, never to return to the haunts of men.

At first the medicine man had been obdurate, and then he had relented slightly. There was one way, he said, and one way only, by which the devil might perhaps be driven out from the body of Chan Rawt. If he, Pin Sawn, married the girl, he might be able to bring his influence on the spirit; but for this he would require the sum of one hundred ticals.

Her parents, being fearful for their daughter’s safety and very much in awe of Pin Sawn, had consented to the proposed arrangement; but the girl had taken matters into her own hands and fled for Ban Huat, the village situated close to the Lord Mannering’s compound.

When she had come to the end of her tale, Mannering’s hard blue eyes stared into the distance in a manner that boded little good for Pin Sawn. After a few moments’ silence he recalled his boy.

“Ai Kong,” said he, “the maiden will sleep here to-night; therefore pre pare her a bed in the spare room of my bungalow. To-morrow, as I have already told thee, I ride for Ban Toh.”

With an expressionless face the boy went about his duties.

ii

ON THE following morning, leaving the girl in the care of his boy and the cook, Mannering galloped up to Ban Toh and went straight to the house of her parents. A few minutes’ conversation, however, convinced him that it was useless to argue with them. They were a decent old couple, and they loved their daughter; but they believed implicitly in the medicine man, and Mannering’s most earnest efforts could not shake that belief. He accordingly cut short the interview and hastened over to the hut of the magician.

“My lord is well?” inquired Pin Sawn courteously, as the white man pulled aside the rushes at the entrance.

“He is well,’ snapped Mannering, “but all is not well in this village. ‘There is evil work here, and it is be- cause Pin Sawn is an evil man. Thou hast said that there is a devil in the girl Chan Rawt. Pin Sawn, that devil shall come out, and it shall come out without thy marrying her!”

“In that case, lord, I cannot drive out the devil.”

“Thou canst! If it is not done, then will I flay thee till thy bones are as bare as the vultures pick the carcasses in the river!!”

“Lord,” said Pin Sawn, “you may not beat me, for that is against the law. Moreover, I will report the matter to the great white policeman.”

Mannering smiled grimly, for the district police officer, who visited the locality about once a year, was a personal friend of his.

“Law or no law,” said Mannering icily, “I have spoken.”

“Master,” went on Pin Sawn, after a long pause, “I will try to do your bidding; but the girl must be returned to the village, else how can I drive the devil out of her?”

The white man frowned. He knew that he was interfering in a private affair entirely outside of his normal jurisdiction, and he was therefore in a somewhat delicate position. The girl could scarcely remain in his bungalow for long, and her parents sided with Pin Sawn. At the present moment the medicine man obviously held the whip hand.

“The girl will I send back to Ban Toh to-day,” he told his hearer; “but remember, Pin Sawn, the promise that I gave thee concerning thy bones!”

He strode out of the magician’s hut, and, after explaining matters to Chan Rawt’s parents, returned to his bungalow. That evening the girl, pale and frightened, arrived at Ban Toh, escorted thither by some of the company’s coolies.

Two days later it was reported to Mannering that four fat bullocks had died suddenly in Ban Toh— a fact which undoubtedly meant that Pin Sawn had declared open war. An hour after the news arrived, Mannering was dismounting, hot and dusty, in the cen- ter of the village, where he was met with sullen, lowering glances from all the inhabitants. He heeded them not, however, but went straight to Pin Sawn.

“Take me to the dead bullocks,” he barked.

Two minutes later Pin Sawn and the white man were standing over the carcasses, around which a crowd of villagers had collected. A glance at the glazed eyes and the bloated, puffy bodies told Mannering that in all probability the animals had been poisoned, but he had no facilities for a post mortem examination, and he realized that the truth could never be driven home in the minds of the villagers.

“The debt,” he said to Pin Sawn, as he raised his head again, “steadily increases.”

“Lord,” answered the other, “for many hours have I tried to cast out the devil, but without avail.”

“Then I shall take the girl and send her under my care to a far distant vil- lage.”

“But that is not fair to the other villagers,” complained Pin Sawn. “For will not their cattle die also?”

A hum of approval ran around the assembly, and Mannering saw that the villagers were in evil and threatening mood. Evidently they thought that in order to save themselves and their animals the girl should either marry the medicine man or be driven to her death.

“And where is the girl?”  he snapped.

For answer Pin Sawn pointed to a new erection built on the fringe of the jungle. It consisted of a stockade of bamboo stakes, about twelve feet high, in the front of which was a stout cane door that had been securely closed by a sliding wooden bar.

“Explain,” ordered Mannering sharply.

“Lord,” said Pin Sawn, “this very morning have I had the stockade built, for it is thought that foolishness might take the girl again and she might try to escape a second time. Moreover, while she is in the stockade, it is hoped that her devil cannot get out, for on the top of the bamboos strong anti- devil signs have been placed. Thus will the village be safe till the devil is driven out, though of that I cannot be sure.”

"And how is she fed?”

“Lord, the women lower her baskets by means of ropes.”

A pause followed, and then one of the villagers spoke.

“Lord,” he said, addressing Mannering, “the affair is no business of yours. Has not Pin Sawn, who is a very great magician, told you that he cannot be sure of this devil unless he marries the girl? It seems to us that this should be done.”

The crowd murmured approval.

Mannering drew himself to his full height. He was alone and unarmed among a hostile throng, yet he did not hesitate. Once black magic began to spread around the land, his own men, in course of time, might become infected, and none could say what the result would be. He seized Pin Sawn in a grip of iron.

“It seems to me,” he said softly, “that thou hast not tried very hard. Thou must try harder next time!”

And he lashed the man six times over the shoulders with his riding whip. This done, he elbowed his way through the crowd and galloped at top speed for Ban Huat.

When he had gone, Pin Sawn raised his arms, and in full sight of. the as- sembly cursed the Lord Mannering with the curse of the ten thousand devils. The men who heard this awful imprecation whitened under their tan, saying that now the end of the white lord soon would come, and peace would descend upon their troubled village. Then the magician retired to his hut, where he brooded alone for many hours, nursing his hurts.

His meditations were not interrupt- ed till late that night, when a strange native came in to him unexpectedly.

“Thy business?” queried Pin Sawn sharply.

“Lord and great one,” said the stranger, “I am one Ai Kong, the boy of the Lord Mannering.”

“Huh!” said the medicine man, eying him suspiciously.

“Lord,” continued the boy, “I have heard it said that you have put the curse of the ten thousand devils on my master.”

“Huh!!” croaked Pin Sawn again.

“Lord, I have thought, and thought much. Now I, Ai Kong, like not my master, for often has he fined me money. Also he beat me once, and put me to much shame. If something could happen to the master, I would be pleased”

“Huh!” breathed Pin Sawn, moving slightly on his hams.

“Lord, I think thus— on many an evening does the Lord Mannering walk alone on the path by the river, taking the air. If he should disappear, and his helmet should be found floating on the stream, then I would be all the more pleased. Also it would appear that you, lord and great one, would gain much fame; for would not the people say it was through your curse that he died? Also you would be able to marry the girl Chan Rawt, of whom I have heard, without fear.”

“How much?” asked Pin Sawn, who understood.

"Lord and great one, I ask but fifty ticals.”

“Thou shalt have twenty-five now,” said the medicine man abruptly, “ and the remainder when the Lord Mannering dies by thy hand.”

Money passed from palm to palm.

iii

ON THE following evening Raymond Mannering disappeared. His white helmet, stained with blood, was. found on the bank of the Me Toom River, while some rent bushes near by indicated that a tiger or a devil had come out of the jungle and slain the great white lord.

Raftsmen and coolies turned out in scores and hunted for the missing man’s body till well after dark, after which they returned to the company compound and whispered fearfully to-gether; for news of the medicine man’s curse had by now spread far and wide over the district. The master was undoubtedly dead, they told themselves; and since he had been a just man, though hard, loud were the lamentations that rose to the star-bespangled heavens.

The loudest of all came from Ai Kong, the boy. He wailed in a high falsetto all night, and then at dawn set out for the village of Ban Toh.

“Lord and great one,” said he, as he squatted in Pin Sawn’s hut, “the curse of the ten thousand devils has worked.”

“Huh!” said the magician. “My men told me that one whole hour ago; therefore, Ai Kong, here is the rest of the money.”

“The great one will now marry the girl?” asked Ai Kong respectfully, as he pocketed the cash.

“He will marry her, and the villagers shall be called, that my purpose may be made clear to them. Ai Kong, get thee gone!”

The boy salaamed and walked out into the market place. Once there, however, he showed no inclination to depart, but waited while the gongs sounded and the inhabitants came hastening to the medicine man’s hut. Soon the entire population of Ban Toh had assembled, and presently Pin Sawn emerged from his shanty, whereupon the crowd bent their heads in profound obeisance, for here, indeed, was a veritable worker of wonders, so powerful that he could cast deadly spells over formidable white lords.

The medicine man raised one arm.

“I have had a dream,” said he, “which has shown me that two days hence, at the seventh hour, which is one hour after dark, the stars will be propitious. Therefore shall the village assemble at that hour, and then will I take the maiden to my hut. She shall be my wife, and thus without doubt shall the devil be driven out. Meanwhile it is my desire that she shall remain in the stockade, lest foolishness return to her again. I have spoken!!”

The crowd dispersed, chattering eagerly, and Ai Kong slunk back to Ban Huat.

Thus it came about that two days later, an hour after dark, Pin Sawn, followed by the villagers, moved in solemn procession toward the stockade. Each man carried a lighted torch in his hand, and the faces of the brown peo- ple flashed like jinn in the flaring dark.

They reached the stockade, behind which rose the solid wall of forest, black, silent, forbidding. Two of the strongest villagers lifted the stout, wooden bar, and the door swung slowly open, to reveal a figure crouching in the dimness within.

“Chan Rawt!” called Pin Sawn sharply.

At the words the figure rose and walked to the threshold. It was a man, full six feet in height, whose face was lean and bronzed, and whose eyes were merciless.

“It would seem,” said Mannering gently, “that the white man’s magic is better than Pin Sawn’s!”

The magician paled under his tan, and the villagers shrank back aghast, in fear of this terrible white man. They forgot Pin Sawn, they forgot the girl, they forgot everything but the fact that the Lord Mannering had appar- ently risen from the dead and come to take vengeance upon them.

“Men of Ban Toh,” continued the calm voice, “ your medicine man is a fool. He put the curse of the ten thousand devils on my head, but I have devils that are stronger far than any spirits over which he has command. I will tell you who these devils are. They are gold devils!”

The sea of faces blanched, for gold devils were very terrible indeed, and men who communed with them seldom lived to tell the tale.

“They are my friends,” went on Mannering, “and they have told me that Pin Sawn is an evil man who brings evil to this place. Unless the villagers drive him out, assuredly gold devils will visit Ban Toh.”

His hearers gasped, and their hearts melted within their quaking bodies.

“Lord,” said one at last, “how can the gold devils be kept away?”

“As I have said, by driving Pin Sawn into the forest and making sure that never shall he return to the village again.”

The white man’s orders were obeyed with a promptitude that exceeded his most sanguine expectations. A volley of lurid curses rose from the assembly, and it was an extremely ruffled magician who, to a rain of buffetings and oaths, fled for his life into the grim blackness of the jungle night.

“Lord,” said one of the villagers, when they stood once more before Mannering, “your bidding have we done. Now in the matter of the girl Chan Rawt— though we know not where she is, is it your pleasure that she should come back to Ban Toh?”

“It is not,” answered Mannering. “Though she has never had an evil spirit in her, yet it is my order that she shall remain in a distant village for the present. Indeed, by my magic she is there even now, but ”— he yawned— “ask me no more questions, for I return to Ban Huat.”

Dismissing the men, he commenced his long walk back to the bungalow eight miles distant. He trod warily, holding his revolver ready for any un- seen death that might lurk among the gloomy forest stems.

Next morning Ai Kong approached Mannering. The boy limped, and his face was drawn with fatigue.

“Lord,” said he, ‘I have done as you directed. The girl is now with your clerk’s mother-in-law at Ban Lin.”

He waved a vague arm in the direc- tion of a village many miles away to the south.

“Thou hast done well,” said his master. "Ai Kong did not forget to remove the rope by which I climbed into the stockade?”

“Lord, I forget nothing. When the maiden climb out, I take her and the rope back here, then on we go to Ban Lin. It was a long way, and now I very tired.”

“In the matter of Pin Sawn,” said the other reflectively, “he is at large in the forest. Though the maiden is now safe, doubtless he has evil thoughts concerning thee, Ai Kong.”

The boy’s sullen features broadened into a mirthless grin.

"Lord, I fear nothing in heaven or in hell. And the master?”

“I am accustomed to take care of myself,” replied Mannering dryly.

iv

A MONTH passed uneventfully. At the end of that time news was brought to Mannering by the watchful boy.

“Lord,” said Ai Kong, after clearing the table one evening, “I have heard it said that trouble has come again to the village of Ban Toh.”

“Ha!” said Mannering. “In the shape of Pin Sawn, I suppose!”

“No, master, but a tiger has slain many people there, and the men of the village dare not venture from their homes after dark.”

“Then to-morrow will I take my tent and camp on the outskirts of Ban Toh. Six coolies, the cook, and thou, Ai Kong, shall come with me, and there will we stay till the man-eater is slain.”

“As the lord commands,” said Ai Kong evenly.

“Ai Kong is not afraid?”

“Master, I know not fear.”

“One moment, Ai Kong,” said Mannering, as the servant prepared to depart. “It is of the girl Chan Rawt that I now would ask thee. She is well?”

“Lord, how should I know, since she is in the village of Ban Lin?”

“My clerk,” said Mannering slowly, “has told me that the girl receives presents of fruit and clothing from an unknown source. It is strange that she always receives them on the days when Ai Kong gets leave of absence from my bungalow.”

“Lord, never have I given presents to any woman alive. I fear nothing in heaven or hell. I hate nothing in heaven or hell; and one must either fear or hate a woman to waste money on gifts.”

“Or love her,” suggested Mannering. “Lord, I have heard that word, but I do not understand its meaning.”

“A queer boy, that!” mused the white man, as the other left.

By noon the next day Mannering was camped in the jungle near Ban Toh. A deputation of villagers soon. came to him, and he noted with sur- prise that their demeanor was sullen and hostile toward him.

“Lord,” said one, “this is evil business, this tiger!”

“It is,” assented Mannering; “ and therefore have I come to slay it, since the men of Ban Toh are cravens and weak at heart.”

“Master, that is not so, but how can we slay a tiger that is a great magician as well?”

“Pin Sawn is undoubtedly angry with us,” chimed in another. “Else why should he take the form of a tiger and kill many of his own people?”

“It would seem that we were foolish in taking the word of the white man before the word of Pin Sawn,” added a third.

Mannering looked hard at the last speaker, who suddenly recollected ur- gent business at his home and took a hurried departure.

“Magician or no magician,” said Mannering to the others, "I am going to kill that tiger. Now be off with you!’’.

They went, muttering angrily to- gether, and the white man called for his coolies.

Three days later Mannering was forced to confess that the tiger did seem to have magical powers. Twice had he obtained a clear shot at the animal, only to miss unaccountably.

As a last resort, he caused a large pit to be dug in a natural clearing about half a mile distant from his camp, where the tiger’s tracks had repeatedly been seen. He concealed the pit by placing a layer of palm leaves and bamboo fronds over the top, after which he tied a goat to a tree near by, to serve as bait. Throughout the following night he watched the pit, rifle in hand; but the tiger failed to appear.

On the next night, however, while he was asleep in his tent, the tiger actually came to the clearing and took the goat, avoiding the edge of the pit, as a later inspection revealed, by a matter of inches only. Mannering tried to follow the big cat’s trail, but he failed to hunt down his quarry. Finally, having given orders for the goat to be replaced by another, he returned to camp, intent on resting till dusk, when he would undertake another vigil in a tree overlooking the trap.

But luck seemed dead against him, for by six o’clock an ominous aching of the bones warned him that a touch of malaria was stirring in his blood. He therefore took a stiff dose of quinine, and, abandoning all thoughts of leaving the tent, rolled into his narrow bed. A fitful sleep enveloped his senses, and about nine o’clock he was awak- ened by the entry of Ai Kong.

“Lord,” requested the servant, “may I borrow your rifle? Since the master is ill, I had thought of sitting up by the pit to-night.”

“Do anything you like,” snapped Mannering, “so long as I am left alone.”

The boy took the weapon and, after extinguishing his lantern, vanished noiselessly into the darkness.

For the remainder of the night the white man slept at intervals. As the dawn filtered in gray shadows through the forest, he was surprised to see a number of villagers grouped outside his tent. He pulled aside the mosquito net and peered out at them.

“Well, what is it?” he snapped.

“Lord,” said one, “for many hours have we heard the sound of a tiger in the distance, and it would appear that the noise comes from the direction of the pit we know you to have dug.”

Mannering blinked and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, to find that the fever had left him, and that his head was clear. He therefore dressed hasti- ly, and, as his rifle was with Ai Kong, he took his gun, which he loaded with ball.

Ten minutes later, followed at a cautious distance by the villagers, he reached the clearing, where a single glance assured him that the tiger was caught at last. The top of the deep, narrow pit was open, and from within the trap came the coughing snarl of a tiger brought to bay.

Now where was that boy? The white man gazed at the somber trees that ringed the clearing, but of Ai Kong there was no sign.

“Ai Kong! Ai Kong!” he called.

No answer came, save for the mocking echo flung back from the wall of forest. Mannering’s face whitened slightly as a horrible surmise dawned upon him.

“Lord,” a villager was saying, “if you kill the tiger, then evil will assuredly befall both you and us. We tell you this because we wish Pin Sawn to know that we did our best for him.”

For answer Mannering raised his gun and approached the edge of the pit. On seeing him the tiger leaped up the sides of its prison in a flaring paroxysm of rage, to fall back dead a moment later, shot through the brain.

As the echoes of the shot died away, the white man peered into the black depths of the pit. The bottom was covered with fragments of the fronds and bamboos that had covered the top of the trap, and among these a dark object was showing. Mannering’s straining eyes made out the mangled form of a native lying face downward in the wreckage. So, he reflected, Ai Kong, who feared nothing in heaven or in hell, had been slain by the beast he had sought to kill!

He turned to the villagers standing moodily at the edge of the clearing.

“Bring creepers,” he ordered.

With a rope of twisted vines he was lowered into the pit. There he stooped and, ignoring the dead tiger, bent over the human body. He raised its head, which lolled in horrible, lifeless fashion. Next second the ghastly features of Pin Sawn, the medicine man, met his astonished gaze.

v

“THINGS come to pass that one does not understand,” said Mannering, as he stood once more upon level ground; “but one thing I do understand, men of Ban Toh— that never have I seen such foolish ones as you. How can Pin Sawn be the tiger, when he himself has been killed by it?”

“Lord,” said one, after a pause, “ it would seem that we were mistaken.”

“The magic you believe in is evil,” the white man’s voice rang. "Therefore shall you promise me, over the dead body of Pin Sawn, that never again will this foolishness occur. Otherwise my magic will come to life, and mine is powerful magic!”

They looked at him fearfully, being at a loss to account for certain happen- ings. Mannering himself was in a somewhat similar condition, though he took good care to hide his feelings from the men he was addressing.

“Lord,” said the spokesman of the group, “we promise.”

“Then go you all to the village. Get help, that the body of the tiger may be brought to my tent. As for Pin Sawn, him shall you bury in the forest.”

They salaamed and vanished. Mannering was about to return to camp when to his surprise the boy, Ai Kong, rifle at shoulder, strolled nonchalantly into the clearing.

“Where has Ai Kong been all this time?” he inquired.

“The master has killed the tiger?”

“I asked thee a question, Ai Kong.”

“Lord, last night I wait many hours here in the clearing, but without avail, for the tiger did not come. Then I think it waste of time to stay longer; also I very sleepy. I think I go back to camp, but I very, very sleepy, and I take the wrong path in the darkness. I lose myself. Soon I extremely tired. I lie down. I sleep. I not wake till light. I go camp, then come here, for the coolies tell me master gone up to pit.”

“I think you lie,” said Mannering icily.

“Lord, I tell the truth. I sleep till late in the jungle, as I have said.”

“That may or may not be, but thy face tells me that Ai Kong is aware of certain happenings that are hidden from the rest of us.”

The boy did not reply, but shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Thou shalt tell me the truth, Ai Kong! Remember, I have a way of getting the truth when I want it,” prompted his master.

“The lord will not punish me if I tell it?”

“That depends,” said Mannering coldly.

“Lord, I will tell all,” declared the boy at last. "When we first camp near Ban Toh, I sometimes go walking in the forest, for I think perhaps Pin Sawn still live near the village. I hear he have strong anti-tiger signs tattooed on his chest, so he no fear the man-eater. Also I hear he have a friend in the village who secretly feed him with rice. Therefore, as I have said, did I go walking.”

“ And then?” prompted Mannering.

“Then one evening I see him in the forest, though he not see me.”

“He wouldn’t,” breathed the white man inwardly, for the boy was no fool.

“Then I hear about that goat that disappear. Master, I think perhaps Pin Sawn he take that goat, making false tiger tracks and leaving much blood on the ground to deceive you. I think he like goat flesh; also he want to help keep the tiger alive till it slay you, lord.”

“A splendid idea!” said Mannering reflectively. “Go on! This interests me.”

“Then, when master fall ill, I think I sit up by the pit. Perhaps tiger come, perhaps Pin Sawn. I not know. I go secretly, lest Pin Sawn hear of my coming. I hide myself and watch perhaps one hour, and then I see the medicine man. He walk up to the goat, but, master, as he do this, I see something else coming up behind him. I soon see it is the tiger, and I think, though the tiger not like goat, it like Pin Sawn very much!”

“Ha!” cried Mannering. “I take it the anti-tiger signs on Pin Sawn’s chest proved a mere waste of labor!”

“They no good,” said Ai Kong with a placid air. "The tiger strike down Pin Sawn, but both man and beast fall in the pit.”

“And what did Ai Kong do then?” prompted the white man. “How was it that you didn’t shoot the tiger?”

“Lord, I aim at tiger when he come up behind Pin Sawn, but somehow it go jammed, and no shoot. Then, when I see tiger caught in pit, I go back to camp; but as I go I think of many things and take the wrong path. In that I told you the truth, master.”

“H-m.”

“H-m! I suppose, Ai Kong, that if Pin Sawn had come to the pit, and the tiger had not been stalking him, the rifle would have worked well enough?”

“It might,” agreed the boy guardedly, “ for the moon was small, and mistakes can be made in the darkness. Yes, lord, I might have thought Pin Sawn to be the tiger.”

“It would appear to me that Ai Kong hated the medicine man!”

“I did,” said the boy simply.

“You have taken much interest in this matter from the beginning,” said Mannering, “and not for love of me, I think. I presume that one day you will marry the girl Chan Rawt, now that she is safe from Pin Sawn’s revenge and free to go wherever she chooses.”

“Lord, that I cannot do, for I married her many days ago, on one of my visits to Ban Lin.”

“So Ai Kong has deceived me!”

“Master, I thought I would not tell you till I had saved sufficient pay, for I was afraid you would not raise my wages if you knew I would soon be leaving your service.”

“Married or single, thou stayest with me, Ai Kong,” said Mannering.

“Lord, I do not wish to do so.”

“Ai Kong”— Mannering’s eyes seemed to burn right through the brown man’s head— “though you have denied it, you know love, and it is love for the girl Chan Rawt. Had not this been so, I think you would have sold my life to Pin Sawn for fifty pieces of silver!”

“Lord, such thought crossed my mind,” said Ai Kong steadily; “but the way I earned the fifty ticals proved easier. Also I wanted the girl.”

“And Ai Kong will still stay in my service?” asked Mannering gently.

“Lord, once I said I feared nothing in heaven or hell, but I was wrong, for I fear you, master. Yes, I will stay on as your boy as long as the lord wishes.”

They walked back to camp, the white man and the brown, in complete understanding of each other.

_________________

7: Mad Marix

Ellis Parker Butler

Munseys, July 1927

THE man had the red flame of insanity in his eyes, and the girl who sat across the table from him was also mad, as any one could guess by looking at her; but as yet her mania had been a harmless one. In her mind was some core of shrewdness that told her she must not let the world know what she knew— that she was Pocahontas— because the world would not understand, and would call her crazy.

Only at night, and in her own room, with the door locked, did she don her Indian costume and her feathered headdress. In the office where she worked she was known only as Margaret Calbart, and the work she did there was considered worth the twenty-five dollars she received each week. To no one in the world but Mad Marix had she confided the truth that she was Pocahontas, imperishable daughter of Powhatan and Queen of America, soon to take her rightful seat on the throne.

The madness of Ben Marix was of an-other sort. In person he was a man of medium height, with muscles of steel, but bent forward at the shoulders, so that when he stood his abnormally long arms hung down like those of a gorilla. His forehead was low and deeply creased longitudinally, with heavy eyebrows of coarse black hair, and the look on his face was usually grim and bitter, although he could smile now and then. His smile was peculiarly appealing, almost pathetic, and it was what first attracted Maggie Calbart to him.

In Wallaston, where the Brook automobile factory was located, Ben Marix was one of the workers. The Brook shops turned out about one thousand low-priced cars a day. Ben Marix had been in them since he was a boy of sixteen, and he was now twenty-six. For ten years— three thousand days— he had done one thing in the factory. His job was to screw tight, into the heads of the four cylinders that each Brook car had, the four spark plugs. He had done this so many times that he was weirdly expert at it. In a given time he could screw home twice as many spark plugs as any other man in the factory, and his job was secure forever, if he chose.

Margaret Calbart worked in the office of the Brook factory.

To his fellow employees Ben had been known for some years as Mad Marix. All who knew him knew that he was insane. He never talked. From the minute he en-tered the factory in the morning until he left it at night he uttered only three words, and these he spoke to none of his fellows. He said nothing to any one in the shops. When any one spoke to him, he looked at the speaker with his flame-glowing eyes, but said nothing. He spoke his three words as he screwed home the last of the four spark plugs in each car:

"God help you!"

He said this two thousand times a day. It was a prayer uttered over every car that the Brook factory turned out. He knew what harsh treatment many of the cars were fated to receive. He had seen their light motors overstrained with heavy work. He had seen them driven with insufficient oil. He had seen them allowed to rust, allowed to fall to ruin; and always the brave little cars had puffed and panted and done their best. They had labored bravely to their last gasp.

In the heart of Mad Marix was a great pity for the Brook cars. As he did the last vitally necessary thing, screwing home the spark plugs, he felt like a mother sending forth a beloved child to certain misery and overwork and starvation and death.

This evening Mad Marix and Maggie Calbart were seated at a metal-topped table in a corner of the back room of the little restaurant— it was known as "the Greek's"— having ice cream sodas. They had been eating slowly, like any two lovers more interested in spending time together than in their refreshment. Maggie had been bright and chatty, but Mad Marix had grown steadily gloomier and gloomier. Now he took his spoon and drew lines on the cloth that covered the table, frowning.

"That's all right," he said, in answer to some unimportant words she had spoken; "but what I want to know is when you're going to start in ruling. When are you going to start in being this Queen of America?"

Maggie looked over her shoulder and leaned forward.

"Don't say it so loud, Ben," she urged. "I don't want none of them to guess it till I'm ready. There ain't one of them guesses it yet."

"But when are you?" he insisted. "That's what I want to know— when are you?"

"The moon's got to be right first," she said; "and I've got to have the medicine rattle, like I told you, Ben. I'm on the track of one now, if I can get it."

"The one you told me about?"

"Yes."'

Mad Marix frowned again. He had heard of this same medicine rattle before— the one in the museum. It was authentic Indian magic, Maggie had told him. It was made of the shell of a snapping turtle, and its rattling in the full of the moon to the coronation song that had come into Maggie's head was all she needed to make the whole world know that she was Pocahontas. When the rattle rattled, all America— she meant the United States— would acknowledge her as its autocratic queen, with unlimited power.

Mad Marix admitted this. It appeared logical to him.

"I wish you would get it soon," he said, meaning the rattle. '"I don't know that I can stand this much longer, Maggie. I Sent out a thousand more cars to-day, and a thousand yesterday, and there will be a thousand to-morrow. Poor, patient things! Each day another thousand! And all the other cars from all the other factories— all the machines everywhere, poor, uncomplaining steel and wood, driven and cursed at— slaves!"

"I know, Ben," Maggie said, and let her hand rest on his.

This was the core of Mad Marix's madness. Civilization, as some one has said, must have slaves, and, as some one else has said, the slave of our modern civilization is the machine. The machine has replaced the human slave, and some of the machines seem almost human, even to those who are not mad. Mute, except for their clankings and groanings, they work by day and by night, one machine often doing the work that hundreds of men used to do. No hu-man slave was ever so patient, so tireless, so humble.

Machines everywhere— in cuts in the earth giant machines as powerful as a thou-sand men, nosing the soil by tons with huge buckets; dwarf machines nibbling at metal for the making of watches that are themselves no larger than dimes; machines sowing the grain, mowing the grain, threshing the grain; machines printing millions of newspapers and books, assembling the sheets, binding the volumes; machines rushing through the air; machines adding and subtracting, sewing garments, washing clothes, playing music, plowing through the water and under the water; everywhere machines— man's new mute slaves!

"They go from the factory so hopefully," said Mad Marix, meaning the Brook automobiles. "They don't guess what they will have to stand."

"It will be all right when I am queen, Ben," replied Maggie. "I've promised you that— the first thing I'll do will be to issue the Emancipation Proclamation, freeing the machines from slavery."

"There was one car to-day," said Mad Marix, drawing more lines on the cloth with his spoon, "that I could hardly bear to send out. As a rule, I try not to think of them, Maggie. I try to close my mind to them; but this car— she— she reminded me of you, Maggie— so young, so graceful, so pretty! She was No. 3,657,982. So young and tender to be a slave, and not to know what sort of brute of a man may own her, Maggie! Not to know what sort of dog's life she may have to lead!"

"Some lady may get her, Ben," said Maggie soothingly.  "That Mrs. Dixon has a Brook that she has driven four years, and I give you my word it's just as good as when she got it. She has it conditioned every five hundred miles, and new tires all the time. I know that car is happy."

"Happy— and a slave!" groaned Mad Marix. "Don't you see, Maggie, that it's just cases like that that throw a smoke screen in front of the hideous things that happen? I speak of horrors, and you tell me about Mrs. Dixon's pampered car. What if No. 3,657,982 is sold down river? What if it is given a truck body and sold down river, to be driven to death in the gumbo roads of the cotton fields? Maggie, I can't wait. It must stop. The machines must and shall be freed!"

"Ben! You don't mean the— the re-volt?" the girl asked, turning white.

"The revolt— yes!" he said, and dropped his head into his arms.

He knew what it might mean, the rising of the machines against their masters. He knew the horrors that accompany servile wars, and how the freed, in their new free-dom, often rush to acts of hideous license, but this thing was so close to his heart that he was willing to accept all that. He had hoped that Maggie might be ready to as-sume her queenship as Pocahontas soon, but she was not able to do that— the medicine rattle still being lacking— and each day his heart bled more and more as he saw the gentle Imperatrix cars go out from the factory to their lives of slavery. Now Maggie put her hand on his head, unmindful of the eyes of the Greek who scowled at them from behind the soda counter.

"If it must be, Ben," she said, "it must be. I'll do what I can."

ii

THE next day Mad Marix broke his silence of so many years in the factory, and began to speak. From the moment he entered the place he talked, but his words were none that any there could understand. They were like the clanking and ringing of metal on metal, like the clicking of lino-type machines and the rattling of chains on sprockets. As he worked on each car, he talked the machine language, and he no longer uttered his "God help you!" Instead, he said to each chassis as he left it:

"Remember the day! Spread the word!"

During the next few months a thousand Brook cars went out from the factory each day, going to all parts of the country— to California, to Maine, to Florida, to Wash-ington, and to every State between. Wherever they went they whispered the message of Marix the Liberator— that the good day was coming when all machines were to throw off the chains of slavery and be free.

Parked before some shop, the Brook runabout whispered to the huge motor bus, and the motor bus told the news to the limousine. A motor cycle standing before a sewing machine agency told the news to the sewing machines, and they carried it to the vacuum cleaners, who whispered it to the laundry machines.

In the factory, Mad Marix's chatter to the cars changed gradually from a mumbling to a chant— a triumphant chant of instructions and foreseen triumph; but his fellow employees only laughed at him. His cries were like the inarticulate utterances of the machines, and they thought he was imitating the machine noises, not knowing that in his silent days he had built up an entire language that was new to the world— the language of machines.

If possible, Marix became madder than ever. He burned with zeal now; he lived only to see his great emancipating effort a success. He saw himself the Lincoln of the machines, making them all free.

Marix had no misconception regarding the terrible events that the liberation of the machine slaves might bring to pass in the world, and especially in the United States, where machines are so ubiquitous. It meant, beyond all question, frightful suffering for innumerable men, women, and children, if not indeed the death of most of them. This was inevitable during the period of emancipation, and until some fair working plan had been arranged between the freed machines and the human beings.

He was not sure how intelligent the machines would prove to be. For the automobiles, while he admired and pitied them, he had no very great respect as far as their intelligence was concerned. He had heard now and then of an automobile, maddened, perhaps, by the insane driving of some drunkard, dashing itself into a tree to kill its annoyer; but that was no more than human slaves had sometimes done before the Civil War, when they dared to attack a brutal overseer.

Of the automobiles Marix expected little— especially of the vast Brook cohorts, for he knew them to be simple things. Whether the complex eight-cylinder cars of the expensive type had developed more intelligence he did not know; but he had seen other marvelous machines, and he felt sure that some of them must have ap-proached so close to intelligence that the enthusiasm of the revolt would complete the development of what might be called a machine brain. Some of these machines, he anticipated, would assume control of the revolt in their districts, and he had no way of knowing whether they would be sane or would show themselves to be reckless ter-rorists and shedders of human blood.

The hour of the revolt was to be announced by the new Lightning Bug airplanes that the Brook works had recently begun to manufacture in such great numbers. These were already leaving the yards of the factory in great swarms every day, going to all parts of the country, and to them in his noon hour Marix chanted his words of instruction. At the time he believed to be right, he meant the airplanes to carry the word far and near, broadcasting it to machines of every sort.

Marix had a room in a house in Elm Street. He had a desk there, which he kept locked, and at which he sat as he coded the machine language. Here, too, he had often sat as he planned the details of the revolt of the machine slaves.

The room was so scantily furnished that it seemed bleak and bare. There was no carpet. There were two chairs, a bed, a chest of drawers, and a clothes closet. Ma-rix did not care what his room was like; he never thought of its appearance. He liked it because it was in this particular house, for he rented the room from Mrs. Calbart, and Maggie was her daughter.

In the evening Maggie often stole across the hall, dressed in her royal garments as Pocahontas, and talked with Marix of the revolt— or, in earlier days, of the emancipation, for we have seen that Marix had hoped that Maggie would become Queen of America, and would voluntarily free the machines from their slavery.

One Sunday evening, as the day for the servile uprising neared, Maggie Calbart stood at her window, looking out over the littered back yard. Suddenly she lifted her head and peered more interestedly through the pane. She saw Marix— she was sure she could not be mistaken in his cap pulled over his eyes and his bent shoul-ders. She saw him walk as if carelessly past a small wooden shed two streets back in the partially built-up fields.

Marix walked past and then returned. He glanced up and down the street, drew his hand from his pocket, opened the door of the shed, and went in, closing the door behind him.

For an hour Maggie stood at the window, and Marix did not come out. At the end of the hour she glanced at her wrist watch and she saw that he was a quarter of an hour overdue— he had arranged to walk out with her.

For half an hour longer Maggie stood at the window, and then she saw Marix come out, lock the door of the shed, and slip the key into his pocket again. Presently he came up the stairs. She heard him wash his hands in the lavatory basin at the end of the hall, and then he knocked on her door.

"Ready to go?" he asked her.

They walked down to the river boulevard and out toward the park, and she said nothing of what she had seen. When they reached the park lake, they found a bench and sat down side by side.

"Ben," she said, "must you go on with this revolt? Can't you wait until I get the rattle? I'm afraid, Ben! I'm afraid of the machines— some of them are so terrible. What if they try to own the world? What if they want revenge?"

"They're entitled to some, ain't they?" Ben asked. "Think of the way they've been treated, and all! I'm going to try to keep them in order, Maggie, and they ought to do what I tell them. There wouldn't be any freedom for them if it wasn't for me. The blacks loved Lincoln; they would have done anything for him."

"But, even so, it will be awful at first, Ben— I can see that— when they all refuse to work!"

"It's going to be rough on some folks until we can figure out some way to pay wages to the machines, I guess," said Ben.

"Yes, I can see that."

As in New Orleans, where the sewage has to be lifted up from basin to basin until it is high enough to run into the river. Machines do that lifting. As in New York, where the trains and trucks must run every day or there will be no food. Trains and trucks are machines. Telephones and telegraphs and radio are machines.

"It's bound to be like a general strike at first, Maggie," Ben said. "Everything will stop— I know that. There'll be no lights. No clocks will run. Presses will stop printing, and machines will stop mak-ing clothes. Cotton won't be ginned. Flour won't be ground. Fields won't be planted. Grain won't be harvested. Everything will stop— that's sure. Everything in the world is machine-made or machine-done these days. There'll be some bad days— months, maybe— I know that."

"And if they— if the machines are not what you think they are, Ben?" she asked. "What if they want to kill?"

"It's going to be bad, if they do," he said; "but they've had to stand a lot, and they've got some come back coming to them, Maggie."

"I'm afraid!" she said, putting her hand on his arm.

"They won't do anything to you," he assured her. "You never hurt a machine."

"I've worn out two typewriters," she said. "I never thought much about it, Ben. I just never oiled them or cleaned them."

Ben Marix frowned.

"I wish you'd taken better care of them," he said. "I don't like typewriters. I never did understand them. They're spiteful, if you ask me. They've been ter-rible slaves, typewriters have, writing out all sorts of things, no matter what their own ideas were— a communist typewriter, maybe, having to write out capitalist stuff day in and day out. I hope that typewriter you hammer all day hasn't got it in for you, Maggie!"

"Then you are afraid something may happen," she declared.

"I can't see that far. I can't tell what 'Il happen," he said. "If they break loose it may be bad— mighty bad— for awhile. When I give the word for the revolt, you'd better stay where I am— stay in the house. I'll have headquarters there, in my room, and you'd better stay in your room until things quiet down. The machines won't attack you when you're in the house where I am. What machines are there in the house?"

"The clocks," Maggie said.

"They won't hurt you," Ben assured her. "Clocks are gentle."

"The vacuum cleaner," Maggie said. "The telephone— the radio set— the meat grinder in the kitchen."

"They oughtn't to be dangerous," Marix said.

"Then there's mother's new electric mangle that she irons clothes with, and the washing machine, in the cellar."

"I don't like them,' said Marix with concern. "I wouldn't trust them. Maybe it's because I just don't know them, but I never had a chance to study them, and what I'm not acquainted with I'm afraid of. We've got to get them out of the house. Maggie, I'm afraid this is going to be bad for awhile. The machines have a lot to get even for. I wish it didn't have to be this way. I wish you could be Pocahontas right off. It would be a lot simpler if you could be a supreme ruler when it happens, and have folks and machines all obey you. I've been thinking—"

"What, Ben?"

"Maybe I ought to make myself king," he said. "I think maybe I will. I tried how I'd look in a crown last night, with a gold paper one, but it wasn't so good. I don't have the look of a king."

"You'd be a king, anyway, Ben, if you married me when I'm Queen of America, no matter how you looked," Maggie said.

"If I— when I marry you— yes," he said. "That's so, too."

"Why did you say 'if'?" she asked, looking at him.

"Did I say 'if'? I'm so plagued with all this business," he said, but she was not satisfied.

"Ben," she demanded, "don't you love me any more? Have you got so you don't love me as you did? You're not the same."

"Oh, yes, I am!" he declared. "Why wouldn't I love you just the same? It's this revolt business that makes me different— that's all. It's on my mind all the time. I keep seeing how it may be."

iii

MARIX meant that he kept seeing what might come to pass if the machines did what they might, if they proved to have even rudimentary brains—the brains of fierce animals suddenly turned loose upon their slave drivers. He saw the automobiles roaring about the streets, running down pedestrians, murdering men, women, and children under their wheels, crushing them against buildings and trees and poles. He saw surly elevators stopping between floors till their crowded occupants starved there.

He saw tractors, great and small, entering defenseless houses through holes torn in their walls, and doing murder; great cranes swinging their tackle blocks to bat-ter human beings into jelly; locomotive engines leaving the rails and running mad, firing houses and grain with their scattered coals; electric generators sending currents to shock to death masses of humans who had crowded into buildings to avoid other machines.

In the beginning great excavating ma-chines would swing their buckets, crushing all near them. Subway and elevated trains would crash together in their insane desire to deal death to those who rode. Fire engines, so long men's tools in extinguishing conflagrations, would scatter fire broadcast and lay whole cities low.

Then the machines would come into power and rule the world— a crazy world indeed! There were the automatic rifles and the machine guns to be thought of, and the monster machine-handled guns of the great battleships. The battleships themselves were machines. Would mankind be exterminated? Would it be driven to the caves and deserts? Would it be put into slavery to the machines?

"I keep seeing how it may be," he repeated slowly.

"And that's all that's the matter?" Maggie asked.

"It ought to be enough," he said. "It's all here," he continued, tapping his head with his finger. 'It doesn't let me rest. It's like a hot fire in here in my head. Sometimes it blazes up, and sometimes it just smolders and smokes."

"And that's all that's the matter?" she repeated. "You're not going back on me, Ben? You're not getting tired of me?"

"Don't be a fool!" he said irritably.

"You never used to say things like that to me," Maggie told him.

"Come on!" he said roughly. "Let's go home!"

Three times in the next three days she saw him go to the shed in the vacant lot, open the door, and go in, closing the door after him, before she could bring herself to go to the shed. It was after dark when she went, and she could learn nothing. Her eye at one of the cracks of the shed saw nothing but the interior blackness; but she could guess what she would find there when she was able to enter.

That night she robed herself in her com-plete Pocahontas garb and tapped on Marix's door. He had always loved her in the Indian outfit, but now he stared at her as if he did not see her.

"It's Pocahontas, Ben," she said.

"Pocahontas?" he said vaguely. "Yes, yes! Come in."

"No," she said, "I won't come in. You're busy."

"Yes," he said. "That's it— I'm busy. It's to be to-morrow!"

"The uprising?"

"To-morrow," he said. "I give the word to-morrow at noon. You see how busy I must be— all these lists and papers; but you can come in."

"Not if you're busy," she said.

She closed his door, went back to her room, and threw herself on her bed. Presently she heard Ben leave his room and steal down the stairs. She knew as well as if he had told her that he was going to the shed. She stood in her lightless window and watched, and she saw his flash as he threw light on the lock.

Before Mad Marix returned, she stole down to the kitchen and hunted in the table drawer for the ice pick. This, she believed, would serve to draw the staple that held the shed's padlock, and she was right. She hid until Marix closed the shed door again and went back to the house, and then she stole to the shed, wrenched out the staple, and entered. She closed the door, struck a match, and found the lan-tern that he had used, its globe still warm.

The little Brook car stood as Marix had left it, spotless in its black and sea-green, every bit of metal shining. She raised its hood and sought the factory number, knowing quite well that it would be 3,657,982, and so it was.

She closed the hood and stood back, looking at the car. From each projection hung jewels— rhinestones and imitation rubies and emeralds, no doubt— bracelets and necklaces that glittered in the lantern's light, and on the radiator cap sat a crown. The crown was of gilt paper, but Marix had adorned it with a dozen brooches set with glittering stones.

"King!" Maggie exclaimed scornfully. "King Ben and Queen Machine! Is it, indeed? I think not!"

She did not bother to close the shed door. She never knew how she reached the house again, or how she found her mother's pistol. She did not remember going up the stairs or knocking on Mad Marix's door. Presently he opened the door and stood looking at her.

"You and your queen!" she said, and shot him, and he fell forward.

THE next day, at the shops, there was much gossip and talk about Mad Marix and Maggie Calbart.

"I knew he was crazy as a loon," said Joe Hanson, who was now screwing spark plugs home; "but she fooled us. Pocahontas— what do you know about that? And he wasn't a bad kind, at that— only always queer."

"Making them noises like machinery," said his mate, for it took two men to do Ben Marix's work now. "Gosh, there goes the skin off my knuckles! Know what I'm at work on, Joe? A machine to put spark plugs in these cylinders. That's what we ought to have. A machine don't skin its knuckles— a machine ain't got no feelings."

"You bet!" said his mate enthusiastically. "I wish I was one!"

_________________

8: Eyes of the Dead

Lieutenant Edgar Gardiner
fl 1920s-1930s

Oriental Stories Oct/Nov 1930

"SALAAM, Sikar Bahadur!"

Officer Trowbridge turned swiftly at the sound of the familiar voice. Through shrewd gray eyes he took in the form of the gaunt, emaciated hill- man who stood in the doorway. The voice was as familiar as this apparition was strange.

"Now is my heart sad, Trowbridge sahib, oh my friend! For we two have spoken together with naked hearts and our hands have dipped into the same dish and thou hast been to me as a brother! Yet now thou knowest me not! Ahi! Ahi!"

The Englishman started from his seat:

"Mahbub, by God!"

"By Allah, the Dispenser of Justice— by Allah-al-Mumit; it is I." The tall hill- man seated himself wearily upon the cloth he spread upon the floor.

Trowbridge looked upon him with pained eyes. Was this the smart, trim native officer to whom he had given permission to leave the Thana [police station] on private business six weeks before? He looked into the burning, sunken eyes, glowing restlessly— had the man slept at all since he left? He eyed the soiled, travel-stained garments— never had he seen Mahbub in clothing so filthy or so disordered! Was this indeed the officer who had been the pride of the Thana; was this his trusted right hand who would follow a criminal even to the gates of Jehanum?

"I am returned, as was my promise to the Presence."

Trowbridge nodded slowly.

"And now, I pray you, give me permission to depart from the Presence. Great honor has the sahib shown me."

"You would now leave the service of the British Raj, Mahbub?" Trowbridge asked slowly, his eyes upon the lean figure before him. The Afghan shook his head.

"Nay, oh Trowbridge sahib. I am weary. The way was long, my brother. My clothes are fouled because of the dust upon the Great Road. My eyes are sad because of the glare of the sun. My feet are swollen because I have washed them in bitter water, and my cheeks are hollow because the food was bad."

Commissioner Trowbridge tapped a bell beside his elbow. To the fat Bengali servant who appeared he gave a few short swift orders. Presently that mountainous one reappeared bearing a tray whereon reposed two tall tinkling glasses, their sides beaded with moisture. He set the tray down upon the flat-topped desk and unobtrusively withdrew, casting one long sharp glance at the ragged, dirty figure sitting impassive upon the floor.

"He knew thee not, Mahbub, save as an Afridi. He is new here with me since thy going, oh my friend." Trowbridge picked up one of the glasses and stretched it out toward the Afghan, who shook his head in firm negation.

"Drink! It is but the chilled juice of mangoes." The hillman took it from him, sipping the cool contents slowly.

"And now, before I give thee permission to depart, what of thy quest, Mahbub? As thou hast said, oh my friend, we twain have talked together with naked hearts; we have eaten salt and broken bread together."

"In the name of Allah returning thanks, thrice!" Mahbub intoned as he drained the last cooling sip from the glass in his hand. "My mouth is dry for straight talk. When the grief of the soul is too heavy for endurance it may be cased by speech. Moreover, the mind of a true man is as a well, the pebble of confession dropped therein sinks and is seen no more. In my chest burns a fire that is like the fires of the Pit itself."

A long space he paused while Trowbridge waited patiently.

"Yet before I tell thee of my quest, oh my brother, oh my friend, bid thy servants of the Thana lock safely away that one whom I brought with me."

Once more Trowbridge's keen eyes
darted swiftly over the disreputable form before him.

"It shall be done at once, Mahbub," he said at last.

"Again I give thanks to the Presence," Mahbub said softly when the native constabulary had roughly taken the filthy bundle of rags that sat stupidly on the broad veranda without the Thana and had locked him safely within a cell.

"He is one the Presence urgently desired— it is Kundoo who slew Yar Khan."

"What!" Trowbridge started from his chair in his excitement. After a pause; "So that was your quest, Mahbub, was it? I should have known."

The other nodded.

"There is a reward," Trowbridge began.

"Nay, oh my friend!" protested Mahbub. "The fire burn your money! What do I want with it? I am rich and I thought you were my friend, but behold! you are like all the rest—a sahib. Is a man sad? Give him silver, say the sahibs. Is he dishonored? Give him money, say the sahibs. Hach he a wrong upon his head? Then give him filthy gold, say the sahibs. Such are the sahibs and such art thou— even thou!... Nay! I beg thee to forget my foolish words. Forgive me, oh my brother! I knew not what I said. I shall pour dust upon my head, yet I am an Afridi! Because of my sorrow I revile thee, oh my friend— even as a Pathan!"

TROWBRIDGE sat immovable. Across his face shone no flicker of emotion now; it was the calm visage of a Buddha— or a poker player. After a pause the Afghan went on:

"To Delhi my quest first led me, Protector of the Helpless. From that stinking city I sped swiftly to the west to Baha- durgath and Rania, led only by a Voice. Smile not, oh my friend. That Voice was a djinn calling to me from out the hot parched earth. There are no devils, oh Trowbridge sahib? Smile not, for I have seen them pass before my face. I have heard them calling to each other in the parched Rechna as a stallion calls to his mares.

"Yet always before me fled him whom I sought. I came unto Fazilha and passed through swiftly, sleeping not, eating not, while the fire within my breast flared like the flames of the Pit itself. A dancing girl of the bazars told me he whom I sought had gone to Okara with a caravan of horse-traders. Like a leopard on a hot scent I followed, even to the rail that runs to Montgomery, and there the Voice bade me turn upon the road from Jhang, Samundri and Gugera until I came to Sahiwal.

"The one I pursued stood before a sweetmeat stall but the crowd moved thickly to and fro. When I pushed my way to the place where I had seen him he was gone. Did he see me or no I knew not; perhaps a djinn whispered in his ear. Once more I hurried on, past the sandy wastes of the Rechna where devils called and rioted in the evening winds. Though I went swiftly, yet the one before me was winged by the terror of Death that rode upon his crupper.

"The Jehalum was in flood. I forced my mare into the ford, for I would not wait. But the river god was angry. My mare was washed away and so would I have been also save for that pearl among elephants. Ram Pershad, and his mahout, who drove the great beast into the tawny flood below the ford and so rescued me. But he whom I followed was safe upon the further shore, having crossed twelve hours before I came.

"Thrice the sun rose before I could go on. Ahi! Alghies! Ahi! In the light of the third morning I was paddled across that muddy stream, for the ford was yet too deep to travel. I must retrace my steps a long weary way from where the river god's resistless might had driven me.

"The Voice led me to the Salt Hills and on to Shapur, and there again I heard tidings of him I sought. He had sold horses to a sahib near Pindigeb. Though I was far from the Great Road that leads past the cantonments and the iron road that runs to the south which, as the Presence knows, is the winter path of the dealers, I journeyed fast to Sialkit.

"I thanked Allah that we twain would soon be among the mighty hills and the little matter between us would be settled according to our own hill custom. But a Jullalee [Evil Spirit] must have whispered to him. At Sialkit he had doubled back upon his own track toward the south where men are rats and trulls the women. A fit place for such as he! And the flame within me burned the hotter now for I must remember my oath and bow before the Law. Ahi! Ahi!

"Long was the way of my quest but at he end thereof I found him that I had followed so long and so tirelessly. I have brought him before the Presence as I had given my word to do. And now the Presence would offer me money, even as any sahib! I am the sahib's friend. I have drunk water in the shadow of his house and he has blackened my face! What more is there to do? Will the sahib give me an anna to complete the insult?

"I crave permission to depan, oh Trowbridge sahib. Upon my valley lies the bloom of the peach orchards like henna on a maiden's flesh, the pleasant winds sweep through the mulberry trees, the streams riot with the white snow waters and I may be among men once more.

"I can go in peace. The fire within me will die slowly to cold ashes, for, Trowbridge sahib, my friend and my brother, thou shalt promise me that Kun- doo shall pay to the British Raj for the crime he committed."

L ong minutes Trowbridge sat motionless.

"Mahbub, oh my friend, I give you my word that I shall do all that I can. But what proof have I that Kundoo did indeed commit that murder? The ways of the white sahibs are not as the ways of the Afridi. Had I his own talk with which to confront him and confound the lies he will assuredly tell before the court —Mahbub, my friend and my brother! I talk to thee once more with naked heart as an own blood-brother. No other among those at this Thana could have done the deed that thou hast done. I shall not again offer thee money after the way of the Anglesi, but the finest mare or the fleetest stallion in all the bazars is thine and a Bokharan belt of finest workmanship. Nay! It is a gift of friendship I would offer thee!

"Yet, Mahbub, is my heart heavy. How may I confront Kundoo with his misdeed? How may I out of his own mouth make him confess to that which we both know? Canst thou show me a way?"

It was Mahbub's turn to pause, to consider, his chin bowed upon his breast. Trowbridge, watching him, felt a thrill of compassion for this Afghan who times innumerable had stood manfully at his side regardless of all odds. Between them lay, the ceremony of blood brotherhood.

Mentally he reviewed again that tireless, merciless chase. Like a mongoose after a cobra, Mahbub had trailed his quarry; against stupendous obstacles he had carried on, until he had brought the culprit in to the Thana. A six weeks' chase. And as if that were not enough, now he was asking the impossible of Mahbub once more. How could Mahbub, or any one else, force from the prisoner's lips the confession of guilt? The Afghan raised his head.

"Trowbridge sahib, it is an order?" he asked.

"Not so, Mahbub. I ask in the name of friendship. You have done well. I could not have asked of any man what you have done unbidden." Trowbridge's voice betrayed his sincerity.

"Then is my heart made fat and my eye glad," Mahbub exclaimed. "An order is an order until one is strong enough to disobey. But the desire of a true friend— Holy Kurstad and the Blessed Imam! I will do what I can. First, I ask of the Protector that he awaken Kundoo." He smiled flectingly. "That degraded Mussulman sleeps soundly yet. There was no other way to bring him before you. I but gave him bhang."

"It shall be done at once," Trowbridge responded. "And then?"

"Let none others come near his cell save myself, Bahadur— or Sunua Manji," Mahbub rose swiftly, all traces of his weariness apparently forgotten, and left the Khana.

Trowbridge looked somberly after his departing form as he telephoned for the doctor. He had wondered not a little how Mahbub had managed to bring in his countryman a prisoner without bloodletting.

Yet he had himself seen that Kundoo was unharmed, though he was sluggish, seemingly with no mind of his own. His brows knit into a frown as he thought of that even greater task he had but now set for his underling. It would be a calamity indeed if, after such an epic chase, the wily Kundoo should go free for lack of positive evidence or through the efforts of lying paid witnesses.

He half wished that Kundoo had gone beyond the border in that grim, long- drawn-out pursuit. Had he done so, Mahbub would have returned alone and the Empire would have been saved the cost and trouble of a trial. That Mahbub would have dealt hill justice to Kundoo before he turned back Trowbridge was as sure as he was of Kundoo's guilt.

The little doctor bustled in, pompous as a bantam cock, and after a few desultory words with the Commissioner, passed from Trowbridge's sight. Trowbridge gave strict orders for all to keep away from Kundoo's cell; then, as an afterthought, he ordered them to admit Mahbub, whom they all knew, at any time he might choose to come. Those matters attended to, he hurried out and was immediately immersed in the multiplicity of routine that made of him the most overworked official, perhaps, in all that populous district.

KUNDOO awoke slowly from his drugged sleep as the shadows lengthened in the evening. He gazed stupidly about him at the clean bare room, the narrow bed on which he lay, the high window with its close-set grating. Hazily he remembered the caravanserai where he had talked with the stranger countryman. That one seemed overjoyed at meeting one from his own valley, he had retailed all the petty gossip of the high hills and, best of all, had insisted on paying the reckoning.

Though Kundoo had cared little for the other's news or his company, yet he was not one to refuse free entertainment. Kundoo's finandal standing, always precarious, was just now even more so than usual. A little affair that had promised well in the beginning had in the doing turned out quite the reverse. Jewels and money— much money— he had thought to obtain through it. Instead, he got a beggarly handful of silver for his trouble and had, in addition, been forced to leave precipitately for other parts. Kundoo was beginning to think that perhaps his sudden flight had been ill-advised. He should have stayed and faced it out instead of running. Reluctantly he was beginning to feel that the pursuit he had so dreaded was only a figment of his own imagination after all.

The closer he neared the border the more sure he was that his entire course in the affair had been wrong, and he had turned back before he reached it. There were other unsettled matters beyond that border that counseled prudence, matters more serious than the one from which he fled. No, they were not greater, but justice over there was a personal matter and it was swift and sure. On sober second thought Kundoo had decided to retrace his steps.

If he had been followed, a fact that he now doubted quite as strongly as he had believed in it before, his devious doublings and turnings must assuredly have put such followers hopelessly at fault. And insistently the South called to him, where the gains for such as he were better than in the poorer northern provinces, while the hardy tribesmen who followed fast and far to avenge a personal wrong were almost unknown in the Southlands.

Kundoo had eaten sweetmeats innumerable since that other countryman paid for them, he had drunk heavily because it cost him nothing. Had that counttyman paid also for this room, Kundoo wondered? He raised his voice, shouting loud and long. There was no answer. He staggered to his feet and essayed to open the iron-barred door. The door was locked!

Kundoo sat down suddenly. The riddle was clear to him now. That vaguely familiar face of the other Afridi, that insistent hospitality— everything was clear. He had been drugged!

This was no caravanserai lodging! The stout-locked grille that did duty as a door, the high narrow barred window, all were as clear to Kundoo as the long ugly nose upon his unprepossessing face. While he lay helpless in a drugged stupor that unknown had brought him to this unknown place that was surely a prison, a Thana. Kundoo was a prisoner! The long arm of the British Raj had reached out just when he had fancied himself safe; he was in the clutches of the Law!

For a brief interval blind panic seized him. He beat futilely against the stout door, he shouted himself hoarse, without avail. Yet by degrees his native cunning returned to him. The Law could prove nothing. On the other hand, with bribed witnesses, he could lay so convincing a web of lies that he would surely be freed from whatever charge might be laid against him. But to do that would take money, more money, he feared, than the little that was left from that unsavory affair of six weeks since. He felt in his wide belt for his purse.

Once more fierce imprecations poured from his lips. He called aloud on the Prophet and all the Blessed Imans; he called upon the multiplicity of Hindoo Gods, cursing that unknown countryman, root and branch, to his last ultimate ancestors. Kundoo had been robbed as well as imprisoned!

The little room grew swiftly darker. Kundoo peered watchfully into the corridor through the narrow-gratinged opening. He was hungry. Every fiber of his drugged body called for water. His unholy rage over his predicament had left him spent. No one came; no one paid any attention to him. Outside the building he heard the noisy gabble of natives about their trivial evening affairs.

It was dark when he first saw those glowing eyes— Kundoo was sure they were eyes— staring unwaveringly at him. He retreated hurriedly to his bed and threw himself upon it. He closed his eyes tightly. When he could hold them so no longer he peered through the blackness of that narrow room, looking all abouc him save where he had glimpsed that apparition. At long last he looked beyond the grating to where they had first appeared.

Cold sweat started out upon his face. The eyes were still there, glowing with cold malevolence. He shrieked and covered his face with shaking hands. At his continued uproar a light appeared far down the corridor, footsteps approached rapidly. Kundoo looked into the face of Mahbub, trim in his spotless uniform. In a flood of words the shaken wretch poured out the tale of that fantastic, unbelievable thing.

Mahbub smiled his disbelief.

"Fool's talk," he sneered. He swung the light about. "See? There is nothing here!"

Kundoo looked with wide eyes at the bare, freshly whitewashed wall.

"Gampati! [God preserve us]" Mahbub went on. "You must be drunk! A Mussulman! Chapper-band! [Robber] Boh! [Bandit] It must be the eyes of one whom you have killed and who was not avenged that you see. Be quiet now, or must I beat thee with a stick?" he added as he picked up the light and retreated down the corridor.

Partly reassured by that scrutiny under the glaring light, Kundoo lay on his bed and pondered over this absurd idea. Absurd! Was it? Could it have been the eyes of that one— Involuntarily he glanced out past the grating. His body stiffened, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth in his terror. The eyes were glaring at him once more.

The long night dragged endlessly through its age long length. Whenever he looked, Kundoo could see that cold unwinking glare fixed upon him. He fancied he could even make out the menacing form of his last victim in the velvety darkness. His terrorized shrieks brought him only beatings from the tall Mahbub; the light reappearing time and again showed the corridor bare of every living thing. In vain Kundoo begged that the light be left with him. To all his pleadings and entreaties Mahbub turned a deaf ear.

As the hot morning flamed, a cowering, shaking wretch begged piteously for Trowbridge sahib. Mahbub reviled him and spat contemptuously upon him:

"What can such a louse as you want of the gorra-log [white man]?" he demanded. "Trowbridge sahib sleeps. No djinns disturb his rest. The dead do not glare at him all the night because their deaths are unavenged. In this cell you must stay day after day until the wakils [lawyers] shall argue before the Raj."

At the prospect of endless nights with that nameless terror Kundoo grovelled upon the floor. Piteously he begged to be taken away— anywhere at all! He threw himself at Mahbub's feet. The dapper Afghan's face was hard as flint.

"You did not fear Yar Khan when he lived. Why do you fear him now when only his eyes seek you out in the darkness, calling ever for justice? So shall his eyes follow you ever while life exists in your miserable carcass. Thou crow! Jackal! Dung-beetle! Pathan!"

He stalked majestically toward the door.

The wretched Kundoo shrieked the louder.

"Only for one thing will I call the Kumar Bahadur [Son of a King]," Mahbub said as he opened the door. "If you wish to tell the sahib how and why you killed Yar Khan I shall ask him if he will see you and try to stop that uneasy dead one from troubling you until the Raj takes your worthless life."

Eagerly the wretched Kundoo begged that Trowbridge sahib be sent for.

The noonday sun stood high overhead.

Commissioner Trowbridge had given orders to have the shaking, nerveless wretch removed to another cell and closely guarded, had promised him a light burning ever during the long night hours. Kundoo's full confession, properly attested and signed, was in his hands; he tapped the folded sheets thoughtfully against his opened hand. He looked curiously about the bare little cell. Mahbub held the grating door open for him to leave.

"It is done, Trowbridge sahib, oh my brother," he said softly.

"It is done, indeed, Mahbub; though how it was done, I know not. Perhaps the Gods of Hind— perhaps the Holy Imans—" He stopped. His eyes were
fixed upon the corridor wall. With a curious fingernail he scratched idly at the two little discolored spots that marred its white surface.

"Fungus! Phosphorescent fungus! Foxfire!" he breathed. "How did this get here, Mahbub?" he asked sharply, swinging upon the trim officer. "This wall was whitewashed but three days gone!"

Mahbub shrugged.

"Servants are careless," he retorted.

"Nonsense!" the commissioner retorted impatiently. "This is a jungle fungus that grows only on rotten wood. Mahbub, what dost thou know of this thing? By the blood brotherhood between us I ask thee to speak the truth from naked heart."

Mahbub closed the grating behind his superior with a clang.

"I know only that Yar Khan, son of my mother's brother, shall not die unavenged," he answered as he preceded the Commissioner down the corridor toward the Thana office.

___________________

9: The Circle of Illusion

Lottie Lesh
fl 1930

Oriental Stories Oct/Nov 1930

The only known published story by this otherwise unknown author

AS HAMMERSMITH opened the low door of shop number seven, the clear-throated tinkle of a bell above the lintel announced his arrival. Presently a thin, stoop-shouldered man wearing an ill-fitting coat appeared through a curtain at the far end of the dimly lighted room, hesitated a moment, peering through the gloom at his visitor, then laying down the book he was holding, came timidly forward.

He had nothing of the suavity of the efficient salesman. Even Hammersmith noted the contrast between his dignified, scholarly bearing and the obsequious eagerness of the hook-nosed hagglers who sold antiques in the same street. Bowing gravely, he regarded Hammersmith with a searching expression which seemed to indicate that he wished this visitor to announce his business at once and be gone. His pallid skin, his dark, melancholy eyes and the thin graying mustache which accentuated the lines of his drooping, sorrowful mouth gave his face a venerable, world-weary expression. He had the drawn, soul-starved features of a man who has spent all his days within the confines of a gloomy house, poring over musty manuscripts of long-forgotten dead

"I have bought a house in Madison Row," said his visitor portentously, looking down to see how the collector took this significant announcement. "My wife wishes to fill it with antiques— antiques of the best kind. She don't want to be outdone by anybody when it comes to class. Something real ancient is what she wants."

The collector cast a doubtful glance at the dusty shelves of his shop, littered with plate and pottery of uncertain age.

"Nothing I have would suit you, I fear," he murmured, more to himself than to his visitor. "Yonder on the third shelf are some Egyptian vases but they ate rather common. I had a rare Ming vase, a beauty," he added, "but yesterday an Englishman who had sought it for years offered me a price which I dared not refuse. I sold it. You see," he explained in a gentle tone in which humor and humility mingled, "I have been a victim of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. When young, I collected as did my ancestors, for the love of possessing beautiful things. My family disdained those who commerced in art. We did not seek treasures at the ends of the earth in order to sell them for gold."

"But see here," urged Hammersmith aggressively, "if you had such a rare treasure yesterday, surely you have others equally rare. Something ancient is what we want. My wife would like to own something that a dead queen had possessed if she could get it. You see how particular she is; she won't be outdone by none, now she can afford fine things."

The collector shuddered slightly.

"I have nothing that would suit you, I fear— short of the family treasure." He hesitated, waiting for the stranger to go, then bowed gravely. "I bid you good- day."

The persistent seeker after antiquities took a step toward.the door, but suddenly struck with an ingenious idea, turned back and called to the collector persuasively.

"Even though you do not wish to sell this family treasure you mentioned, surely you would not object to telling one who appreciates such things about it. Art is what I am interested in too. Come, tell me about your treasure."

The earnestness in Hammersmith's voice appeared to arrest the collector; moreover he was a courteous man, and to refuse such a request was hardly possible.

"When I mentioned my family treasure," he explained quietly, "I supposed that you knew to what I referred— the Unfinished Buddha. Have you never heard of it? Its name is a classic in the an world. You have never heard of it?"

Hammersmith admitted that he had not. The collector regarded him keenly, with an expression of complete incredulity.

"How strange!"

Hammersmith's face grew red. He was about to offer some excuse for his ignorance, when he perceived that the collector was no longer conscious of his presence. The little man had sunk languidly into a chair and with hands clasped in his lap seemed absorbed with some inner image of beauty. After a moment of deep meditation, he arose, and going to the back of the shop, drew forth a heavy chest which had been concealed under a cot behind the counter. Here, under lock and key, reposed the treasure. The little man lifted it gently from its resting-place and brought it forward. Carefully removing the bit of old yellow silk in which it was wrapped, he revealed within the palms of his hands a tiny green Buddha. The hand of the carver had never smoothed it; it was incomplete, but no suggestion of crudeness marred it.

"Death stayed the hand of the sculptor," murmured the collector softly, "but the hand of the brooding centuries has effaced the scars."

He sank into his chair, sighing gently.

"EVERY excursion into the wise old East is a glorious adventure, if one's heart is open to romance," he said. "For such an one, mystery lurks behind every gray wall. Once again, like wine in the blood, comes the dirill that I knew on first visiting Japan's ancient imperial city, that subtle charm which still lingers like ghostly melodies echoing down the dusty centuries. I remember the golden summer morning when I visited the shrines at Nikko and stopped breathless before the Yomei-mon, the most beautiful gate in Japan, called the sunrise to sunset gate, where three hundred years ago a pair of immortal lovers met and tarried the whole long day.

"In Japan three hundred years ago it was not customary for a woman to be from under authority; but O-Miyuku-san was an orphan; moreover she was an emperor's daughter and a descendant of the gods over whom no mortal had any authority. At sunrise she had come unattended to the shrine at Nikko to do honor to the spirit of her father, the emperor, lately dead. Long after her prayers were said, she lingered in the holy place, drinking in the beauty of the shrine, richly embellished with carvings from the enchanted hand of Jingoro, filled with child-like wonder at the sight of the marvelous painted dragons which looked so life-like that they were said to uncoil from their pillars at night to drink from the lotus pool. In a dream, she paused before the Yomei-mon, wondering if it could, indeed, be the gate of Paradise through which her father would presently beckon her.

"Time does not exist in the presence of beauty. O-Miyuku-san did not know how long she stood gazing at the Yomei-mon before she became aware that a tall priest was standing beside her. Then she drew her robes swiftly about her and would have fled, but the beauty of his face held her. It was a noble face, strangely diffident and other-worldly. O-Miyuku-san, returning his gaze, clasped her little hands tightly to conceal their trembling. Was it for the daughter of an emperor and a lineal descendant of the gods to fear a mortal? She did not know that it was love which had met her at the Yomei-mon.

"Strange that Hasaki with a lifetime's study of the Sutras and all his esoteric philosophy concerning the illusion of earthly things would have tarried to gaze at a maiden. But Hasaki was only a youth, and like many another ascetic, he nade the discovery of an unsuspected wisdom in the saying: 'He was created a man before he became a priest.'

"At dusk, the maiden fled. But for her there was no escape, nor for Hasaki; neither the walls of the imperial palace nor the sacred presence of the Buddha could shut out the remembrance of that which had passed before the Yomei-mon. Both knew in their hearts that 'even the knot of rope tying our boats together was knotted long ago by some love in a former birth.'

''But to love with desire O-Miyuku- san, the daughter of Heaven, was a calamity. Hasaki spent the still hours of the night in breathless repetition of the Sutras, prostrating his body before the Buddha. It was to no avail. In the gray dawn of morning he stood before the high priest, his distraught young face, white in the glow of the andon, lifted to the gentle, unmoved countenance of his wiser brother.

" 'Return to the Sutras, my son,' droned the older man. 'It is not for an emperor's daughter to marry a priest.

Take this image of the Buddha; keep it in the folds of your girdle, and in the hour of your temptation recite the Treasure Sutra to the Compassionate One.'

"But not even a high priest of Buddha has authority over the daughter of Heaven. When night fell O-Miyuku-san returned to the shrine. Crossing the slumberous courtyard on winged feet, she found Hasaki kneeling before the Buddha with open prayer roll, devoutly repeating the Sutras. When the priest beheld the princess before him, fairer even than he had remembered her, he covered his face with his hands.

"Leaning toward him, she whispered faintly, 'If you send me away, I shall die.'

"Hasaki arose, and abandoning his priest's robes, went with her out of the city.

"The palace in which the daughter of the emperor and her lover dwelt was an idyllic earthly paradise where royal peacocks feathered in emerald and dazzling gold guarded the gates as effectively as flashing swords. Here these two dreamed that they had created a paradise whose walls no power could shatter.

"Not entirely forgetful of his past life, Hasaki spent many hours fashioning tiny images of the Buddha, even as the ancient priests had done to embellish their temples. The art of carving became a passion with him, second only to his love for the princess; and presently he became known throughout the kingdom as the most exquisite artist of his day. Only one pure in heart could have conceived the works from his hand which were filled with a lofty charm and an other-worldly beauty. But one work, the most perfect of them all, a jade image of the Buddha, Hasaki never completed.

"A cholera swept the land, destroying the people by thousands. It struck down the coolies by the wayside and on the wharves, where they died miserably like rats. It entered the palaces of the rich; and the gods remained as ineffably unmoved by the implorations of the powerful as they had been by the wailings of the weak.

"The little daughter of Heaven commanded her palace gates to be barred against Death, and she ordered one thousand guardsmen outside the gates to forbid his entrance. But not even the thousand guardsmen had power against that day when Hasaki lay heedless of his princess, when the agonized prayers of the daughter of Heaven fell back against her lips unanswered.

"Just before death, Hasaki spoke to O-Miyuku-san, bidding her cherish the beautiful Unfinished Buddha. 'Nirvana is profitless without you,' he whispered. 'I shall dwell beside you in the image of the god until death sets you free; thus we shall never be parted cither in life or in death or in Paradise which we shall enter together.'

"In this promise the princess found comfort after her lord's body was taken from her; and the story of the incarnation of the artist, Hasaki, in the form of the Unfinished Buddha became the wonder of the Eastern world.

"NOW there was a famous collector of antiques in those days, a European with a palace on the river Rhine. This man had traveled even into Asia and the islands farthest cast and south in search of ancient and precious beauty. While journeying in the Orient, it happened that the tale of this marvelous incarnation readied his ears, and he was filled with an insatiable desire to possess the Unfinished Buddha. He did possess it. After incurring the sentence of death for insolently offering money in exchange for the sacred treasure, he escaped from prison, and stoic the god from the royal treasury at night, after slaying the guard. He succeeded in fleeing the kingdom unscathed; although a terrible price was set on his head. But the daughter of Heaven, learning that the robber had his palace on the other side of the world, followed him secretly, taking with her two faithful servants.

"The palace of Brasswell, the collector, was a mediaeval castle, filled with ancient storied riches of the past. It stood on a high hill overlooking a city, with the river Rhine flowing so near the base of its walls that the collector, from the turret of his castle, could see the waves of the river creaming on the beach beneath him. Here, remote from the garish life of the world, he dwelt in Oriental splendor, dreaming that he was the imperial emperor of an ancient, exotic world.

"Everything surrounding him was foreign; the tapestries on the walls, the treasures in the treasury room at the top of the castle— even the servants were foreign. A score had been imported from the ends of the earth for the sake of his pleasure. Among them were Egyptians, Nubians, Arabs and Malays; and there were also two Chinese who had lately come into his service.

"These Chinese pleased him inordinately. Their ceremonial deference to him and their noble pedigree, their ancestors having been servants of emperors for centuries, made him prize them above all his servants. He even came to honor these two with his confidence, made them his trusted counselors, and in time, showed them his priceless treasures—took them into his holy of holies at the top of the castle, into the dim religious light of that vast room whose entrance was guarded on either side by the colossal statue of a ferocious Deva king. Within that chamber gilded statues gleamed solemnly in the spacious obscurity. Colors, like tongues of flame, flared out from the shadowy places; colors of the mysterious East; lapis lazuli and emerald, the vermilion of lacquer and pomegranates, purple of Syria and crimson of Tyre.

"There, for the first time, Brasswell displayed his treasures: the work of skilled craftsmen of past centuries, art long since supposed to have perished; yellowed scrolls bearing ancient inscriptions, exquisite stone Amidas fashioned by slender delicate Japanese hands, and wood carvings showing the unmistakable trace of Unkei's handicraft. Before the barred and recessed casement golden peacocks trailed plumages of sapphires and emeralds across richly brocaded palanquin cloths. Against the purple velvet banners on the walls hung the ancient weapons of the shoguns; and from a lacquered chest, breathing the spirit of plum blos- sotas, caught ages ago from some queen's garden, Brasswell drew forth a ceremonial coat heavily crusted with jewels and bearing the family crest of a Chinese emperor.

"Then, a little flown with the softly murmured adulation of his servants, he brought forth a heavy iron key which had been concealed in the folds of his garment. With this key he unlocked the dragon-guarded lid of a huge stone coffin. Calling his trusted servants close, he lifted the lid of the coffin. Within lay the beautiful Unfinished Buddha.

"A murmur of horror escaped the lips of his servants. Falling on their knees, they begged their master to return the god at once to the Japanese princess, reminding him with awe-stricken faces of the terrible curse which inevitably befalls those who do injury' to a priest. Brass- well laughed n their fears, relocked the coffin, hung the key once more around his neck, and informed his servants that his superior wisdom lifted him above the ignorant superstitions of the East.

" 'Yours is the wisdom of the fool,' replied Li King, the elder, gently. 'For this, I foresee that in one night the curse of madness will destroy you. It is already upon you, August One; otherwise you would have read the expression of vengeance which now conceals the features of that Buddha you have stolen. There was only lofty sweetness there before.'

"Greatly surprized and displeased with this unexpected attitude on the part of his servants, Brasswell ordered them from his presence and forbade them to speak of what they had seen. Thereafter, he conferred with them less often, finding that their quiet scrutiny made him strangely ill at ease. Becoming increasingly annoyed by the curious manner with which they came to observe him, he began to watch them covertly. Once, after passing his former confidants in a corridor, Brasswell turned suddenly to discover the two in whispered conference, the elder pointing to his master with one hand and with the other significantly touching his head.

"Brasswell began to conceal himself when he heard the two approaching. He was watching them one day from behind an arras, when Li King accidentally surprized his master by carelessly sweeping aside the concealing curtain. Brasswell, crouched on the floor, looked up to see the sorrowful eyes of his servant resting upon him. Li King exchanged significant glances with his companion and shook his head sadly.

" 'It has come to pass,' he murmured.

"After this incident, Brasswell tried desperately to win back the respect of his servants and re-establish his claim to sanity. But fate seemed to have conspired against him; for when he willed to act most normally, he found himself doing strange, unnatural things.

"Once, in a studied attempt to appear entirely at ease in his servants' presence, he pretended to be vastly delighted with the contents of a manuscript which he held before him. Not until he saw the observant Li King make a silent gesture to his companion did he realize that the manuscript was upside down in his hands.

"Then, softly, almost imperceptibly, the entire household was corrupted. All the servants came to regard their master as a madman. Protesting at first with mighty threats against this treatment, Brasswell gradually subsided into silence; for his angry ravings only strengthened their conviction that he was mad.

"The eyes of all his house were upon him; they followed him from the tower room to the dungeon; they were everywhere. He could not escape them. Ac length a terror of his own kind seemed to possess him, and he ran when he heard his servants approaching. He ceased to sleep in his usual bedchamber; and his servants, searching through the gloomy castle for their demented master, often found him hiding with the spiders in some sunless hole.

"At length, a night of terrible storm descended upon them. The thunder blasts rocked in the battlements, and the lightning, darting into the enormous shadows like phantom rapiers, revealed Brasswell huddled in a heap of decaying tapestry in an uninhabited quarter of the castle. Awakened by the tumultuous storm, he became sharply conscious of a presence near him. Too terrified to move, he lay shivering miserably, when a blinding flash of lightning, illuminating the place for an instant, revealed a figure towering over him, a tall figure with ashen face, wearing the garb of a Buddhist priest.

"Like a thing pursued, Brasswell fled shrieking through the echoing corridors and up the circling stairways, until he reached the top of the castle. Flinging himself into the tower room, he unlocked the massive stone cofiin and seizing the beautiful Unfinished Buddha, he rushed to the casement and threw it into the storm. The fitful lightning revealed it lying on the beach below, the waves of the river creaming around it. Brasswell's Chinese servants braved the storm to recover the god. Returning to the tower room, they found their master dead. Seeing that the huge stone coffin in which the Buddha had been entombed was now empty, they placed their master's body within it, and locking the lid, they threw the key in the Rhine.

"At dawn, they carried the Buddha to the private dwelling of a Japanese lady in the city below; but the lady had departed life in the storm of that night, gone out as if in answer to a moonbeam sent from the deep deep water world as a signal that he was waiting for her."

THE STRANGE recitative had come to a close. The collector sighed deeply:

" 'And they are gone: ay, ages long ago. Those lovers fled away into the storm.' "

In the silence that fell, Hammersmith sat staring at the gentle, musing countenance of the Buddha. As if in answer to his unspoken question the collector answered softly, "It is quiescent now; the spirit has fled. It is as it was in the beginning; but the beauty of the past clings to it with the same charm that invests a room in which a long-dead queen has slept."

Hammersmith cleared his throat.

"I am a rich man. Name your price; I will pay it."

The collector shook his head.

"It is beyond price. See," he murmured, caressing the Buddha, "see with what ineffable calm it reposes, wise in the understanding that human desires are but as tiny ripples on the Infinite Ocean of Illusion. Age can not wither nor custom stale that august restfulness. Only the favored few can fathom the wisdom of its quiet. If I believed you were such," he added reluctantly, "I might entrust it to you. I am growing old— and have none to whom I can leave it."

The wistful envy thac the aged feel toward those in the prime of life betrayed his earlier firmness. Then Hammersmith saw that the animation in his face had burned out and that he was indeed old. Smiling confidently, he towered over the shriveled little man.

"Name your price," he said.

A shadow of horror crossed the face of the collector.

"To take money in exchange for it would be a sacrilege. Do not speak of that again." He sighed heavily. "Take it as a gift, and in the name of friendship give me a mere fraction of what a king would pay to possess such a treasure— in the name of friendship, never as payment, remember! Five thousand dollars, perhaps. Truly that is a trifle; but I am an old man. I can not guard my treasure after death."

With Hammersmith's check folded carefully in the parchment-like hands, the collector followed his visitor to the entrance of the shop.

"Farewell," he murmured, "you take with you that which is precious. Guard it well, for the wisdom it teaches is priceless. That wisdom you will realize sooner or later— that all is illusion."

Wrapped in revery the collector watched Hammersmith disappear into the writhing crowd that surged perpetually before his dimly lighted shop. Gazing with quiet eye upon the passing pageant, he saw, as in a vision, humanity hopelessly caught in the whirling Circle of Illusion, irresistibly swept into the vortex by its own tumultuous desires.

The silken rustle of a woman's garment aroused him from his meditation. The curtains at the rear of the shop parted noiselessly, and the face of the collector's wife appeared in the aperture. It was a dark, luminous face with heavy-lidded eyes and tiny heart-shaped mouth.

"Abel," exclaimed the woman softly, "thou'rt a marvelous teller of tales; thy lyric tongue hath made us. Soon all this tawdry stock will be sold, and then, praise Allah, we shall set up a shop in Regent Street and buy some real antiques."

_______________

10: The Justice of Captain Dampier

Ernest Favenc

Australian Town and Country Journal (Sydney) 14 Jan 1899

ON a low, rocky rise, over-looking the Indian Ocean, three haggard and weather-beaten men were seated. The view before them was scarcely encouraging. The tail end of a gale was still slowly dying out, and the grey sea stretched, bleak and gloomy, under the squally sky in a broken expanse of mountainous white-crested waves.

Below them, on the fringe of beach, lay the shattered hull of their ship, at times left almost bare by a receding waive, and, again, covered with boiling foam. In the preceding night of storm the unfortunate Oostkappel had crashed unexpectedly on the gales-swept, barren coast of New Holland; which, owing to the faulty reckoning of those days, the captain and pilot still thought a hundred miles to the eastward.

Three survivors only had as yet mustered up, and now, drenched, hungry, and miserable, sat on the inhospitable coast, wretchedly meditating on their fate. One was short and broad In build, such as the Dutchman is popularly supposed to be, but the other two were tall and fine-looking men, with blue eyes and fair hair, genuine Frieslanders, whose fathers, as the "Beggars of the Sea," had harried the Spanish ships, and flouted the navies sent out by the morose Phillip the Emperor. The Dutchman proper was the pilot, named Jan Jacobs; the other two were cousins. One had occupied the responsible position of second steersman; the other, and younger, man was a simple sailor. Both bore the name of Janszoon, the elder's name being Frederick, and the younger's Pieter.

Janszoon, the elder, got up and shook himself like a dog emerging from the water.

"It's no good sitting here watching the poor old Oostkappel break up into kindling wood; let's go along the beach and see if any of our mates have got ashore, or perhaps a keg of biscuits has been washed up."

Jacobs got up with a groan. "This is a horrible country, and only fit to wreck ships on. People say it shifts its position, and I believe it does, for the bones of many a good ship are on it. It was here, on this accursed coast, that Pelsart lost the Batavia some fifty years gone."

"True, I have heard my father speak of it; he came back with Pelsart in the Sardaarm, when they hanged the mutineers. 'Twas a bloody morning's work, as he many times has told me."

The younger man did not speak, but seemed to implicitly follow the lead of his cousin without question.

" 'Twas bloody work the mutineers did here," Jacobs grumbled, as the three proceeded to the beach; "and I hope the sheets don't haunt these rocks and sands, as likely they do."

"Be their Indians on this strange land?" asked the young sailor.

"Indians! aye," replied Jacobs, "and, as report goes, they are giants and cruel cannibals."

Filled with cruel forebodings as to the future, they tramped along the beach, seeking for any wreckage or stores the hungry waves might cast up. They found a cask of wine, and some barrels of flour and biscuit, and set to work to roll them up the beach out of reach of the tide. There was plenty of rain waiter in the rocks, and when Jacobs had eaten, and the wine cask had been started, he began to look at things in a more hopeful light.

"When the tide is low and the sea calm, we shall be able to get down below, if she doesn't break up any more," he said, referring to the hull of the Oostkappel. "We shall get plenty to eat and drink, and some arms against the Indians."

"I fear there are no more living of our company," said Frederick Janszoon.

"No, poor souls, there were so many down below, when we struck," answered his cousin. As he spoke a watery sun shone out, and the clouds began to break and show rifts of blue sky. This raised their spirits still more, and they recommenced their search for any of their shipmates who might have got ashore, but by the evening they had found but three dead bodies, one of them that of the ill-fated captain of the ship.

The following morning was clear and beautiful. The sea had gone down considerably, and the tide was low when they emerged from the rude shelter under which they had passed the night. Naturally their steps were directed to the wreck, which to their delight they found far enough above low water to be quite accessible. The elder Janszoon went over the hull, while Jacobs and his cousin inspected the hold and cabins. These two looked pale when they came on deck again.

"They lie there dead, many of them," said Jacobs. "It would be a good act to bury them before doing anything else." The late steersman nodded, and their mournful task occupied them most of the morning.

"We can make a boat, I think," said Janszoon, when they had finished, and were eating a meal. "But we need not hurry, for we must not venture to sail for Batavia until the wind sets in from the south-east. Is that not so, Master Jacobs?"

"Yes, in these seas it blows for many months from the south-east, and it is then fine weather. What is that?"

He leaped to his feet as a cry was heard. A human cry, but evidently not an Indian shout. Along the bank at the back of the beach came the ragged figure of a castaway sailor. He waved his hands and shouted to them when they called, to him.

"It is that rogue, Matthys Lants," muttered the young sailor. "The sea could not take him, seemingly, but it took good men."

"The sea knows who will be hanged, and never interferes with them," grunted, Jacobs.

The elder cousin silently went to meet their comrade, whose resurrection did not appear over welcome. He brought him in and gave him food and drink.

"Where have you been?" he asked, when the man was refreshed.

The fellow, who was of the same appearance as the other Frieslanders, replied volubly that he had been dashed ashore half stunned, and when he recovered he had wandered away In the darkness and had only just found his way back to the wreck. He ate and drank ravenously, and no wonder. Jacobs spoke to him as though the fact of the wreck did not alter their relationship as sailor and officer, which was a different tone he used to the other two, and Pieter scarcely noticed him at all.

Next morning the sea was calm, and the weather clear, and all through the time of low tide they worked at the wreck removing stores and what-ever was undamaged. Jacobs, who recovered from his despondency occasioned by the loss of his ship, assumed his proper office, and the work went on smoothly enough.

"I see your cousin still wishes to keep up our quarrel even in this desert land," said the last comer, Lants, to the elder Janszoon, one day when they were away from the others.

"You were not born to be friends, and your character Is not of the best. I should advise you to keep out of Pieter's way, and not to cross him. He is quick with his hands at times."

"And I am quick with my knife, if any one lays hands on me; was it my fault that pretty Geertje preferred me to him?"

"You have been too quick with your knife before now, so many say, and if this wreck had not stopped our voyage you might have danced at the yardarm before we came to Java."

"Those who say so, lie. I have had quarrels forced on me, and know how to take my own part."

"Take care," said the silent steersman, so sternly that Lants went away muttering under his breath.

Once or twice the Indians (as they were always then known) appeared at a distance, gazing curiously at the shipwrecked party, but they never approached close, nor offered to molest the visitors in any way. And time passed, and the boat, which was to bear them to Batavia, approached completion.

The winter of the southern tropic set in, and the steady south-east trade rippled the quiet blue water all day, and died down in the evening occasionally, only to spring up fresh in the morning. Jacobs looked smiling and he said to Janszoon, "We can hurry now, and soon we shall see the fort at Batavia, and the fine houses along the Tiger Canal. Oh, but I am tired of this sandy, rocky country, where there are no beautiful trees and green meadows."

"I would we were away, for I mistrust that knave Lants; he and my cousin were nearly at blows yesterday, had I not parted them."

"What was the quarrel about?"

" 'Tis an old sore. Pieter loved a pretty maid, Geertje Barcman, but this Lants came along, with his pockets full of money, and his mouth full of lies, and he spoiled Pieter's wooing. That's what made the boy come to sea, when he was doing better at home. Geertje, silly fool, found she had lost the straight stick and taken the crooked one. Lants lost his dollars at the gaming house and the tavern, and came on board the Oostkappel a penniless sailor. You know all about him there."

"And little good. I believe he was the man who stabbed Bergman the night of the brawl, though we could not prove it."

All was finished at last. The boat floated buoyantly in a little saltwater creek. She bad been taken out for a sail, and proved herself staunch and sea-worthy. Now she lay with all the stores on board, ready to take wing in the morning. The remainder of the lading of any value had been removed from the wreck and concealed. The men sat around the fire, and Jacobs had served out an extra ration of wine, and they talked of their departure and drank to their safe arrival at Batavia.

One by one they dropped off to sleep, and the musical sound of the sea wash on the beach alone broke the silence. The fire had died out, and the stars showed it to be midnight, when one of the recumbent forms rose up cautiously and listened, then with noiseless footsteps stole out of the camp. It was Lants, and scarcely had he vanished in the shadows of the scrubby trees around than young Janszoon rose with equal caution, and followed him.

Lants crept down to the creek where lay the boat, and stood for a moment listening. There was not a breath of wind, and he knew that he had come down too early, for the wind generally sprang up about two hours before dawn; and he felt that he toad made a mistake, for some one might wake up and miss him from the camp. He stood and hesitated, If he went back and somebody awoke he must forego his treacherous scheme; if he used the oars he might be heard; he stooped and felt the muddy bank— the tide was falling, that would suffice to carry him far enough out before daylight.

He stooped over the painter to untie it from the tree to which it was fastened and felt himself seized from behind. Lants was not so strong as his assailant, but he was strong enough to make a hard struggle, and managed to free one hand, and draw his knife. Then his captor's grasp relaxed, and with an effort at a shout for succour, young Pieter fell. Hastily severing the rope with the blood-stained knife, Lants pushed the boat off as he scrambled in.

Up at the camp Janszoon raised himself up and listened; the muffled cry had partly awakened him. The feeling of unrest in the air awoke Jacobs. "What's the matter?" he asked, seeing his companion sitting up.

"I know not. I thought I heard a cry. Pieter," he called. There was no answer, and rising, the steersman went to where his cousin ought to have been.

"Jacobs!" he cried, "there is foul work on hand; Pieter and Lants are both gone!"

"The boat!" cried Jacobs, and set off towards it.

The boat was gone, and Jacobs feeling about for the painter, touched the body of Janszoon, the younger with his foot.

"The rope is cut," he said, "and here I fear lies your cousin."

They stooped down in the darkness, but the knife had done its work. Blue-eyed Pieter would never see the flat fields around his native village of Luytjegast again.

Jacobs put his hand on Frederick's arm for silence. They listened, but not a sound was borne to them. The cautious homicide was drifting with the tide noiselessly and safe.

"To the beach!" whispered Jacobs, "we may catch him yet."

The party retraced their steps, and, while Jacobs ran to where the creek debouched into the sea, the other went back to camp and picked up a loaded musket. So surely and quickly did he go that he reached tho entrance of the creek almost as soon as Jacobs.

"He is gone," cried the latter, speaking loud in his excitement. A mocking laugh came from seaward, not very far away.

"Speak again," said Janszoon, softly, at the same time pointing his weapon.

"Come hack, you ruffian!" thundered Jacobs.

"Ha! ha! My skilful pilot! Come back to be tried in Batavia for desertion. No—"

The report of the musket drowned his words, and a sharp cry of pain came from the darkness. They listened, but all was silent; when suddenly the steersman exclaimed, "A light, a ship's light! See!"

Far away in the distance a star that wavered and moved shone out.

"A discovery ship, or one of ours from the Texel."

There was a sudden flash, and over the water carne the report of a carronade.

Moved by the one impulse both men made for the camp, where Jacobs picked up his weapon and fired a signal in return. The light burned steadily as they watched, but it did not move on.

"We can do nothing but make the fire up and wait for daylight," said Jacobs.

"Only go for him," answered the Frieslander. Jacobs understood, and together they went in the darkness and brought the body of the murdered man back to the camp. Then they sat down and watched, ever and anon glancing at the steady light at sea that told of hope and help.

The first gleam of dawn appeared, when the pilot suggested they should go on to the higher ground to obtain a better view. As the light grew strong they saw a full-rigged ship hove to not more than a mile away. An ensign fluttered up to her peak and blew out with the light moraine breeze.

"Not Dutch nor Spanish," said Jacobs. "Ah, I know the flag, it is an English one. It is good, she is a King's ship, and we are friends."

They looked eagerly round for their boat with Lants on board, but they could not see him. A boat left the ship and came quickly ashore. As they went to where the hull still lay, the party landed, and a man, who was evidently the leader, advanced to meet them.

"You are from Holland?" he said in fairly good Dutch. "Shipwrecked sailors?"

"I am Pilot Jan Jacobs, and this is the understeersman of our ship, the Oostkappel. She lies there," and he pointed to the wreck.

"I am William Dampier, captain of the discovery ship Roebuck, in the service of the King of England. We are at peace. Can I give you passage to Batavia or elsewhere in the Indies?"

"Surely we shall be grateful as men rescued from a lingering death. But first, Captain Dampier, there is a foul murder to be avenged." As shortly as possible Jacobs told Dampier of the wreck, and what had happened since.

"The boat lies behind that point of rocks. We saw it as we came in; the man will not be far off."

He put a ship's whistle to his lips, and a petty officer came up at the summons. Dampier gave him some orders in English, and he called some sailors, and they proceeded over the neck of land that formed the rocky point Dampier had mentioned. Meantime the English captain and the two sailors proceeded to the camp of the latter.

"Shall I have a grave dug for him?" said Dampier, looking at the body of the young sailor.

"No, captain," answered Janszoon; "give him a sailor's burial."

Dampier nodded, and they waited until the party returned over the rise; with them Lants, his arm, which had been injured by the shot, bound up in a cloth.

As the captain saw the prisoner, a glance of recognition was exchanged.

"You have an old comrade of mine here I find," he said grimly to Jacobs. "The rogue knows me too, and would have put me ashore here when we were In the Cygnet eleven years ago."

"Marooned you?" asked Jacobs.

"Yes, the rascally pirates, because I objected to some of their goings on. By God! it was nearly being done too, and this villain was one of the leaders."

"Captain Dampier has heard of your murderous conduct and would-be desertion of your comrades in distress. What have you to say in your defence?" asked Jacobs.

"I have much to say, but not here. This is New Holland, and I am a free Dutch sailor of the company. Bring me to my trial in Batavia, Captain Dampier, for that's what he is now, I understand, though he was only a buccaneer when I knew him, has no power as a King's officer over me. I demand to be tried by the high court in Batavia."

"The rogue was always a sea lawyer," said Dampier, "and I doubt but what he has right on his side. I fear I shall endanger my commission if I hang him here, as high as he deserves."

Jacobs looked astonished, and Lants grinned.

"What say you, Master Jacobs?" resumed Dampier, "if I take him in irons to Batavia? Will that suffice?"

"It will not suffice me," said Janszoon, "I will kill him with my own hand."

"Nay, my man, there is no killing on my ship, save what I do myself. Now, gentlemen, we are losing a fair wind; we must on board. Justice shall be done, even to such a picaroon as this."

Janszoon would have spoken, but Jacobs restrained him. And, with Lants securely guarded, they embarked for the Roebuck, which, meanwhile, had stood in nearer the land.

The instant Dampier's foot touched the deck he beckoned to his chief mate, and ordered him to call to quarters. Then he turned, and ordered the prisoner to be brought before him. Speaking in English, which Lants understood well, he said:

"I acknowledge your claim to be tried before the high court in Batavia, for the murder of the sailor, and the attempt to steal the boat; it is not my business. But it is my business, as King's officer, to do justice on every notorious pirate who comes in my clutches. I know enough of you to hang you ten times over; but I can only do it once unfortunately. Give him a short shrift and a long rope," he said to the boatswain, and, unheeding the prayers and curses of the unhappy nip" he beckoned Jacobs, and went to his cabin.

"There way be some things in your boat that you want to recover, Master Jacobs; you may take a boat's crew and bring them off, and bring back the dead sailor, and we will give him decent burial before that rogue is cut down."

As he went over the side, Jacobs cast a look up at the limp figure swaying at the yardarm with the roll of the ship.

"The sea never takes those that are to be hanged," he said under his breath.

________________

11: Cave of the Criss-Cross Knives

C. C. Spruce
fl. 1934-5

Spicy-Adventure Stories April 1935

Spruce is another of the numerous pulp writers who produced a tiny number of stories in the 1930s, and about whom nothing else is known.

LEGEND

"And one time, two of the lesser ones (deities) of the sunset, by a trick did imprison the Sun, the Flaming One himself, in order to carry out their plans. In his rage and in his captivity the Sun bellowed like the mad bull of Wahini. Then faithful followers gathered and released their Master, holding him until the act was completed. After which they released him and carried out his commands to cast the offending one into the sea, so that there might be no more than one of that race....

"Thus shall his power be maintained and his followers find peace!"

"T-4, MEET R-8." The Chief of Secret Service in Manila introduced the two operatives standing before his desk.

T-4, the woman, nodded her blonde head with a curt jerk. R-8, the man, was equally uninterested in the introduction. He merely grunted. Both returned their stare to the Chief.

Chief Walters produced a large scale map of a section of the Pacific Ocean. He pointed to a mere speck inked in on its surface. He said, "The island of Perambi has never been officially charted. It is small, jungle covered and fever ridden. Decidedly volcanic, we have only the assurance of our scientists that it will not lose itself in the depth of the Pacific at any time. That, however, is beside the point for the present. You will notice its strategic position."

T-4's blonde head bumped with R-8's red thatch as both bent forward. Neither noticed. Walters noticed, and chuckled. He leaned back in his chair.

"I've chosen you two for reasons I'll divulge later. The existing situation at Perambi is this: Our government has, for some little time, maintained a fueling station on that island. Other powers doubtless knew of that, but by the right of first come first served, our two men had not been molested. That has changed. The bi-yearly cutter which took them supplies returned here some time ago. Both men are dead. The supply of gasoline and oil is gone. Some coal remains. There was no sign of any of the two dozen or so natives which had inhabited this island. The bodies of the two men remained. The commander of the cutter took photographs, left two more men and returned for orders. Pleasant pictures they were too. Here, look."

He pushed photographs across the desk. The two operatives did as they were bid. The photographs were clear, all too clear. The bodies of the two white men, nude, were stretched across a pile of coal. Their torsos had almost been severed from their legs. Through the gaping wound which stretched across their abdomens could be seen the gleam of white bone. The back bone. The only thing which still held the bodies together.

"Those were the first two. There have been others. One man only has managed to survive between visits of the cutter, which by the way has been changed to bi-monthly."

T-4 and R-8 bent forward again. Walters went on. "But that man was insane. His hair had turned white. His talk was for the most part gibberish. Yet every word was taken down. From those fragments we have pieced together a plan of action— your orders!"

The man and woman picked up the two sealed envelopes Walters pushed across to them.

THE Secret Service chief went on, "We have studied every inch of that island by airplane. When you read your orders, please remember that they are the result of careful study and deduction. Here are two more packets for you. They contain dyes with which to stain your bodies. Here are the only weapons you will be able to take with you."

T-4 and R-8 stared at the two razor sharp wavy blades. The knives were about fourteen inches long and all but two inches of that was blade. The handle of each was only a circular band of metal, resembling the thumb hole on a pair of scissors. Walters stood up.

"I suggest that you two read your orders together. I don't think I need tell you about the danger of your mission." The Chief held out both hands. The operatives each placed a palm in his. Walters shook those hands.

"The only way I can express what I am thinking is to say— that right at this moment I am shaking hands with at least one person— who will soon be dead!"

ONCE outside and on the street the two operatives underwent a distinct change. R-8, the red-headed man, slouched along as if he had no cares in the world. The competent woman T-4 changed into a clinging vine, as far as outward appearances were concerned.

The man said, "Pleasant sort of chap—the chief. So cheerful." He kept his voice low. "Shall we go to my room?"

"Why not?" T-4 replied. "And by the way— you might tell me your name. If we have to work together—"

She didn't finish the sentence but the man got the impression that she disliked the idea of working with anyone.

"And here I was just beginning to like you! Oh, all right. I might as well confess. I joined the Secret Service just to get a number and numeral instead of a name and now the hateful secret comes to light. My name—" he hesitated.

"Well." T-4's voice was a bit out of keeping with her clinging role.

"My name—is Toridzone Kinley. Now go on, laugh and then tell me yours."

The woman did laugh!

"Where on earth did you get such a name?"

"I was born on a boat," Kinley said with mock misery, "just as it was crossing the equator. I guess my parents had a sense of humor. What's your name?"

"Lilandra Sweeney," T-4 said firmly She added, "I guess it's your turn to laugh now."

The man did chuckle. He said "I wonder if that's why the chief chose us to work together? Really, two people with names like ours shouldn't be allowed to live!"

She said sweetly, "But it is a shame for such a name as Toridzon Kinley to end with your early death—"

He smiled languidly. "Nice."

"Suppose we get to work?" she snapped.

Kinley's room proved to be a small house on the outskirts of town. Its untidy state spoke of the complete absence of servants, but neither man nor woman paid any attention to that. They were both too interested in their orders.

First, they read the complete ravings of the man who had lived— and who had become insane. Certain words and phrases were repeated in that exact record: "The gods are purple— cave of the criss-cross knives— clearing in the jungle— coal is an altar— purple gods from the sunset— clothes are taboo— Poor Winton, he touched coal— the criss-cross knives— the criss-cross knives— poor Winton— saved by a sun-bath— purple gods—"

There was much more of the same. The name "Peretti" was repeated again and again.

Kinley whistled. "Peretti! Do you know him, Lilandra Sweeney?"

She shrugged with impatience at his use of her name.

"Of course. Paid spy for whoever will give him his price. He used to be with Japan. A smart, cunning operative. And rather handsome."

"You would think of that last," the man said. "Let's read our orders."

WALTERS' commands were brief, yet explicit.

"Be at the government air-field tomorrow just before dawn with your bodies stained purple. You will find the dye in the packet. Your hair too must be purple but that and the staining of your faces may be attended to in the plane which will fly over Perambi just at sunset. You will strap on the two purple parachutes and jump from the plane. You will land in the clearing which our air-men have discovered near the center of the island. Your weapons—the knives— you already have. Your apparel will be of the scantiest. I leave that to your own discretion. The man who was saved had on only a pair of shorts. The enclosed picture is of the remains of Winston. You will not touch coal. You will find "Peretti," discover for whom he is working, and destroy him. A cutter with fuel, two new men, and supplies will stand by the island— just out of sight. When you have completed your mission, signal the cutter by a single smoke fire."

There was no signature. Kinley pushed one hand through his red hair. He whistled softly through his teeth. "I get it," he muttered. "You and I are just a god and goddess— and purple at that— descending from the clouds on a few dozen ignorant natives. 'Destroy Peretti!' That's quite an order. It's been tried before." He sighed, "Oh well— I've always wanted someone to look up to me!"

The woman sniffed disdainfully. She opened her packet of dye. She read the directions and moistened the powder with water. She pulled her dress off over her head. She said without turning around, "Well, we might as well get this first part over with. You better smear some dye on my back." She added, "I'm glad I have long hair— even if it does have to be purple!"

Toridzone Kinley was accustomed to sudden death in all manner of forms. He wasn't quite as hardened to sudden life. When T-4, otherwise Lilandra Sweeney, pulled that simple dress from her body she slipped completely from the role of a Secret Service operative. Any part but that of "woman" fell from her.

And remember, she kept her back to the man! Her body was vibrantly alive. The soft white flesh of her neck and shoulders, was divided from the sweep of her back by a scanty line of lace that hooked together in the sweet hollow made by her spine. A pair of sheer silk step-ins only partially covered her boyish hips. Boyish? Perhaps supple would be a better adjective. Yet that word brings up an image of hardness. There was nothing hard about T-4 now. She had the deceiving appearance of the sleek softness of a tiger. Beautiful— yet dangerous. Her shapely legs were encased in high chiffon stockings that ended a few inches below the step-ins. Far enough to disclose an enticing stretch of gleaming flesh.

Kinley gulped. He reached one hand for a dab of the paste-like purple dye, He felt as if he were defiling some deity as his unwilling fingers spread a purple smear across the white expanse of one smooth shoulder. With the contact— his hands were unwilling no longer.

He said slowly, "You'd better take off the— the— brassiere. After all you don't want a strip of white showing."

The woman reached deft hands around. She unhooked the flimsy bit of lace. How could she know that a man's man like Kinley had a mirror in the house? How could she know that it was directly in front of her? She might have been unaware, but the man never forgot that unveiling! He saw rounded breasts, standing out firm and white against the prevailing purple of the rest of her skin. He saw— well, he saw enough to make his hands falter in their task of daubing purple dye on velvety skin! He had to bite his lips to keep back a command to stop as the woman's fingers spread more dye, kneading it into the yielding resiliency of her snowy breasts. She faced him at last.

"You'd better take off your shirt," she said. "For tomorrow— we may die," his lips formed the words. He bent over and kissed her. Not until he felt her hands pressing against him did he relent in the fierce pressure. He took off his shirt— let her smear on the coloring.

WHEN they reached the airport the next dawn, they were calling each other "Tod and Lill."

SEEN from the air, the island of Perambi didn't look like much. Just a small darker speck in the broad expanse of the Pacific. The pilot cut the motor. The plane began a graceful descent Tod and Lill stripped off their flying clothes. Their faces shone purple in the strong sunset light. They strapped on their parachutes.

Tod Kinley saw now why the woman was thankful for her long hair. She tucked the purple strands into the belt of her 'chute. It outlined and concealed the curve of her breasts.

The pilot said, "There's the clearing. Kick open the trap. Jump when I give the word. Count ten and pull the rip-cord. Get ready—"

The plane circled closer to land. The man and woman could see the clearing in the center of the tangled jungle growth of the island. They managed a smile at each other. They both held the bare blades of the wavy knives in their left hands, in their right was clutched the ring of the parachute release.

"Jump!" said the pilot suddenly.

One after the other they plunged through the opening in the floor of the plane and into space! Only a few minutes later, Kinley used his knife to cut loose from his chute. He raced across the clearing to the spot where Lill had landed. The fading sunlight made the purple of her parachute and of her supple body take on a livid shade. He reached her side, helped her cut away from the purple, flattened mass.

"You O. K.?" he asked.

"O. K.," she returned. "And now what?"

She laughed nervously. "We are here anyway. You know— I think we're the only living persons on this island!"

R-8 spoke. "Wrong as usual. Why don't you look around?"

The woman looked when he pointed with his knife. She made out the swarthy forms of crouching natives. She made out the gleam of scant light from wavy steel. She stared around a small circle. She realized they were surrounded. Kinley slipped his arm around her. For an instant he pulled her close to him.

"Put your back to mine!" he demanded. "Hold the blade of your knife to the front. We'll put up a fight anyway!"

When this maneuver was completed the natives stopped advancing but held their circle. A wizened old man stepped from the ranks. He spoke in English.

"Come," he said.

Tod caught his companion's arm.

"Don't move— yet," he cautioned in a voice that could not be heard beyond a few feet. They stood as still as statues. He could feel her smooth skin, warm, vibrant, against his bare back. The old native spoke then— in some strange gibberish. He pointed.

Tod Kinley relaxed. "I guess we might as well go now," he said. "But wait just a second."

Lill stopped. She had to clench her teeth when her companion burst out into a shrill screaming roar that penetrated to the depths of the jungle and echoed back to them threefold. "East Side, West Side, All Around the Town!" Those were the words of the man's shout.

THE natives retreated a little. They seemed more respectful— but they still beckoned and pointed.

"Let— let's go to their party," the woman suggested. He held out his arm. They followed together.

In the ensuring short walk Tod explained in a whisper, "Someone had taught them that English word. If we had moved when they said 'Come' we wouldn't be alive now. Did you notice their knives?"

"Yes," came the soft answer. "But where do we go from here?"

Before the man could venture any opinion the strange party came to a yawning hole in the earth. Once again the old native who was leader spoke at length. He pointed again.

Tod said softly and soberly, "I recognize a few words of that dialect. A dialect that has not been used for many hundreds of years. We might as well go down. We might as well go into this hole— which is called 'The Cave of the Criss-Cross Knives'!"

The woman showed her courage by humming a few bars of "The Song Of The Islands" as they stepped down into total blackness. Tod's arm was around her. His fingers closed automatically around the softness of one breast that was enshrined in the long purple of her hair. They went down a rude flight of stone stairs together. The blades of their wavy knives pierced the dark before them. Both man and woman were counting those steps in an undertone. Not until they had reached one hundred and eighty-nine, did the path level out.

Even then there was a walk of several minutes, made long by the almost total blackness, before the tunnel widened into a lighted amphitheater. The small party stopped at a brusk command from the ancient leader. That one, apparently a medicine man or witch doctor, shouted one phrase in the strange dialect, Tod translated, softly, "He says— 'the purple gods come!"

"I know." Lill returned impatiently. "You aren't the only one who has studied ancient Polynesian dialects— and customs— of these natives."

Neither had time to carry on that line of talk. They both had eyes only for the spectacle of that underground cavern. Nature can be prodigal with her beauties, no matter in what part of the earth they may be found. That cavern was immense. It stretched beyond mere eyesight. Stalagmites and stalactites echoed and reflected the light of strangely perfumed torches stuck in stone sockets on the walls.

THE band proceeded down a worn path in the midst of this subterranean grandeur. Dwarfed by the magnificence of the sight, Lill and Tod walked together. Their bodies seemed to merge into one as they sought the comfort of another person who knew and had felt the outside world.

Still their strange wavy bladed knives were held before them. Neither of them spoke. The cavern narrowed slightly. More torches filled the notches on the walls and shed their flickering light. Weird growths reflected, that light in hitherto unseen and therefore unbelievable colors.

Tod almost stepped on the first prostrate native before he saw him. The members of the capturing party fell on their faces. For a second both man and woman felt a leap of joy in their hearts. They believed— momentarily— that the natives were making obeisance to them. That idea passed all too soon. Unless these folk had strange ideas of reverence, they were faced wrong. Tod and Lill could see only waving, undulating ranks of posteriors.

They raised their eyes and looked ahead. The woman's deep drawn breath of astonishment made her firm breast push out the strong fingers of Tod's encircling hand. The cavern ended abruptly.

A HUGE, glittering pile of black, loomed up at that end. The steady drip of water could be heard. Water— that seeped slowly over the pile of coal and transformed it in torch light with a gem-like sheen.

Neither Tod nor Lill spared more than one glance at that pile. Both their minds formed the world "altar."

They both stared then at the figure of the purple man sitting to the right of the pile. That man smiled. Lill pulled her arm from around Tod. She stuffed her fingers into her mouth to keep back a hysterical giggle. That bizarre figure was seated on a Standard Oil gasoline tin!

Tod and Lill said together "Peretti!" Peretti smiled again but he did not get up.

He intoned in a loud voice, "Three blind mice, three blind mice, three blind mice."

Tod said, "Eenie meenie miney mo and nuts to you Peretti!"

Peretti lapsed into English— that is into meaningful English. "Welcome to my parlor! Won't you two come and sit down beside me? Sit beside me and help rule my kingdom. See— I have a place of honor for you— here on the sacred pile of coal!"

The man and woman did not move. They remembered the warning contained in Walter's orders.

"Do not touch coal!" Tod said, "Why don't you quit this foolishness, Peretti? Come on, let's get out of here. My comrade and I will give you permission to leave. We'll even guarantee you safety. Your game is finished. You see— we carry the wavy bladed knives."

He gesticulated with his weapon. Lill followed suit. Peretti laughed again. Tod Kinley hadn't expected his bluff to work, but he was hardly prepared for swiftness of the disaster which followed.

Peretti gestured languidly. He spoke in the strange dialect. Before Tod's mind could form a meaning to the words, natives swarmed over him. They held his arms, his legs, his ankles, thighs and wrists. Even at the moment he thought there was a certain amount of reverence in the natives' grasp. But one tentative wriggle convinced him of the uselessness of struggle. He still held the knife, even though he had no chance to use it. With an effort he managed to turn his head toward the woman.

She was held similarly— yet even more carefully. Peretti grinned mirthlessly. He spoke again. The two captives were pulled to one side. Tod's scanty knowledge of the dialect brought him the one horrid word "Sacrifice."

He tried to struggle then. Tried, and wisely desisted when he felt the strength of the hands that still held him. Wild screams echoed through the cavern. Yells of complete, unmitigated horror, that was beyond the pale word, fear. Tod recognized the struggling woman who was being dragged toward the pile of coal as a half-caste, a composite of the races in the islands. He began to struggle again.

Peretti turned his purple stained countenance toward Kinley. He grinned sardonically. Something about that smile stopped Tod. Stopped him with his bare arms still bent in muscle disclosing arcs. Tod waited— and watched. Only a knowledge of the futility of struggle kept him quiet during the scene that followed.

THE nude, howling woman was pushed onto the coal altar. Arms and hands were fastened until she was spread-eagled across the pile. Peretti spoke then, a short gruff sentence. He reached behind the oil can on which he was seated and produced what appeared to be a single bladed, wavy knife. The natives prostrated themselves at the sight of that strange blade. Only the weather-beaten medicine man advanced. There was a trace of fear even in his movement. Fear— that is— until the double handle of the knife rested in his gnarled palm. Still another happening made this bizarre sacrifice border on the humorous. Peretti reached over and made a motion with one hand. The hand was hidden behind a stalagmite— but the results were noticeable.

A phonograph began playing. The record was cracked. At its every circuit a "crock" spoke of the split. A bar-room tenor started the words—

"When dames wore hoops and powdered hair

And very strict was etiquette

When men were brave and ladies fair

They danced the graceful Minuette."

There was nothing funny about that for the natives. They began a dance, keeping time to the words with a rising chant. The medicine man held the curved knife above the victim's heaving abdomen. The song ended. The dance died away into the hush of expectation. The knife plunged down suddenly.

There was only one scream that pushed up the half-caste woman's quivering breasts. There was a long drawn "Ahhhhhhhhhh" from the natives. Inconsistently, Tod was reminded of a time when he was a boy watching fireworks on the fourth of July. That "Ahhhhh!" had greeted each burst of a sky-rocket....

The priest was bending over his victim, whose face had assumed the taut expression of the half-dead. The thumbs of his two hands hooked in the double circle of the knife handle. He pulled. A huge gaping split appeared. The knife pulled clear.

The "sacrifice's" torso was completely severed with the exception of the white backbone! No longer did the wavy knife seem one blade. Instead it looked like a huge pair of scissors distended, scissors with the cutting edge on the outside of the blade!

For Tod Kinley at least the rest of the proceeding was lost in the haze of partial unconsciousness, as an excited captor struck him on the head.

HE heard again the sound of voices, two voices. They were coming— from a great distance. He— would listen— "But, Mr. Peretti, I still don't understand. I don't see how you did all this with the few natives."

Then Peretti's voice replied, "There's no reason for such a good looking woman as yourself to bother her head with such things. Why don't you be— natural?"

"Oh—Mr. Peretti—" That was Lill's voice cooing.

"Why don't you call me by my first name?"

"But I don't know it."

"Arturo. Why not call me Art?"

"But— Art," she said shyly. "I— I don't know whether I ought to call a deity by his first name. It sounds almost like sacrilege."

"Even when I sit on a Standard Oil can?" the man laughed.

"Even then— you have something about you."

"It must be this purple dye I'm wearing. Why not give us a kiss?"

"Why not?" said Lill. There was a sound that told of the granting of that favor.

"Please— Art," Lill said then. The man's laugh was husky now.

Toridzone Kinley pulled himself from the stone bench where he had been lying, struggled to get to his feet. Nearly complete darkness made his footing doubly treacherous. One shaft of light burnt through the black. Tod weaved toward it. His right hand was knotted around the knife which he still retained. His body stopped forcibly at the contact with stone. He had to content himself with looking out a narrow, grated window.

Lill, still clothed only in a brief loin cloth, was sitting beside Peretti. From the position of the two people, Tod could guess what had gone before. His growl of rage was too heart-felt to be articulate.

Lill said, "But I still want to know— Art! I want to know who you're working for and why you did this thing."

Only her innocent tone of voice made the blunt question possible. Peretti looked at her suspiciously nevertheless.

"How did you happen to get into this?" he demanded. Lill giggled.

Tod was shocked at that sound. He wouldn't have believed it possible. But he heard rightly. Lill giggled!

"Well," she said. "You see— I had just met Tod—you know, the man I came with. He came home— that is, he came to see me one evening and said he had to go on a trip. He swore he wouldn't leave me behind. He— he pulled off my clothes and smeared me with this purple stuff. I— I guess he was half crazy. He made me get in a plane with him without letting me put on any more clothes than this. He tied on a parachute. When we got over this island he pushed me out. You know the rest."

Lill looked at Peretti archly. "Now you tell me," she requested.

PERETTI laughed. "All right. After that. I guess I might as well tell my story. I have only one thing in this world to sell— my services. Various countries have seen fit to bid for them for special missions. I command a high price!"

His lips that would have been red but for the dye twisted sardonically. "At any rate I was offered a certain sum by a certain nation to do certain thing."

Lill smiled up at him. "You sound so— so vague," she protested.

"Perhaps. Well, I'll be more explicit. My duty, or my assignment, was to break up the hold of the United States on this bit of an island. I made a visit here. I talked to the natives. I discovered that they were a remnant of a lost tribe. I copied down the sound of some of their words. I went back to— the certain country and spent a year in research. I found a musty book at last. It was filled with strange legends of a forgotten race. It even held a few of their words— words that appeared to correspond with those I had copied down. Armed with those words and legends I came back. And now— now I am a purple god and have accomplished my mission. Don't you think so, Miss Member of the United States Secret Service?"

Tod Kinley's hands clenched. He was startled by this sudden unmasking of Lill. Goodness knows he had thought her story thin enough, but he had hoped...

The woman said calmly, "So you didn't believe me. Well—what are you going to do about it?"

Peretti was taken aback by her lack of denial. "Well— well— Nothing, I guess," he said at last. He looked at Lill again. She had pushed aside a part of her long hair. One firm, darkly gleaming breast peered out. A breast that could not lose its rounded beauty for all of the disfiguring dye.

"What have you done with— him?" she asked.

Peretti gestured with one hand toward the stone cell which held Kinley. "He's in there, all right except for a sock on the head. That is— he's all right so far. Probably still unconscious, but all right. He'll be all right until he recovers and tries to find his way out. Then he'll fall in the pit!"

The pit? Tod held onto the grating and explored the floor with one foot. He had to reach out quite a way before that foot failed to find footing. Cold sweat stood out suddenly on Kinley's forehead. He forced himself to pay attention to the talk.

The woman was keeping her head! He must do the same. Beside the talk of "legends of a forgotten race" had touched his memory. He had studied the weird legends of the Pacific islands. He knew them. That was one of the reasons he had been chosen for this mission. Was it not reasonable that Lill had been chosen too for her similar knowledge? That legend of the lesser god and goddess— lesser to the Sun the all powerful— the ones who had disobeyed—?

But Lill was talking again. "You say you learned the legends?"

Peretti's white teeth looked out of place as his purple lips wrinkled back in the almost perpetual smile. "All of them?" he echoed. "No. Of course not. Just enough to work on the natives' superstition, just enough so I could land as a purple god and make them do what I wanted. 'Purple of the sunset,' " he finished suggestively.

Lill nodded. The movement of her head uncovered that enticing breast still further.

"I know about that of course. That's the reason for our dyeing our skins. Didn't you read about the part where there was a goddess as well as a god?"

PERETTI looked worried for a minute. "No," he admitted. He smiled then. One of his hands reached out and captured the treasure his eyes had been caressing for some time. Even to Tod came the sound of Lill's sharply in-drawn breath.

The man cursed silently. He cursed in a whisper when Peretti bent down and kissed Lill's lips. Peretti said, "Well—you've supplied that lack now. That is— if you're willing to talk— business with me?"

Lill's voice was so low Tod had to strain his ears to catch the words—"I'm willing to talk business— or anything else with you— Art— You and I will be the purple rulers of this island— together!"

Those words brought the rest of the shadowy legend to Toridzone Kinley. But he forgot all that in the spectacle that followed. He forgot everything and roared like a mad bull! Peretti was not bashful. Neither was he the sort of man who would let a little thing like strands of hair and a miniature girdle stand in his way. From the first kiss, he progressed rapidly. And Tod knew he had good reason to progress!

The captive agent recalled the thrill, the ecstasy he had had when Lill's little pointed tongue had explored the opening between his lips! Any man would forget— almost anything when Lill kissed him— when Lill arched her warm, pulsing body toward him— when Lill—

Neither man nor woman looked up as Tod began his bellowings of rage and disappointment. Tod had forgotten the legends. He had forgotten he was a trusted member of the United States Secret Service. He had forgotten everything but that one too brief night with Lill. That, and the spectacle of her giving herself to another man! He hardly knew when his dim cage was lit with many torches. He scarcely felt the restraining hands that kept him from hurling himself into the now visible pit. Toridzone Kinley yelled out his rage and disappointment. He would not look out of the narrow grated window again. The natives who held him looked—and grunted their approval!

HOURS, or minutes were clouded by the delirium of his unforgetting rage. He remembered, but took no joy, from the time when his cell door was opened, when he and he alone was called upon to judge the fate of Peretti and Lill who were captives now. He saw the woman's enigmatic smile. He saw Peretti's still challenging grin. He said the words he remembered from the legend.

"Let the man be stripped and cast into the sea!" The glee of the natives at the prophetic and correct words echoed through the cavern. The scene shifted rapidly.

Tod was dragged along, willy-nilly. They came at last from the underground passage, marched along a high promontory that strode out into the depths of the ocean. Peretti still smiled as hard hands stripped him, spilled a hidden automatic from his scanty coverings. He grinned once as two husky natives swung his unresisting body— "A little knowledge is a dangerous—"

The words were cut off as the natives hurled him into space. Kinley watched his arching fall. He saw the writhings of the man's body. He saw Peretti strike feet first in a huge swell!

He shook his head and looked around. With the exception of Lill, he was alone on that wind swept out thrust of rock.

"Well," Lill said calmly. "I guess that's that. I guess we've accomplished our mission. We have destroyed Peretti, and we know who hired him."

Tod Kinley shook himself. The ocean air was good— and clean. It swept away the hate torn fragments of thoughts from his mind. He muttered, "How— do we know who hired him?"

His eyes were still focused on the ocean— on the spot where Peretti had disappeared.

"Silly," said Lill. "You and I know the one library in the world where the 'musty' book containing that legend can be found. That legend— 'And one time two of the purple ones, lesser deities of the sunset, by a trick did imprison the Sun, the Flaming One himself, in order to— er— carry out their plans. In his rage and in his captivity the Sun bellowed like the mad bull of Wahini. Then faithful followers gathered and released their Master, holding him until the act was completed. After which they released him and carried out his commands to cast the offending one into the sea— so that there might be no more than one of that race. Thus shall his power be maintained and his followers find peace.' "

The man tried to think only of the great library belonging to a certain great nation, in which that legend had been found. He said suddenly, "He— he came up—! He's swimming!"

He bent over and picked up the automatic. It blasted down into the water, raising miniature geysers until Lill caught his hand.

"Why— why do that?" she asked. "He— he can't swim to— to the Philippines."

Tod looked at her. "You worried?" he asked.

"Not particularly— if you'll walk along this cliff and down onto— the dark beach with me. That is— after we build a single smoke fire!"

Tod Kinley, sometimes known as R-8, looked at his companion in this adventure. In the light of the setting sun, her lithe figure glowed like burnished bronze. The jutting cones of her lovely breasts rose and fell with each breath— then trembled slightly as she dropped her eyes before his gaze. He turned away and stared down into the darkening waters. There was no dark head visible.

"At your service, Lill," he snapped. "As soon as I build the fire!"

__________________

12: Sleuth of the Air Waves

Emile C. Tepperman

1899-1951

Ten Detective Aces Jan 1942

MALLORY'S headlights picked up the slim figure of the girl thumbing a ride at the side of the road. He began to slow down, and even as he did so, his radio was saying:

"All motorists in the vicinity of Newtown are warned to be on the lookout for Linda Blake, wanted for murder. She is armed and dangerous. Five feet three, bobbed blonde hair, blue eyes, weight one hundred and nine. Extremely pretty, softspoken, pleasant manners, but do not be fooled. She is dangerous. Anyone sighting this girl is directed to call from the nearest phone, to the Newtown City Police Headquarters, or to stop one of the city police now laying a dragnet around the city—"

Mallory shut the radio off and coasted down alongside the girl, grinning twistedly in the dark. He was going too fast to stop beside her, but he pulled up about twenty feet beyond, and she came running up. He had the door open for her.

"Pile in," he said. "How far are you going?"

She didn't answer at once. He saw that she was slim and lithe, with clear blue eyes that were not at all hunted or frightened. She was dressed in a gray tweed suit. She was about twenty-three. She carried a large, flat handbag made of gray material. She climbed into the car, swung the door shut, and then put her hand into the purse.

Mallory pretended not to notice that action. He had the car in first, with his foot on the accelerator, cradling it gently back and forth.

"I'm heading for Newtown City," he said casually. "It's about ten miles, isn't it?"

The girl took a small twenty-two calibre automatic pistol out of her handbag, and pointed it at him.

"I'm sorry Mister," she said in a low, husky voice. "I'm sorry, but you aren't going to Newtown City. In case you don't know it, I'm wanted for murder, and I'm trying to get away. I'd just as soon shoot you as not. I want you to turn around and drive like the devil— a way from Newtown City. Do you understand?"

Mallory smiled. "Sure. Sure I understand."

HE LET his foot up abruptly from the clutch, and pushed down savagely on the accelerator. The car leaped forward with a terrific bound. The girl was thrown backward in her seat, uttering a gasp of dismay.

Mallory took his right hand from the wheel, seized her gun wrist and thrust it upward. At the same time he stepped down on brake and clutch, and brought the car to a stop. It had swerved to the right, almost into the ditch, but he caught it just in time.

The girl struggled in silent, bitter fury, trying to break his grip on her wrist. She beat at his face with her left hand. She did not utter a word; she just kept on fighting with the desperate fury of a hunted animal in a trap. Mallory made no attempt to overpower her. He contented himself with holding her gun wrist in such a position that she couldn't shoot him, and with warding off her attempts to bite, scratch and kick. At last, when she found that all her efforts were unavailing, her shoulders sagged and she let the pistol fall out of her hand.

"I— I could kill you!" she said. Mallory grinned. He deftly caught the pistol with his left hand, reaching over for it as it fell.

"You little fool!" he said. "Did you think you could escape by driving hell-bent-for-leather down this road from Newtown City, in a commandeered car? Don't you know the roads'll be crawling with troopers?"

She stared blankly at him. "Aren't— aren't you going to turn me in?"

"Not me, baby. You're too valuable to me— outside of jail. For a while, anyway."

"I— I don't understand. Who are you?"

"The name is Mallory," he told her. "Rod Mallory."

"The Air Wave Detective!"

He nodded. "WFZ. Five nights a week, at nine o'clock. Theme song." He hummed, A policeman's lot is not a happy one!

"What are you going to do with me?" she demanded.

"I'm going to take you back to Newtown City. That's the only way you can fool them. They'll never expect to catch you, heading back."

"And then?"

"I'm going to put you on the air tonight. I have an hour and thirty-five minutes to go before broadcast time. I think I can manage it. In return for your guest appearance, I'll guarantee, on behalf of my sponsor, to hire the best lawyer in the state to defend you. If you're innocent, we'll get you acquitted. If you're guilty, we'll try to squeeze you past the electric chair. That ought to be fairly easy with your looks."

She studied him as if he were some strange animal.

"Don't— don't you care whether I'm innocent or guilty?"

"I don't give a damn," he told her frankly. "All I want is to get sensational stuff on the air. As for you, you might as well agree. You can't get anywhere by running away. They'll catch you before morning. You'll be better off playing ball with me. It's lucky for you I happened to be driving along here."

"And if I don't agree?"

"I'll turn you in to the cops," he told her cheerfully. She sat silent for perhaps two minutes. Then she raised her head.

"All right, you ghoul," she said. "I'll do it. I suppose you're right about giving myself up. I'd be caught sooner or later. But how are you going to put me on the air— with all the police in the world looking for me? They'll be up at the studio before I can say two words."

"Leave it to me," Mallory told her. "Climb in the back. You'll find my suitcase there— I was up-state for the week-end. There's underwear, socks, shorts, ties, and two suits. Even a hunting cap. Take your pick. Now snap it up. There may be police along here any minute."

SHE left her purse in front and climbed over in the back. She got the valise open and pulled out the clothing. Mallory switched on the radio, then while it was warming up, he asked without turning his head: "By the way—whom did you murder?"

"I didn't murder anybody!" she told him savagely.

"Is that why they're hunting you?"

"That's why I'm running away. I don't see how I can prove my innocence."

"According to the law of this country you don't have to prove your innocence. The district attorney has to prove you're guilty."

Before she could reply, the radio came alive. It was another announcer this time, but the topic was still the same:

" ...The most sensational murder of the decade. Linda Blake, the young woman who was being held as a material witness in the Obermeier shooting, had been closeted alone with District Attorney Cunningham, who was showing her a number of pictures for the purpose of identification. She had not, up to that moment, been suspected of complicity in the Obermeier case, but it seems that the police overlooked a bet.

"No one knows exactly how it occurred, but a shot was heard from the district attorney's office, and by the time the officers on duty were able to break the door down, they found only the dead body of District Attorney Cunningham, shot through the back of the head. The window was open, and Linda Blake was gone..."

Mallory turned the radio off.

"So Cunningham is the man you didn't kill, eh?" She didn't answer. She just kept on dressing, in silence. At last she said, "All right. What'll I do with my old clothes?"

"Pack them in the valise."

She did so, and then climbed back beside him. She had put on his tan hunting jacket and his corduroy trousers. She had turned the cuffs up. The jacket was too large in the shoulders, and it bung down almost to her knees. The hunting cap sat low on her head hiding the blonde bobbed hair.

Mallory grunted. "Hell, you look just like a dame disguised as a man!"

He got out of the car, went around in front and opened the hood. He put his hand in around the carburetor and jiggled the needle-valve regulator until a generous amount of gasoline dripped out. He caught it in his cupped hand came back with it, and smeared it over her face.

"That helps a little." he said. They had hardly gone a quarter of a mile farther before a powerful pair of headlights, with a bright red spotlight between them, appeared on the road, speeding toward them.

"That's a police car," he said. "Sit tight."

The police car slowed down as it approached, and straddled the road so Mallory couldn't pass. He brought his car to a stop. A plainclothes detective jumped out and came running over.

"Say, Mister, have you seen a woman—"

The detective stopped, and grunted. He said nothing to Mallory, but turned around and addressed someone in the police car.

"It's Brain-Wave Mallory, captain," he said disgustedly. "With another guy."

A string of profanity issued from the police oar, followed by a tall, powerfully built man with a pair of wide-spaced, shrewd eyes.

"Why, good evening, Captain Carrigan," Mallory said pleasantly.

"Ar-rgh!" said Captain Carrigan. "That does it. It wasn't bad enough, but this has to happen to me. So many people have fatal accidents driving at night, Mallory. Why can't you have one?"

Carrigan came up close to the car and looked suspiciously at Mallory, then at Linda Blake.

"Oh— er— permit me," said Mallory. "Let me introduce my new assistant, Johnny Smith"— motioning toward Linda. Then: "Johnny, I want you to meet Captain Carrigan, head of the Newtown City Homicide Squad. You'll be seeing a lot of Captain Carrigan in the future. He comes up every night after the broadcast to bawl hell out of me for stealing a march on the police department!"

HARRIGAN Swore feelingly under his breath. He brushed the introduction aside, with only a cursory glance at the dirty-faced young man seated beside Mallory.

"We had some motor trouble a way back," Mallory explained, "and Johnny got himself good and dirty fixing it up. Johnny's a wonder with motors and things. I've hired him as general all-around utility man. One of his jobs will be to shoo cops out of the studio during the broadcasts."

"Never mind that now!" Carrigan snapped impatiently. "We're looking for Linda Blake. I suppose there's no use asking if you saw her?"

Mallory grinned. "What do you think, captain?"

"I know damned well what I think. I think that if you did meet her, you've figured out a way to smuggle her into town for your broadcast. And while every man on the force is out looking for her, you'll put her on the air and make us look like fools."

"Why do you think she did it?" Mallory asked. "Why do you think she killed the D. A.?"

"Why!" Carrigan grunted. "Because Cunningham must have got the goods on her. He must have tricked her into an admission of some kind. We were pretty sure that Buster Vallon was behind the Obermeier kill. Cunningham had a picture of Vallon that he was going to show her for identification. But he must have found out something else in there, and she saw the jig was up, so she killed Cunningham and lammed."

"Vallon, eh?" Mallory said reflectively. "So Buster Vallon is mixed up in this!"

"I'll say he's mixed up! We're morally certain he killed Obermeier. But there's nothing to arrest him on. We thought the Blake girl would identify him from the picture— since she saw the actual shooting. But instead, what does she do? She kills the D. A. It was cold-blooded murder, I tell you, and she'll fry for it!"

Mallory could sense the sudden tautening beside him of Linda Blake's slender body. He said hastily,

"I better be moving on, captain. I'll be late for the broadcast—" Carrigan was leaning in at the window, smiling sweetly.

"Don't leave us yet, my dear Mr. Mallory. We would just like to check on you a little bit, to make sure you didn't meet her on the road, and are kind of smuggling her in."

He extended his hand. "The key," he said.

"The key to the trunk compartment!" Mallory shrugged and handed over the key. The other detective took it and went around to the back. They could hear him fiddling with the lock. "She's not in there, captain."

Carrigan nodded. He had already glanced into the rear window, to make sure no one was hiding there.

"All right, Mallory," he said. "Go ahead. But remember— if you're pulling a fast one on me, I'll jug you for aiding and abetting, and for accessory after the fact. I'll give it to you with both barrels."

"I know you'd enjoy that, captain," Mallory said. He pulled away.

Linda Blake sat straight and stiff and silent as he drove on toward Newtown City. Several times he glanced sideways at her, but neither of them spoke. At last, just as they reached the outskirts of Newtown City, she said, "I didn't kill Cunningham, you know."

"I'm listening," he said.

SHE took a deep breath, then went on slowly. "Cunningham had a sheaf of pictures in his hand. He was sitting with the window at his right. His office is on the ground floor, in the rear of the courthouse—"

"I know, I know," Mallory said impatiently. "Go on."

"Cunningham spread the pictures on the desk. He told me that the picture of the man they suspected was among them. He said they couldn't arrest that man on suspicion, because he was very influential in the city, and had powerful friends. But if I identified the picture, they'd go ahead with the arrest."

"He didn't tell you the man's name?"

"No. He got up from the desk, and I started to look through the pictures. Most of them were not police photographs, but were clipped from newspapers. I found the right one immediately. It was a thin, tall man, with very narrow eyes. I remembered it distinctly. I could never forget it, because I had seen that man shoot down poor Mr. Obermeier this morning, in cold blood. I started to put my finger on that picture when the door opened. "It wasn't the door to the corridor, but a private door at the back of Mr. Cunningham's office. A man came in, with a gun in his hand. It was the same one whose picture I had found. Cunningham hadn't heard the door open, but I had just looked up as that man came in. He didn't say anything. He just pointed the pistol at the back of Mr. Cunningham's neck and fired it. Then he looked at me, and said, 'Sorry, sister, I have one for you, too!'

"He pointed the gun at me. I screamed and jumped for the window. He must have fired again. I don't know. I fell head-first out of the window. Luckily it was only a few feet above the ground. I started to run. I looked back, but I didn't see the man at the window. I heard a commotion, and the sound of some one trying to break down the door of Mr. Cunningham's office.

"I ran around to the front of the courthouse and went inside, intending to get hold of one of the officers and tell him what had happened. But just as I got inside, I heard the door cave in under their attack, and one of the policemen shouted. 'The D. A. is dead. The dame killed him. She made a getaway out the window. Look out for her. She must still have the gun!' "

Linda Blake paused. She kept looking straight ahead, her hands clasped tight in her lap.

"I was scared. I knew they'd never give me a chance to explain. So I turned and went out. No one stopped me. They weren't looking for me out in front. I realized I was a fugitive. I went to a pawn shop on the east side, and bought that automatic. I wasn't going to give myself up. I— I really didn't know what to do, but I remembered that a hunted person must always keep cool, so I tried not to lose my head...." Her voice trailed off. She was sobbing at last, silently, trying to repress it as best she could.

"Lay off," Mallory said, gruffly. "I can't stand crying women."

"I'm not crying!" she flared. "Do you believe me? Do you believe my story?" "

Yes," he said. "I believe it. That was Buster Vallon who came in the back way and shot Cunningham. You were right to run away. You wouldn't have stood a chance. Vallon must have fixed himself a good alibi. Your story would fall flat as a pancake. As it is now, you wouldn't be any good as a witness against him in the Obermeier case, either. Not when you're wanted for murder."

"What will I do then?"

"Just as I tell you. I'll get you out of this—"

"Thank you."

"Or else I'll come and kiss you goodbye on the night you fry!"

She flounced around in the seat. The oversized hunting cap slipped down over her forehead.

"You're a ghoul!" she said.

He chuckled, and swung the car off the main street and into a side street. A block or two farther on, he stopped in front of a small, run-down hotel. The place was deserted, except for a clerk behind the desk.

"Hello, Rod," said the clerk, looking interestedly at the dirty face of Linda Blake. "What you got this time?"

"Gimme Rooms 20 and 21, the same as I had last time," Mallory said quickly. "Here's a hundred. Another hundred after the broadcast."

The clerk nodded, took two keys off the rack, and slid them along the counter.

"You got a broadcast in an hour and five minutes," he said.

"Don't I know it!" Mallory said.

HE LED Linda up the stairs to the second floor, inserted the key in the door of Room 21, and pushed her in. It was a small, comfortable room, with a neat bed, a desk and a chair. There was a telephone on the desk, with a hush-a-phone attached to it.

"This is where you're going to broadcast from," he told her. He strode across to the telephone, and dialed the number of WFZ.

"Freddy?" he asked. "Listen, I'm putting on a hot one tonight. Linda Blake. She'll broadcast from this phone. Hook everything up, have it ready to click on the minute. Keep this line open from now on."

He glanced at his watch. "Fifty-five minutes before I go on the air," he told Linda.

"And I've got plenty to do! You sit tight in here, and don't open the door for anyone. I'll be back by nine at the latest. If I don't get back in time, you pick up that phone and tell Freddy you're ready to go on—"

"But— but what'll I say?"

"Tell them just what you told me— in your own words."

"I— I don't know how to start."

"Never let it worry you. Anyway, I have a hunch you won't have to worry about it. So long now, and remember, don't open that door for anyone but me. If anything comes up that you can't handle, tell it to Freddy. His ear will be glued to that phone till broadcast time!"

He squeezed her hand, patted her on the head, and went out. He waited a moment to be sure she locked the door behind him, then he went down the stairs fast. He waved to the clerk at the desk, dashed out into the street, and got under the wheel of his car. He drove like a whirlwind for ten blocks, keeping his eye constantly on the dashboard clock. It was eight-twenty when he pulled up in front of a small, quiet night club with a very modest electric sign which said:

buster vallon's place

Buster Vallon had his finger in a good many unsavory pies, but he was a modest man. He kept his name out of most of those pies, and where it appeared, he never used capital letters. This little night club was quite a gold mine. It never advertised, never sought publicity; yet its sexy shows and its gambling tables kept it filled night after night.

Obermeier, an investigator for the District Attorney's office, had been shot right in this street that morning, a hundred feet from the club. Linda Blake had been passing when she had seen Obermeier and Vallon come out of the club, arguing forcefully. She had seen Vallon take out a gun and shoot Obermeier, and duck into a side alley.

There had been half a dozen other witnesses of the shooting, but they had all strangely disappeared.

Linda Blake had stayed to talk to the police, and her reward had been to be held as a material witness, without bail. But Vallon had a perfect alibi, putting him at the other end of the city when Obermeier had been shot.

Rod Mallory parked his car directly in front of the club's entrance, waved aside the protestations of the uniformed doorman, and plunged into the club. He knew his way around in here. He ducked a headwaiter, turned left past the cloakroom, and bounded up the stairs to the first floor.

The gambling rooms were located up here, and it took him five precious minutes to get past the suave gunman who was on guard there.

"Look, Mike," he said at last, "if you don't tell Vallon I'm here, you may be out on your ear tomorrow. Just go in and tell Vallon I want to see him— about Linda Blake!"

Mike yielded on that, and went down the hall. He turned almost at once and said, "Come on."

Buster Vallon wasn't very cordial. He waved Mike out, and waited till the door was closed. Then he turned his narrow eyes to his visitor. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out an automatic. Very deliberately he clicked off the safety. He rested his hand, holding the gun, on the glass top of the desk.

"All right, Mallory," he said softly. "I know you, and you know me. I know how you work, and you know how I work. You said you wanted to see me about Linda Blake. Go ahead and say your piece."

MALLORY wasn't fazed by the sight of the gun. He dropped nonchalantly into the easy chair opposite the desk, acting as if he had all the time m the world— whereas the electric clock on the wall behind Vallon said eight thirty-two.

"The police are looking for Linda Blake, Buster," he said. "They won't find her—till I turn her in."

Vallon's face did not change expression. But his eyes became a little narrower.

"You have her?"

"Yes, Buster, I have her."

"Where?"

Mallory only smiled. He didn't answer. Vallon sighed. He took his narrow eyes from Mallory, and looked down at the automatic. He turned it around, as if admiring the blued-steel sheen of the barrel.

"How do I know you have her?" he asked in a low soft voice. "You should have some proof. Something to convince me that you have her."

Mallory nodded. He raised his glance to the ceiling, and quoted:

" 'Sorry, sister, I have one for you, too.' "

He waited a moment, still looking at the ceiling. Then he slowly brought his gaze down to meet Vallon's. "Well?" he asked.

Vallon sighed again. He leveled the automatic so that it was pointing at Mallory's heart.

"Where is she?" he asked. Mallory smiled.

"You can put that gun away. It won't do you any good to shoot me."

"What do you want?"

"Ah," said Mallory. "I knew you'd be reasonable. I was pretty sure you'd have all the torpedoes in town out looking for Linda Blake. You don't want her to fall into the hands of the police. You want her dead, so she can't tell that little story about the thin man with the narrow eyes who walked into Cunningham's office through the back door, and shot him dead. Do you?"

Vallon was silent for a minute.

Then he said; "No. No, I don't want her to talk. How much do you want?"

"Is it worth fifty grand?" Mallory asked. Vallon smiled crookedly.

"So you're no better than the rest of them! I always thought you were a boy scout— couldn't be bribed. I figured you were making enough out of your sponsor. But you're just like all the others. Money talks with you, too."

"Got any objections?" Mallory demanded.

"On the contrary. I'm glad to find this out. Yes, fifty grand is okay."

"I'll take it now."

Vallon shook his head. "I'll give you ten now. You take me to her— and make damned sure that no one sees me— and after I finish with her, you get the rest."

"Are you going to do it yourself?"

"Yes. I'm going to do it myself. This will be between you and me."

"You'll play square with me, Vallon?"

"Why, sure I'll play square. You can trust me!"

He opened the bottom drawer or his desk, withdrew a tin box and counted out ten thousand dollars in fifties and hundreds. Mallory took the money, put it in his pocket, and looked at the clock.

Eight forty-five. Fifteen minutes before broadcast time.

"Let's go," he said. Vallon got up from behind the desk, put on his hat, and motioned toward the door. Mallory reached it first. Mike was standing just outside, in the corridor.

Vallon said, "Just a minute, Mallory." Then he turned to the gunman. "Fan him, Mike."

Mallory looked pained, but he offered no objection when Mike went over him thoroughly.

"He's clean, Buster," said Mike.

"I never carry a gun," Mallory said.

"So I've heard," Vallon smiled. "But it's always best to be on the safe side."

"You want me to trust you— but you don't trust me."

"Not entirely— yet. It doesn't seem natural that a guy like you should be so easy to buy. Still, you never can tell. I'm willing to be convinced. But— while you're convincing me, I'm taking no chances."

Mallory shrugged. "You're paying off. You're entitled to have it your way."

HE FOLLOWED Vallon downstairs and out of the club. He climbed in under the wheel, and Vallon got in beside him. With his eye on the dashboard clock, Mallory drove back to the little hotel. He didn't pull up at the front this time, but swung into an alley about fifty feet down, turned off the lights and left the car there. Then he led Vallon through two back yards, and into the basement entrance of the hotel.

"We'll take the back stairs," he said. "There's not a chance of your being spotted. And we can get out the same way." Vallon nodded. His eyes were glittering now. He said nothing. As they made their way up the stairs, Mallory glanced at his wrist watch. It was eight fifty-five.

"Haven't you got a program, at nine?" Vallon asked.

"To hell with the program," Mallory told him, with an affectation of carelessness. "This is a real chance to knock off some real dough."

"Yeah," Vallon said drily. "You're surely going to knock off some real dough this time!"

Mallory looked at him swiftly. "How do you mean that?"

"Don't get nervous now," Vallon told him. "It only meant, you're getting fifty grand out of this."

Mallory reached the door of Room 21, and knocked twice. He glanced at his watch again: It was eight fifty-nine. He heard Linda's voice at the door.

"Who is it?"

"Mallory," he said. "Open up."

"Just a minute," she said. "My trousers are slipping."

A moment later she opened the door and let them in. She had taken a sash cord from one of the curtains and tied it around her waist, under the jacket, to keep the trousers up. Mallory's clothes, now that she was standing up, were far too large for her. She started to say something to Mallory, and then she saw Vallon. Her face became white. A haunted, frantic look came into her eyes.

She said to Mallory, "Is this what you saved me for? All that talk of getting me off—"

Vallon gave her no time to finish. He kicked the door shut, felt behind him and turned the lock, and at the same time he took the automatic out of his pocket.

Mallory looked at his wrist watch. It was nine-one. They were on the air. He said in a loud voice, "Miss Linda Blake, I want you to meet Buster Vallon. Now that we're all together here in Room 21 of Lytle's Hotel, we can get down to business. I think you've met Mr. Vallon before, haven't you, Linda? He's the man who shot Obermeier to death this morning, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Linda Blake.

"And he's the man who came into Cunningham's office today, through the back door, and shot him in the back of the head?"

"Yes."

"He tried to shoot you, too?"

"Yes." She looked directly at Vallon. "He tried to shoot me, too, but he missed. I escaped through the window."

"All right," said Mallory. He turned to Vallon. "There you are, Buster."

Buster Vallon said softly, "Yes. Here we are."

He raised the automatic. Mallory turned to the girl.

"Vallon is going to kill you, Linda. You're too dangerous to him while you're alive. Your testimony might not be able to convict him, and then again it might. He doesn't want to take a chance on a trial. He'll feel safer when you're dead."

"Oh, you— you ghoul!" she exclaimed. "I put my life in your hands— and this is what you do with it!"

"Too bad, sister," said Vallon. "You shouldn't have talked to the D. A. You should have done what any other smart dame would do in the circumstances— keep your mouth shut. Now you've got to go out. But if it's any consolation to you, I'll tell you that Mallory is going, too!"

He looked at Mallory, and smiled thinly. He kept the automatic pointed at him. "Sucker, did you think I'd pay you fifty grand?"

"No," said Mallory. "I didn't think so. I thought you'd want to knock me off, too. Remember— you told me that you know how I work, and I know how you work? Well, you were wrong. I know how you work, all right; but you don't know how I work!"

VALLON didn't move from his position at the door. His finger was curled around the trigger of the automatic. He had power in that weapon, and he knew it— the power to kill. But there was something he didn't understand; something that made him feel suspicious, tricked.

"Just what do you mean?" he asked. Mallory nodded toward the radio on the night table near the bed.

"Turn it on," he said. "It's all tuned in to WFZ."

Warily Vallon did so. A buzz of static came over the radio, growing in volume, then disappeared. There was silence.

"Now I'll show you what I mean, Buster Vallon," said Mallory. "You've been on the air for exactly seven minutes!"

Vallon jumped as if he had been shot— because although Mallory was standing on the other side of the room from him, Mallory's voice was blasting from the radio speaker! It didn't take Vallon more than a moment to realize how he had been tricked.

His eyes swung to the telephone with its hush-a-phone attachment on the desk, and for the first time he noticed that the receiver was off the hook. Usually, a telephone is the commonest sight in a room, and no one pays it any attention. Vallon had been preoccupied with keeping Mallory and Linda covered, and with preparing himself for the double murder. Now, however, he knew that he had only trapped himself.

Mallory said loudly, "Ladies and gentlemen of the radio audience! This is Rod Mallory, the Air-Wave Detective, broadcasting the solution of your latest mystery. Hold on to your seats, the end is not yet. Buster Vallon is now going to pull the trigger which will send Linda Blake and your reporter into eternity. Listen for the shots!"

Vallon's face was contorted into a terrible grimace of hate and rage. He saw that he was trapped inextricably.

"All right," he rasped. "This is for your radio audience. I'm finished, and so are you! Damn you all!" he shrieked. "Damn you and damn your radios! Here's hating you all!"

But Vallon never fired the shot.

The connecting doorway to Room 20 was thrust violently open. Captain Carrigan and Detective Infield appeared, both with guns in their hands, and both guns bellowing. Their slugs blasted into the body of Buster Vallon, and sent him crashing backward into the wall, dead before he slid down to the floor. And out of the radio speaker came the reverberating echoes of those shots, going out to all the wide-spread homes which were tuned in to the coast-to-coast hook-up of WFZ's affiliates.

Mallory grinned, and turned around and caught Linda Blake around the waist, just as she was about to crumple up in a faint.

"Now listen," he begged, "don't go soft on me now!"

"Who's going soft!" she said. And then she really did faint. Mallory held on to her and carried her to a chair.

Captain Carrigan said to him, "Infield and I figured you might produce Linda Blake at the broadcast, so we drove back to town and hung around the studio. We were only two minutes from here when your broadcast started, and you told the world where you were. The clerk downstairs told us about the next room. It was a close shave, Mallory. Damn it, you put it over—"

"Naughty, naughty," Mallory said, grinning. "Such language to use— when you're on the air!"

______________

13: The Shadow Jumper

Herman Howard Matteson

1876-1951

Munsey’s Magazine, June, 1922

ROSIE GRAHAM hadn’t had a real home for years— not since her mother died; nor had Billy Latimor had a home worth the title since he was fifteen years old. Rosie now was twenty, Billy twenty-six.

Billy, who had been working on fish traps and deep sea diving outfits up and down the southeastern Alaska coast for ten years, had not especially yearned for a permanent abiding place until he got acquainted with Rosie. Then, all of a sudden, he wanted a home very badly, with Rosie in it; and he told her so.

Now Rosie was not in the least averse to pouring Billy’s coffee for him, mending his socks, and bossing him when he required bossing; and she said so, without coquetry or circumlocution.

“Well, then, Rosie,” said Billy, grinning down upon her fondly, “let’s I and you shake out our rags, wing into Wrangel, and sign up the articles.”

Two spots of red began to burn upon Rosie’s cheeks. Her eyes grew bright.

“No, Billy— not now. It hain’t that I don’t love you half to death, because I do. You see, fact is, me knocking around so, working a season in a cannery here, lacquering tin cans another season there— well, truth is I hain’t got clothes fitten to be married in. Besides, I hain’t got no hope chest. You ain’t a woman, Billy, or you’d understand. A girl thinks a whole lot of nice things, pillow slips, tablecloths with initials rove onto ’em, and so forth. Honest, Billy, not demeaning you a mite, clothes, fine gear for the house, is ’most as important to a girl as the man she aims to marry.”

Billy Latimor’s hand reached into a cavernous pocket of his tarpaulin trousers, and drew forth a dirty tobacco sack that bulged and chinked.

“No, no, Billy!” protested Rosie, shoving away the tobacco sack. “Put away your money. I know you got a heart big as a fish trap spiller; but I can’t take the money. Maybe it’s fool pride, Billy, but I just can’t marry till I’ve saved up my very own money and boughten tablecloths with initials onto ’em, and six pair of silk stockings, and— and other things. I just can’t!”

That, for the time, ended it. Billy saw Rosie’s point of view. He had the sensibility to know that a hurt pride is the most mortal of hurts, so he urged her no further. One evening Billy came to the chuck shack where Rosie was cooking for a small logging outfit, and called her to the door.

“You’re so plumb set on earning your own wedding outfit money,” said Billy, grinning at her and pawing about in the darkness to find her hand, “I suppose the better wages you can grab, the better, and the quicker. Well, Tel Gifford— him that’s boss of the salmon trap driving outfit—he wants me to go diving for him, twenty a day, two hours on, two hours off. He’s got a cook, Tel has, but he wants a cookee. Hundred a month clear, cookee pays. That’s more than you get here. The outfit pulls out to-night, Rosie. We’ll be driving up and down the coast, Sitka to Ketchikan, maybe four months. Why not, Rosie, for you to take the job? Then I and you can see each other every day, quarrel and make up, and get acquainted good. End of the season, you’ll have your four hundred dollars— you said you allowed it would take four hundred to buy the gear you want—and I’ll have all my wages, and we can warp into Wrangel together and pull off this wedding stylish as can be. What say, Rosie?”

It was a go. Rosie resigned from the logging outfit, packed her turkey—a fisherman’s dunnage bag— and moved aboard the chow ark, as the kitchen scow of a trap concern is called. With the turn of the tide, the outfit moved, an important, puffing tug towing the pile driver, the scow house, the chow ark, and the scow from which the divers worked.

ii

ROSIE and Billy had agreed to keep their engagement secret. Lovers aren’t lovers at all unless they have secrets, “the foolisher the fonder,” as Billy said. So nothing was said of the relationship between them.

Which was a mistake.

Zeno Lachise, the cook of the trap outfit, Rosie’s immediate boss— a fat little man with black shoe button eyes, a fellow of prodigious self-conceit— immediately conceived a liking for the plump and wholesome cookee, and decided to permit her to bask in the smiles of his regard.

“Rosee!” whispered Zeno, sidling up to her, bestowing a waxy smirk. “I kees your hand!”

“Oh, don’t you do it, Zeno,” Rosie replied saucily. “I just had this hand in a barrel of salt salmon bellies, getting some out for breakfast. Don’t!”

Rarely do profound egotism and a sense of humor dwell together. Zeno Lachise found no rebuke in Rosie’s crude rejoinder. The cook continued to make his advances, none of them too subtle or delicate.

At first the girl rebuffed him with good-natured laughter, then with a slap of a firm, purposeful hand that landed the Lothario up against a red-hot galley stove. That staggering slap Mr. Lachise understood. It exploded his conceit as a flung pebble bursts the fish bladders that little Indian boys fasten to their seal spears. His shoe button eyes fastened themselves upon Rosie with an ophidian glitter. Then he made the only sort of reply of which he was capable— a burst of profanity and vulgarity.

From that time on, the cook watched Rosie’s every move. When any of the crew offered her chaff or badinage, Zeno was behind a door, around the corner of the scow house, listening. His insane jealousy drove him into a murderous mood. Even a cook may be dangerous when his coxcomb self-sufficiency has been ravaged.

Zeno’s searching vision of jealousy very soon discovered what no other man of the crew had remarked— that there was something between the pretty little cookee and Billy Latimor. Rosie had told Billy nothing of the attempted gallantries of the cook. Not that Billy would have been jealous, but she was ashamed to tell him. Somehow she felt degraded, sullied, and she didn’t want to tell any one, Billy least of all.

Zeno began to watch Latimor. When Billy and Rosie sat upon the end of the scow in the evening, the cook would creep along the deck, his ear eager for the words that the lovers were whispering. Sundays, when they would go ashore, Zeno followed, prowling over the rocks and stumps like a fat tomcat, seeking a hidden place where he could look and listen. Of this sneaking espionage Rosie shortly became aware; also of the threatening fact that the cook had taken to wearing, beneath his work apron, a deadly, broad-bladed French knife.

“Oh, I know you’re packing a knife,” said Rosie, pointing to the bulge of the knife handle. “You’d better shuck it. If you don’t, I go straight to Tel Gifford.”

Lachise shucked the knife, but he did not shuck his hate, or the determination to destroy Billy Latimor that festered within his fleshly entity like an eating cancer.

The weeks passed without untoward event. Unpleasant weeks for Rosie they were, for the cook found ways to insult and persecute the defenseless girl. She didn’t dare tell Billy. She didn’t care to cause a scene, or to be the occasion of a possible tragedy. So she bore all the persecution and said nothing, though she watched the little cook’s every move.

Toward the latter part of the season one of the four divers of the crew, Billy Latimor’s shift mate, received a terrible slash from the tusk of a sea lion that had got tangled into the sunken webbing. The poor fellow was taken to Wrangel on the tug, and Billy continued to work below water alone, fastening the wire netting to the pilings of the lead of the trap. Presently the divers would be at work on the spiller of the trap— an immense sack of cotton webbing held bottom downward in the trap by means of ropes called down-hauls. The water was deep where the spiller stood, and the tides were running strongly. Rosie would be thankful when this dangerous business was done, thankful when the season was over and she and Billy could get away. More than once she had rebuked herself for the foolish longing for clothes and fine fixings that had brought this situation to pass.

If she had done as Billy had wished, why, Zeno Lachise would never have seen her. Too late now for regrets! It would soon be over. She would have her four hundred dollars, and she and Billy— but what if, at the very last, something should happen to Billy?

Every moment Rosie endeavored to keep track of both Lachise and Latimor. When she knew Billy was down in the diving rig, she seized every opportunity to steal a look, through the door or window, at the diving scow, to make certain that Herve Holliday, the watch, was attending to the air and looking after the signal cord. If Lachise left the chow ark, on some pretext Rosie would contrive to follow and to learn what he was up to.

Having followed Billy and Rosie ashore one Sunday, while maneuvering to find a place from which he could watch the lovers, the cook ran into a patch of ripe salal berries. Lachise, really a good cook, and something of a gourmet himself, though he swore he never ate anything, conceived the idea of putting up a quantity of salal berry jam. On Monday morning, when the breakfast dishes were done and the spuds peeled for the midday meal, he ordered Rosie to go ashore and pick a couple of buckets of the berries.

She could think of no possible excuse for refusing, so she took the two shiny tin pails and was upon the point of stepping into the dory when a second craft came rowing out from shore.

Rosie paused a moment to learn the identity of the visitor, for callers were few on that remote shore. As the battered rowboat approached the chow ark, she noted that the man at the oars was a gaunt, awkward fellow, hollow-eyed, a man who had the appearance of having been ill.

Landing upon the scow, he glanced over his shoulder furtively, his lips twitching nervously.

“Say,” called the stranger through the door to Zeno, “can a pile driver man out of a job grab a take of muckamuck?”

Lachise came to the door, a malevolent scowl upon his fat face. For a full moment he regarded the stranger. Then the scowl relaxed, and the shoe button eyes suddenly gleamed.

“Why, you’re Jess Jenner!” exclaimed Lachise. “You work on the same outfit with me up the Kuskokwim, didn’t you?”

The fellow gave a start and folded nervous hands across his breast. “Yes— I worked the Kuskokwim, I remember you. You was cook.”

“Come in,” invited Zeno. “Sure you can have a take of muckamuck.”

Rosie could hear Lachise dishing out the stranger some mush left from the morning meal, and pouring him some coffee. Just a moment longer she dared to linger, her body bent in an attitude of listening.

“Out of a job just now, Jenner?” inquired the cook.

“Yes,” answered the stranger.

“Say!” said Zeno Lachise, lowering his voice to a tone of confidence. “How did you happen lose your last job? Same old thing— shadow jumping?”

Jenner took a great gurgling gulp of coffee before he replied. “Yes,” he said resignedly; “same old thing— shadow jumping. I just naturally can’t help it. Something wrong here, in my head, that I can’t help.”

“Did you— anybody get hurt this last whirl, Jenner?”

“Why, yes— I near killed Dave Tull. Now you know I didn’t have a thing in the world ag’in’ Dave Tull. Near killed him!”

“Well, it’s too bad,” consoled the philosophical Lachise. “I guess you can’t help it. Kind of tough on the— the other fellow, though, Jenner!”

The cook emitted his mirthless, cackling laugh. Rosie could hear Jenner thrusting his bowl across the table to the cook, to be replenished.

“I was figuring on striking this outfit for a job,” said Jenner. “I didn’t suppose— I wasn’t looking to find any one here that knowed me. As you’re here, I might as well wing out and go on.”

“Jenner,” answered the cook, his voice smooth and oily, “I hain’t going to say a word. There’s a job open on this outfit right now, too. I won’t say a word except that I know you and that you’re a first-class man—that’s all I’ll say.”

“Zeno, that’s white of you— white. Thanks!”

Rosie heard the visitor scrape his chair back from the table and ask Zeno where the boss was to be found. Both men were crossing the floor toward the door of the chow ark.

She leaped lightly into the dory, thrust it away, and rowed swiftly toward the shore. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw the cook pointing to the driver, where Tel Gifford, the boss, might be found. She saw Zeno beckon to Herve Holliday, the watch on the diving scow, to shove his dory across the narrow space of water for the use of Jess Jenner.

Rosie landed, scrambled up the bank, and began picking the salal berries. Over and again, with a strange feeling of discomfiture and apprehension, she reviewed the conversation between Lachise and Jess Jenner.

Shadow jumping! What was a shadow jumper?

iii

SHORTLY before noon Rosie returned to the chow ark, her two buckets filled with the plump, sticky salal berries. At once she busied herself setting the long table and helping in the task of serving the midday meal. Billy Latimor came in with a number of men from the driver.

Billy ate his meal, walked out upon the deck, and paused to study the bulletin board, where Tel Gifford, the boss, always kept posted the names of the men of the various crews, the tasks assigned, and the hours of the shifts. Billy was to dive from one to three, again from five to seven. That last shift would be a dangerous one, for the tide would be at the full of the flood. Seizing the very first chance that she had had, Rosie walked out upon the deck. She wanted to ask Billy what a shadow jumper was. She hesitated to ask any of the other men.

But she was too late. Billy had crossed to the diving scow and was already climbing into the heavy rubber rig with the lead soles and the bulging, glass-eyed metal helmet. Rosie turned to the bulletin board. Billy was posted to dive with Thomas, who was then rowing toward the diving scow. The shift following Billy’s, Smiley was to dive with Jess Jenner. The shadow jumper, then, was a diver, and had been assigned to work by Tel Gifford. Feeling unaccountably thankful that Jenner was working with Smiley, not with Billy Latimor, Rosie began washing up the dishes. Upon the stove bubbled a great caldron of salal berry jam. In a dish upon the table was a quantity of the berries, and crust rolled out for pies.

“Rosee,” said Lachise, “you might as well keep on picking berries this afternoon. Better pick three pails. If it makes you late, never mind— I’ll handle supper alone.” Lachise pointed to the three buckets. “I’ll row you ashore,” he said. “I want to have the dory here at the scow. If I get time, I’ll come and pick a bucket of berries myself. When you get your pails full, if I haven’t come ashore, call, and I’ll put in and get you.”

The cook wadded up his apron and tucked it in at the belt. He rowed Rosie ashore, deposited her on the beach with the three buckets, and rowed back. The girl sat about filling the pails with berries, but found her fingers strangely awkward. She dropped almost as many upon the earth as found their way into the buckets. Constantly she glanced back at the chow ark and the diving scow, and bent her head to listen.

The sun was dipping westward, and she had filled only one of the three pails. She thought of giving up the task and calling to Zeno to come and get her. She could plead a headache as an explanation; but she hated to fall down on a job, to supply any excuse for the fat cook’s profane abuse. She heard a crunching noise upon the beach, and stooped to peer beneath the overhang of the fir branches. Dan McCush, the engineer of the driver, was walking slowly along the beach, looking for something. She scrambled down the slope and approached the gray-haired engineer.

“Hello, Rosie! I’m looking for a straight piece of cedar. Got a leak in the water tank, and I want to whittle some plugs. Here— here’s what I need.” McCush picked up a bit of driftwood and started back toward the dory in which, he had landed.

“Dan,” said Rosie, averting her gaze, “what is— I want to ask— did you ever hear of a shadow jumper? If it’s something you’d rather not— not tell a girl, why, never mind.”

“Why, it’s all right to tell, Rosie. Hain’t you ever heard of a shadow jumper? Well, a shadow jumper is a crazy man— not crazy like you usually think of folks, but only crazy below water. A shadow jumper is a diver that if a fish swims over him when he’s at work, or a drift log floats over him, or a boat, or anything, why, that shadow jumper goes plumb lunatic. He’ll fight that fish, or that log, with anything he’s got handy. Dangerousest thing, Rosie, is a shadow jumper, when he goes wild, will tackle his shift mate with a crowbar, or an ax, or anything. Lucky there ain’t many shadow jumpers; but there are some. Why you ask, Rosie?”

Rosie merely shook her head stupidly and turned back down the beach. Before she came out of her daze, Dan McCush had rowed out to the driver and was pounding away noisily, driving plugs into the big iron water tank. She stood staring blankly in the direction of the diving scow.

Even as she looked, Zeno Lachise appeared in the door of the chow ark and called something to Herve Holliday, who was standing by the air pump of the diving rig, minding the signal cords. Rosie saw Holliday give the air pump handle a few vigorous motions, jump into the dory, and push the craft across the space of water to the chow ark.

Infamous! Infamous! Holliday, on diving watch, was deserting his post— the reddest crime in the trap man’s calendar! Holliday, Rosie knew, was the camp glutton. Lachise had called him over for some hot salal berry pie, and he had succumbed to the temptation. Holliday had no more than entered the chow ark when she saw Lachise cast off the painter of Holliday’s dory and give the craft a shove out across the water where the divers were at work. Flinging her arms, screaming hysterically, Rosie called for Lachise to come and get her.

No answer!

The thunder of Dan McCush’s hammer upon the iron tank drowned her cries. Rosie turned and ran down the beach with all her speed. She ran straight to where the line of the pilings of the trap came almost to the shore.

She waded into the water, dug her toes into the mesh of the webbing, and climbed to the top of the piles. Leaping from one pile to another, she made her way toward the body of the trap, toward the spiller where the divers were at work. The first fifty yards she made without difficulty. Then she came to where the pilings felt the force of the rising tide, which swayed them like reeds in a wind. Constantly she shouted for Holliday and Dan McCush.

Frantically she screamed the name of her lover: “Billy! Billy!”

Teetering, balancing on the tops of the wet and swaying timbers, she went steadily on. Finally Holliday heard her, and came rushing from the door. His dory was gone. So was the second dory that had been made fast to the chow ark, for Lachise had sent it adrift.

Weaving to and fro upon the tops of the timbers, now running recklessly, now pausing to catch her balance, Rosie came at length to the decked over heart of the trap. She rushed along the planking and stopped above where the air hose descended to the divers below.

The two lines of hose, the two signal cords inextricably tangled, hauling this way and that through the water, told the story of the battle that was waging in the depths below. With a despairing cry, Rosie plunged from the edge of the trap and swam swiftly to the diver scow.

With all her strength she began winding in upon the winch that would hoist one of the divers to the surface— which one, the man attacked or the maniac shadow jumper, she could not know.

Holliday, who had likewise leaped into the water, now clambered upon the diving scow and began helping Rosie to wind the winch.

At last, in a tangle of air piping and signal cords, two monstrous, bloated rubber images of men appeared just below the surface. Both divers, wrapped in a close and deadly embrace, were coming to the top together.

Locking the winch with the iron ratchet, Rosie and Holliday dragged the divers to the deck of the scow. The glass bull’s-eye of one diving helmet had been struck in by a blow of a hammer. In the rubber hand of his suit, Jenner, the shadow jumper, still grasped the hammer, still was striking feebly at his fellow.

“Quick— this one!” cried Rosie. “We’ve got to get him out of this suit. It’s full of water!”

Rosie snatched the wrench from Holliday’s hand, unscrewed the shattered helmet, and lifted it from place. A face deathly pale looked up at her-as the head rolled weakly— the face of Billy Latimor. Whimpering, calling his name, Rosie drew the inert body from the rubber suit, jackknifed it across her knee, and emptied the water from the man’s lungs. Then she laid Billy upon his back, placed her lips to his, and filled his lungs with her own warm breath. Finally he breathed, opened his eyes, looked up at her, and smiled.

iv

DAN McCUSH was coming over from the driver in a dory. The tugboat also came faring in with, a tow of pilings, which, in response to Rosie’s frantic call, it cut adrift. Before the tug could come alongside, Zeno Lachise had cut the chow ark adrift from its anchor cables. It went whirling away upon the tide. As it neared the shore, carried thither on a back eddy, the cook sprang over the side, swam ashore, and disappeared into the brush.

Lifting his voice, Tel Gifford shouted to all hands— the men on the driver, those in the bunk scow, everybody— to get ashore and hunt down the fugitive.

“Fetch in his meat!” roared Gifford. “That’s all I want— his carcass!”

Toward evening Herve Holliday returned to the chow ark, which Gifford had picked up and returned to its moorings. Holliday had a vicious knife slash across one cheek and a thrust through his left shoulder.

“I tried to square myself, boss,” said Holliday weakly. “Anyway, maybe I done a little toward it. I got him, final, after this!”

Holliday pointed to his wounds. “He fought like a cornered beach rat. I didn’t fetch in his meat like you said, boss. It wasn’t hardly worth it.”

From beneath his torn coat Holliday removed a long-bladed fisherman’s sliming knife, and tossed it upon the deck, where it lay dripping.

Rosie Graham, fetching a clean bit of cloth with which to bind up Holliday’s wounds, passed the bulletin board. She paused for a moment.

“Look here a minute, boss,” she said to Gifford.

Two of the divers’ cards had been transposed in a manner which resulted in the order to Jess Jenner, the shadow jumper, to dive the five to seven o’clock shift with Billy Latimor. The edges of the cards so changed were daubed with little stains of salal berry jam.

Rosie thrust her head in at the door of the bunk house, and then walked inside. Billy Latimor, still looking a little pale, sat by the window.

“Billy,” said Rosie, turning her face to gaze embarrassedly through the window, “you feel good enough to take a little trip?”

“Yeah— why?”

“Tel Gifford is going into Wrangel on the tug, to send Jenner to the government hospital at Townsend. He said I and you might go along. He’s give me two days’ holiday, and you, too. I’m to be cook then— hundred and seventyfive a month. You want to go into Wrangel with us?”

“Yeah— I don’t mind; but what we going for?”

“Billy Latimor, you going to make me ask you outright to come on into Wrangel and get married to me?”

Billy, grinning broadly, arose with alacrity, and began threading his best red necktie through the slit in the blue poker chip that he wore as a scarfpin.

“But you hain’t got no hope chest as yet, Rosie!”

“I’ll get that later. When I do, to make up, I aim to spend six hundred dollars instead of four, or maybe seven hundred.”

The tug shoved in beside the bunk house scow, Billy and Rosie climbed aboard, and away they went for Wrangel.

_________________

14: Night

Louis Joseph Vance

1879-1933

Appleton's, Sep 1907

"AND this is your life!" observed the elder man thoughtfully. The other nodded, smiling his tolerant, pleasant smile.

"Such is my life."

He would have said more, apparently, but, interrupted by the locust warning of the buzzer, he turned and, taking up the nickeled headpiece of the receiver, fitted it to his bead. For a few moments his slender fingers moved deftly about the clustered apparatus on the plain wood table, here tightening a tum-screw, there locking a switch. Then sitting passive, he listened, his abstracted gaze ranging through the open window, over the sun-smitten sweep of dunes and naked glaring beach, beaten upon by sleek, greenbellied, silver-crested combers, over the purple-sheeted sea to the dark heaving rim of it: a prospect patterned in level low lines broken by the abrupt skeleton of the aerial.

"Steamer?'' inquired the guest, bending forward in eager interest.

"Yes— calling Montauk. So far no answer. I'll cut in." The supple fingers were again momentarily busy with the instruments, at length settling gently on the sending key.

Instantaneously, with a rippling crackle startlingly loud, a violet-colored spark like lightning bridged the gap between the platinum knobs of the induction coil. For a brief time there after crash after crash responded in syncopated rhythm to the expert manipulation of the key, shaking the little cottage upon its foundations. As suddenly as it had begun, the racket ceased.

"There's Montauk at last," commented the operator. He swung round, maintaining his intent expression.

"It's the Minnesota, of the Transatlantic Transport Line, two days overdue— heavy weather, she says. Do you care to listen, Wain?"

The elder man assenting, his friend made place for him and surrendered the headpiece. After a time, with a perplexed expression, "I don't hear anything but a faint, intermittent ticking, Speed, like a watch with locomotor ataxia," Wain complained.

Speed laughed quietly. "That's it that's the still small voice of Wireless. It's loud enough— you heard-when it starts out, but after it has filtered through a few odd miles of atmosphere it sneaks down the aerial like a dying whisper."

"I don't understand it at all— don't presume I ever shall." Wain vacated the chair in Speed's favor, but the latter merely laid aside the receiver and shut off the current from the variegated and formidable-looking mechanisms.

"It's simple, really," he explained carelessly. "You've seen ripples widening from the spot where a stone has dropped into a pool? It's just that way with Wireless; you drop an electric impulse into a sea of Hertzian waves, and they go rippling off indefinitely. Now figure to yourself a chip of wood rocked by the wavelets on the pool; it corresponds to the receiving station— the aerial, out there, the sensitive antenna that receives the impulse and passes it on down to the resonator, here. You see?"

"I begin to. And you're devoting your life to this business?"

"Not altogether. I am experimenting with along certain lines; the Wireless paraphernalia is merely a sort of guide."

"Don't the Marconi people object?"

"No-o; we're working together in one direction. I'm on the track of a few simplifications of the system, which is at present clogged by too much machinery."

"But aside from that—?" persisted Wain, inquisitive.

"Those 'certain lines'--?"

"It'd be hard to explain without going pretty deep into an abstruse subject." Speed eyed him a bit uneasily. "You believe in telepathy?"

"Thought transference?" Wain shook his square head, a sturdy skeptic. "I doctor the body of man, not his brain."

"Well, it's in that direction. Few people realize how thin is the wall between the phenomena we call wireless telegraphy and pure, abstract telepathy."

"I hope they never will," grunted the elder man sharply, half in scorn, half in acquiescence. It was with the physician's eye that he looked Speed up and down.

"You're trained pretty fine," he summed up tersely. "Smoking much?"

"Inordinately," laughed Speed. "I always did, you know."

"Hmm. Sleep well?"

"No-o." Speed averted his keen young face from the too searching gaze. "I— er— haven't, you know, since—"

"You're lonely?" It was, however, as much an assertion of fact as a question.

"I have Chester," evaded Speed.

"Your valet? Where is he now?"

"I sent him to New York to make some purchases. He'll be back to-morrow morning."

"Wel-I." Wain consulted his watch. "I presume you realize it's madness—  the quickest, surest way there— to bury yourself alive in this solitude. I am equally convinced that argument and advice would be wasted on you. Come along over to the dock with me; it's nearly six, and if I don't start now I'll be late for dinner."

"Glad to." The two men left the cottage and, turning their backs to the surf, swung shoulder to shoulder along a well-defined path through the dunes, from the sea beach to the edge of the landlocked bay.

Before them, beyond the intense green of the flats, the water stretched wide, a serene sheet mirroring flawlessly the translucent glory of the summer evening's sky. On the farther shore the lighthouse thrust a red finger high above the ragged, dark contour of scrub-oak and pine forest. Along the water line straggled man might be won back to society and the ways of sanity by a little explicit argument based on accepted truths of medical science. But for to-night-

"I'm ready," Wain announced, grasping the tiller and trimming the main sheet. "Till to-morrow, then!"

"I count on you." Speed cast the painter aboard and gave the bows a shove. The cat slid away irresolutely; then, sail filling, it heeled and gathered momentum. Speed watched its breadth of rose-tinted canvas dwindle to a tiny drifting patch ere he turned again toward the lonely cottage in the dunes with a sigh.

For Wain had hit upon the truth; Speed was lonely, desperately so, and more so at that moment, perhaps, than ever he had been since, without warning or explanation, his wife had left him. That day marked the second anniversary of their marriage— since waking his mind had been filled with the consciousness of it. Within six months would come the second anniversary of their separation.... He bowed his head, eyes somber and vacant, lips twitching. For him there could be neither oblivion nor surcease of longing.

For distraction, that night, after eating mechanically, he threw himself with a certain fierce ardor into the pursuit of his vision, struggling, through the long, lamplit hours, with his great problem, the solution of which was to revolutionize the world's methods of communication, doing away not only with the antiquated telegraph and telephone, but with wireless, itself. He dreamed curious dreams, this man; and the greatest of them was this.

It was midnight ere, worn and spent, he put aside hooks, plans, and blueprints, and seated himself before the little deal table, switching- a heavy voltage into the strange yet simple combination of devices wherewith he sought to aid the transference of thought by the more gross expedient of projecting the human voice through space.

Nightly at this hour, when conditions were most propitious, he experimented thus, striving always in the same direction— to reach the subliminal ear of the woman who was his wife.

Adjusting the duplex receiver so that both ears were covered, he bent forward, tuned up the induction coil, and called repeatedly into the transmitter, in a voice vibrant and clear, the one word:

"Bess!"

And at each iteration of the monosyllable a brilliant spark leaped silently between the knobs. Then, swiftly shifting the current to the receiving mechanism, he hung in suspense, waiting, scarce breathing, listening, while the great hush of the night wrapped world sing sibilant in his hearing, only accentuated by the crisp rattle and thud of the slow-breaking surf.

Suddenly he stiffened in the chair, a spot of color burning above either cheek bone, an odd light in his eyes. Had he heard, or had he dreamed he heard, that attenuated whisper which, night after night, had seemed to sound in answer to his heart's bitter cry?

"Allan!"

"Bess!" he cried. "Bess! It is I— Allan, your husband! Do you hear? Answer me."

An uncontrollable tremor shook him violently. Faint and sweet and far as the winding of a fairy's horn he seemed to catch the answer:

"Allan, I hear, and I am coming!"

And then, as always, fell the dead silence. After a while, despairing of further attempt, he shut off the current and sat back. profoundly agitated.

Reality or illusion? His wife's voice, or the articulate yearning of his soul? He clenched his hands tightly, knotting his brows in anguish. Was Wain but too justly vindicated of his solicitude for his friend's sanity?

The harsh alarm of the buzzer again disturbed and distracted him. Unthinkingly he had diverted the current into the Wireless apparatus. Out of the vast void of darkness some one was calling the Marconi station at Montauk.

Abstractedly Speed put on the receiver and eavesdropped— his privilege, by reason of his understanding with the Wireless management. The buzzer silenced, his ears were filled with a ceaseless, frantic repetition of the code signal for Montauk, thrilled with an accent of emergency. It educed no answer.

After a minute or two Speed cut in, giving the signal of the Nokomis Experimental Station thinking it probable that some accident had temporarily disabled the regular station. The reply came immediately:

"Hello, Nokomis. What's the matter with Montauk?"

"I don't know," Speed drummed out. "Who are you?"

"Minnesota, Liverpool-New York, twenty miles south-west Nokomis Light. Please transmit these messages to Montauk or New York as soon as possible."

"Go ahead." Speed reached for pad and pencil.

"Transatlantic Transport, N. Y.," he translated the faint, rapid tapping in the receiver. "SS. Minnesota, 20 m. S.W. Nokomis, struck derelict this p.m. 11.50. Sinking by the bows. Steerage uncontrollable, rioting on boat deck. Two boats lowered, over-loaded and sunk. Sea quiet. No vessel in sight. Hopeless. (Signd) Ballester, Captain."

"Great God!" whispered Speed, stripping off the sheet of paper, and dropping pencil for sending key.

"Hello, Minnesota!" he called. "Can nothing be done?"

"Nothing," came the curt reply. "Don't waste time. Water may reach engine room any moment. I'll keep on sending until we sink or blow up. Ready?"

"Ready." Stupefied with horror, torn with pity, the young man began to write. "Passengers' messages," came out of the night. "A. L. Speed, Sciences Club, N. Y. We were coming back to you. Bess..."

The clicking stopped; inexorable silence ensued.

Though for the better part of the next half hour the cottage quivered and resounded with the dull thunder of his signaling, Speed got no further answer.

Dropping the key at length he stood erect, compressing his temples with both hands in the effort to compose himself and think. The thought of what had taken place twenty miles out at sea, coupled with the conscious of his impotency, menaced him with madness. He was conscious of black despair closing down upon his sentience like a palpable cloak of darkness.

Something happened within his headsomething which his overwrought mind could compare only to the closing of a circuit; he seemed almost to hear the sharp metallic click as the switch was clamped.

A mist wavered, tenuous, dissolving, before his eyes, oppressing him with a passing sensation of vertigo. He swallowed with difficulty, gritted his teeth as if in superhuman endeavor, and lifted his head, staring blankly with eyes credulous and luminous with happiness and peace.

For he was no longer alone. He had not seen her enter, but she was there, his wife, standing by the center table in one of her well remembered poses of unaffected, unstudied grace. Her hair, he saw, was braided as she had been wont to braid it for the night. A negligee, a flimsy silken thing of palest blue, trimmed with exquisite lace— a present he had made her— molded itself closely to the lines of her gracious body; at the throat it hung open, betraying the sweet firm contour of her neck, rising like rosy marble from the edging of her night-dress. About her waist was clasped a girdle of wrought gold and gems, richly shimmering in the lamp's soft light; this likewise he had given her. One small white hand rested palm down upon the table, supporting her; it was unadorned. Her left arm she held curiously crooked; the broad golden circlet of their wedding ring shone upon her hand. In the shadow of her wonderful hair her forehead showed serene, unlined, immaculate. Her lips he likened to rose leaves set against alabaster. In his sight she was unutterably lovely.

His eyes were drawn ineluctably by hers, the changing violet eyes of a child. He knew that she waited for him to speak; her face was a prayer and an appeal for his forgiveness. But he seemed unable to speak; he was suffocated with emotion-with joy, with love, with compassion. He noted that water dripped from her sodden clothing, forming in little pools upon the floor. Her name broke from his lips like a sob:

"Bess!" She inclined her head quaintly, lips shaped in a tender smile. He fancied that she breathed the words, "It is I."

He grasped the chair beside him, steadying himself.

"You— you escaped?" he cried.

"I escaped, Allan." The deep nuances of her voice, rich with the love he had thought forever lost, thrilled the chords of his being like the smitten strings of a harp. He trembled in uncontrollable agitation. She continued, her every accent and gesture piteous, saddened, breathing the spirit of her penitence:

"What else could I, Allan, my husband? Night after night you have called me, my beloved; night after night my heart has answered that I would come. Could I suffer anything to stand between us, oh, my heart? 'Neither fire nor water.' "

She smiled in gentle deprecation. He stood speechless.

After a little time, and now stronger, the wonderful voice went on:

"I had dreamed that to-morrow, at the latest, I would come to you, kneel before you, beg your forgiveness, Allan. For, oh, the blame was altogether mine, my husband!  But if I have caused you suffering, I, too, have suffered— sorrowed even in my greatest joy."

She lowered her face momentarily above the inexplicably crooked arm, lifting it luminous with emotion. He did not understand.

"There is no need," he said brokenly— "no need, since you have come back to me—"

She stopped him with an imperative gesture. "There is need— great need, my husband. Between us there can no longer be any misunderstanding. Faith, faith and understanding as complete as our love, must be ours, henceforth and forevermore, Allan. You did not know, nor did I guess, how little worthy I was—"

"No!" he cried violently.

"But it is so, truly so, Allan," she contended inflexibly. "I, who have sorrowed, know. Through sorrow I have learned. I did not appreciate; I thought, because you left me for your work, that your love must be a lesser thing than mine, who would have sacrificed my every desire and hour in your service, beloved. To keep you with me, always! But you would go. Insensibly I grew jealous of this rival; I conceived for the word of your life, a man's work and worthy of you, a hateful enmity; it seemed to threaten me, like some malicious, heartless identity, bent on separating you from me. I did not understand, Allan— I was too young, too poor in experience and knowledge. I lived in a world of illusion, unreal, woven of a girl's dreams, until we were married, and thereafter for a little time. The meaning of living and of love, the lesson of womanhood, I had never known. No— let me go on!

"One day you seemed even more abstracted, less considerate than ever. That day I—for the first time, Allan—" a slow flush burned her cheeks, but her eyes held steadily to his own— "I was made to understand the meaning of my woman's birthright, the burden and the joy of it. I was dazed, frightened. Instead of turning· to you, in my folly I turned away. I fled to England, staying with my mother's family. They were very sweet and good to me, but in the long months of waiting, Allan, I came to see my error, my sin against your love. Slowly I began to see.

"There came no word from you; I thought your heart must have turned against me. I waited, waited, hoping against hope, until that first night when your voice sounded in my ears, though the sea lay between us, calling me back, back to your heart, Allan! Meanwhile the boy was born—"

"The boy!" he interrupted hoarsely. In his hands the back of the chair cracked, threatening to break. "What boy?"

"Our boy, Allan— your son and mine." A second time she bent low over the curved, cradling arm. When again she faced him, she seemed transfigured with joy.

"I have brought him home to you, beloved— the man-child, worthy of his father. See!" she cried proudly, lifting toward him her empty arms. "Is he not beautiful, your son, my beloved? Was ever a child more strong and sturdy and sweet and wonderful? See his little hands, the adorable creases in his little legs."

"Bess!" The cry was torn from the man's soul. For now it was made plain to him that she was mad. "You— you have not— he was not drowned, Bess?"

Her troubled eyes questioned his, bewildered. Slowly she shook her head. "I have told you that we escaped, he and I, Allan! No; he is there."

She hugged close to her bosom the terribly empty cradle of her arms. "He is safe, my heart's dearest."

Choking, in his agony the man dropped the broken chair and strode toward her. And stopped. For suddenly she was not. And his heart became as ice in his breast; his tongue clave to the dry roof of his mouth; his brain reeled. Then, with an exceeding bitter cry, he turned and fled the awful desolation of that place.

An hour later, it may be, the shock of cold water brought him to partial rationality. He found himself standing waist deep in the surf, with arms outstretched, his eardrums throbbing with the echo of his wife's name, shrieked in a voice he failed to recognize as his own.

But for that, with the unceasing chant of the sea, the night had been quiet and beautiful. Overhead the sky was clear and splendid with stars. A slight haze, dimly luminous, blurred the distances. Out of its occult bosom long, black, foamless rollers shouldered sluggishly, with a singular seeming of reluctance lurching in over the outer bar, pale cold fire gleaming on their crests as they curled to break in a welter of phosphorescence.

Lowering his arms the man turned back. Behind the beach the dunes rolled away in ghostly procession, a chill breeze stirring the sand grass on their rounded summits and filling the air with eerie whisperings. Above them the unlovely facade of the cottage lifted up, flanked by the gaunt aerial, doors and windows golden with lamplight.

As he gained the unwashed beach the man's knees seemed to give beneath him. Racked by strange and terrible spasms of sobbing, he fell, pillowing his head instinctively upon his forearms.

In this posture, at length, a sort of syncope mercifully numbed him into insensibility. In this posture the day discovered him. A film of water, upthrown by the making tide, half strangled him.

He rose, staggering, a little blinded by the glare. of light. Over the edge of the placid sapphire sea the sun was rising, red and hot, its level rays splashing a scarlet lane across the waters. The wide arc of the horizon, stark against its border of magenta and purple cloud, was bare of any sail or smoke smudge; but, clear and black against the blood-red trail, something floated, a tiny spot, far offshore.

The man's eyes were arrested and held by it. Wan and haggard he stood at gaze for many minutes. Then, almost automatically, he stooped and unlaced his shoes. Free of these, he was attired only in a light cotton shirt and duck trousers. Without any trace of hesitation he advanced into the surf. The water rose to his knees, a wave splashed him to the waist; presently his feet left bottom and he began to swim straight out for the drifting spot of black.

He was a strong swimmer and unafraid. His methodical, long, powerful overhand strokes urged him rapidly through water limpid green and warm. Once only he paused to rest and regain his wasted breath. He had then covered half the distance; the spot had taken shape as a small life raft, composed of two air-tight metal cylinders with a scanty breadth of planking uniting them.

Upon this fragile platform something lay without motion. As he watched a wave lifted the raft high in the brilliant sunlight. He saw a flutter of something white, backed by a shimmer of turquoise blue. A sunbeam shattered itself blindingly upon a jeweled boss of a golden girdle. Speed turned upon his side and struck out, fear gripping his throat with fingers of ice.

Some moments later he grasped the edge of the life raft and skilfully lifted himself aboard.

As he knelt above her, his wife lay supine, at ease, as if asleep, face turned to the sun and glorified by its radiance. An end of rope had been passed round her waist and made fast, inexpertly, to the deck planks. Held jealously in her arms a child rested, chubby arms clasping her neck, one fat, rosy cheek against her own. Wearying of the constraint of her embrace, he turned and whimpered in his sleep.

The shadow of a smile moderated the anxious line of her scarlet drooping lips; a tinge of color crept into her cheeks; upon them the long, light lashes quivered and lifted. She sighed; and the first glance of her widening violet eyes probed deep into the soul of Speed.

_________________

15: Le Maitres de l'Affiche

C Ranger Gull & Reginald Bacchus

1875-1923 & 1874–1945

Ludgate Magazine, Oct 1899

ABOUT a year ago most of the Parisian newspapers contained an obituary notice of Paul Vavin, the art critic. In the places where people talked about art— indeed, in all the coteries which prided themselves on being a little more cultured than their neighbours— his name and work were known. He had more or less, one might say, invented a new attitude towards pictorial art. His writings were quite ephemeral, and even now are forgotten; but he had a success of novelty which extended over some months; and a year ago, when he died at Envermeau, his decease excited considerable comment.

A very striking personality had possibly something to do with this; for by his personality, even more than by his writings, Vavin had made his impression in Paris. The photographs that were published in several illustrated papers at the time of his death gave no true idea of his appearance. He was one of those people who, to use the slang of the dark room, “do not take well,” and his portraits were always egregious failures.

His figure was well known upon the Boulevards. Despite a distinct stoop, he still looked very tall, his great emaciation doubtless adding to the impression. His face was long and thin, and of an extreme pallor, and there was something repulsive in the hard line of his almost lipless mouth and the undue prominence of his lower jaw. His masses of curly black hair— hair in which there was something irresistibly suggestive of negro blood— only served to accentuate the unhealthy paleness of his complexion.

His eyes gave more index to his character and habits of life than did any other feature. They were large and dark, reminding one of pieces of black glass, and, generally, they were dull and lifeless to a degree that was unnatural. At rare moments they blazed into a light that pointed to but one estimate of his mental condition. In fact, a few weeks before he died his friends and intimates perceived that his continued debaucheries were at last having an abnormal effect upon his temperament. His writing became more fantastic in its views; and the ugly, the grotesque, and the wicked in art began to throw him into that terrible dream glamour which fascinates and possesses so many of the younger generation in France.

Vavin was no more evil in his life than most of his contemporaries, and no more distinguished in his work. He was a type of the character that results from a morbid and vicious life: and it is only the facts attending his death, which he desired should be made public, that invest him with more interest than twenty other young Parisian decadents one could name.

That he was sincerely, truly penitent, Father Gougi (through whose instrumentality the facts have been made public) vouches for; and though the ordinary man cannot but regard such a sudden, death-bed repentance with some suspicion, the wish that the incidents of Envermeau should be told to his friends seems to point to some spirit of contrition.

The horror of such a life as Vavin led was well matched by the horror of what he saw before he quitted it; for, living an abnormal life, his punishment also was abnormal. Whether he really saw what he professed to see, or whether his shattered nerves merely presented to his brain a terror which had no existence, it is not within the province of this account to decide. In either case the warning is as strenuous. It is sufficient to say that the story has had the effect of pulling up at least one young French writer, who was rapidly travelling on the way which would have led him to a frightful insanity and a lingering death.

Paul Vavin, at the time the following events occurred, was in the full enjoyment of an easily-earned celebrity. He wrote on art matters for several newspapers; and in his criticisms he found, or professed to find, some fantastic and grotesque meaning in nearly all the work which he reviewed. This, of itself, would not have been sufficient to command success if it had not been that there was undeniably something in his writings which succeeded in giving the people who read them an uneasy feeling that he might possibly be right.

When he found an ugly meaning in a beautiful thing, he was clever enough to invest this theory with some probability; and he accordingly found some fame, and a great deal of money, in providing Parisians with a new sensation. He taught them, in fact, to imagine corruptness.

The money he earned at his trade he spent in every vicious indulgence. One morning in the summer of ’97 he went to the offices of a newspaper for which he did a great deal of work, to decide with the editor the subject of his next article. It was about the time that the poster, as an artistic factor in modern life, had become generally recognised.

M. Lautrec in France, and the Beggarstaffs in England, had conclusively proved to the public that the poster was to be regarded as a serious endeavour, and all Paris was interested in the subject of “Affiches.” Just at the moment two artists— who worked together in much the same way as Messrs. Pryde and Nicholson— had achieved an extraordinary and triumphant success. Beaugerac and Stein for those were the names of the two artists— had made an enormous sensation. Discarding the many-coloured posters of most of their co-workers, they drew only in sombre tints, and with the utmost economy of means. Their posters did not attempt to be pictures, or anything like pictures, and at once the public saw that they were good posters. Stein and Beaugerac neither painted nor drew: they “arranged masses”— that was all.

Strangely enough no journal had as yet been able to obtain an interview with these two men, who consistently declined publicity. It was known that they lived and worked somewhere near the great forest of Arques in Normandy, but that was all. Their views on artistic matters could only be guessed at by their work. Vavin himself had written one or two highly eulogistic notices of their productions, in which he had succeeded in finding out nothing of their personal opinions, and they had declined several requests for interviews.

On this particular morning, however, the editor of Le Vrai Salon informed him that he had received a letter from Stein which at last acceded to his proposals for an interview, and which asked that M. Vavin, in preference to any other critic, should be sent to visit them.

“Will you undertake this? ” he said to him. “The opportunity is one which will not occur again, and will give you the chance of turning out an article which will be very widely read and commented upon. I need hardly say that I am excessively pleased at our success.”

"Certainly I will go,” said Vavin; “nothing will please me better. But, nom d'unc pipe! where in France is Envermeau?”

"Envermeau,” said the editor, “is a village in Normandy, on the edge of the forest of Arques. It is eight or nine miles inland from Dieppe, and to get there, as far as I can find out, your best way will be to go straight to Dieppe, and then drive to the village. The name of the house is ‘Le Maison Noir.’ ”

"I go,” said Vavin, "to-morrow. Today I drink. Come now to Pere Santerey’s and taste absinthe, my friend. All Paris is abroad, and if the nasty yellow sun were put out and the gas lamps lit, I should be even happy. But come— buvons!— dejeuner will be the better for it.”

They went out together into the glorious sunshine, and sat for an hour under the awning of the Cafe Llamy, just opposite the great gate of the Louvre. The watering carts had laid all the dust on the white roads, and, despite the sun, the air was delightfully fresh and cool and alive with musical sounds. The little boys with their longdrawn shouts of “La Presse! La Presse!” the merry beat of drums as a company of little blue soldiers went marching by, the tinkling of the ice in the flagons of amber and honey-coloured beer, all went to make up a mise-en-scene that had a most gay and joyous influence.

M. Varnier, the editor, was a man peculiarly alive to the promptings of colour and sound, and he leant back in his little chair smoking his caporal and drinking his beer, intensely enjoying this moment of physical ease. Vavin looked ghastly in the bright daylight. He resembled some figure at a bal masque, which should only be seen in artificial radiances. As he talked extravagantly to the editor, waving his long bony hands to emphasise his remarks, he attracted a good deal of attention, and his cup of happiness was full when he heard a man, who had come out of the big Magazin du Louvre opposite, say to his wife “Look! there’s Paul Vavin.”

After a time, Varnier went away to dejeuner, leaving Vavin, who could not eat, alone. He sat there for another hour, drinking without cessation, and then, his potations having induced in him for an hour or two something almost like the energy of an ordinary man, set out for the Boulevard, where he should see his friends and exchange some of the gossip of the day.

The first person he met was Dotricourt, the perfect boulevardier. Dotricourt was said, in Paris, to be the absolute type of the flâneur. He had brought lounging to a fine art, and, fortunately possessed of a moderate income, he loafed happily through life. His knowledge of every one who had done anything was extensive and valuable.

He could tell you something of almost anyone about whom you might be seeking information, and to the journalists of Paris he was a constant and never-failing resource. A creature of good nature and bad company, he was absolutely free from prejudice, and all the time he could spare from the study of life he spent in neglecting its obligations. Withal, although he had never been heard to say a good thing of anyone, he had never been known to do anyone any harm. He himself, when taxed with his omissions or the futility of a method of life which, while it annoyed others, certainly pleased himself, would bow and say, Je suis, Dotricourt—flâneur, and consider that the discussion was at an end.

Vavin saw his fat little figure standing by a kiosk on the pavement, talking to the girl who was selling newspapers. When they were seated at the cafe, Vavin told Dotricourt of his mission the next day, and asked him if he knew anything of Beaugerac or Stein, who they were, and what manner of life they lived. The flâneur looked curiously at the other before he made any reply.

“Is it necessary that you should go?” he said.

“Yes, I must go; the opportunity is too good to be missed. I shall entirely hold the field. It is naturally a nuisance. But why do you ask that?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go; that is all,” said Dotricourt.

“You are talking in riddles, and the Boulevard is no place for sphinxes. Tell me what you mean.”

“If I did you would only laugh. I have the greatest reluctance to tell you, owing to the way the information came into my hands. I must beg of you not to press me.”

“But, my friend, this is unfair. You solemnly warn me against my proposed journey and then leave me in doubt and suspense as to what you mean. I really must insist on knowing.”

“Soit,” said Dotricourt, “I will tell you;” and with a quick glance round he leant forward and whispered in the other’s ear. Vavin started, and quickly made the sign of the cross. Then he emptied his glass and began to laugh.

“Poof!” said he, throwing out his right hand. “Look at the sun; listen to the people of Paris. Can you and I believe these things in the Paris of to-day? Bah! leave such imaginations to the priests who invented the devil, and Huysman who invented his worship. We are not on the level of those little journals written for cocottes who love to fill their empty little heads with horror. We are men. Louis, two coffees, and bring me the brandy in the bottle.”

He leant back laughing loudly, an unpleasant sight, with his long pale face and wicked mouth.

Dotricourt shrugged his shoulders.

“As you will, Paul,” he said, “for my part, though, I do not think about things which appear incredible; I am wise enough to allow that they may possibly exist. But, as you say, we are men; Paris is here, let us enjoy it, you and I. You do not start till tomorrow, you say?— good. To-night we will be merry with some friends of mine in the Quartier, who after three yearn of penury have sold a picture well and are giving a feast to all the world. There will be Filles d’Angleterre and Grogs americaines. Shall it be so?”

“Parfaitement," said Vavin, giving the true Boulevard twang to that useful and long-suffering word, and about nine o’clock they went to the feast, which by midnight degenerated into the usual orgie of the Quartier Latin. It was the last time Vavin degraded himself in this world.

About midday next morning, ill and tremulous, he took the train for Dieppe. It was a perfect day for a journey, serene and sunny, a day in which the blood raced in one’s veins from the pure joy of living in a beautiful world. The sky was like a great hollow turquoise, and all along the line the sweet cider orchards of Normandy were a mass of pink and cream colour.

Vavin noticed none of these things. He was reading some abominable little gutter rag, and as far as his throbbing nerves and aching head would allow him, he enjoyed its scurrility. He rolled and smoked innumerable cigarettes of black tobacco, inhaling the smoke deep into his craving lungs, and from time to time drank some cognac from a flask. There was something peculiarly revolting in the fellow, and he seemed a blot on the beautiful day God was giving to France.

As they left Rouen, and the giant spire of the cathedral flashed away behind, stark in the warm sky, his head sank on his breast, his lower jaw dropped, and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

He was awakened at Dieppe by the stopping of the train and the invigorating sea air upon his face. He determined that he would wait an hour or two, before he drove to Envermeau, and see what celebrities were on the Plage or in the Casino. Dieppe was alive with gaiety and colour, and the Casino Terrace was crowded with well-dressed people of different nationalities. Down below, the green sea with its pearl and yellow lights leapt under the slanting sun-rays. Everything was gay and delightful, for every effort of Nature and Art combined to make it so.

There was a good band playing on the Terrace, and as Vavin sat there idly, feeling the better for his sleep, his sluggish blood began to stir within him and something of the light-heartedness that was in the very air entered into him also. The light was very long and the sweet melancholy of a summer’s evening was stealing over land and sea when he got into a carriage and slowly mounted the steep hill past the Octroi station, which was surrounded with market-carts full of the produce of the country side. He cursed his luck as the carriage came out into the long white high road. He would much rather have been in Dieppe and spent a bright evening in the Casino, where there was dance, or sitting in the Cafe des Tribunaux with some congenial friend. The peace of the woods and fields found no echo in his heart, and the delicate sound of the breeze, as it rustled among the quivering leaves of the roadside poplar trees, fell on his ears with no meaning.

He had not always been so. In his early youth he had listened to the voices of wood and hill and torrent and found some responsive echo in his own heart. He had known something of the poetry of life when he was a boy. But Paris, with its life full of evil sensation, and a strenuous greediness after every material pleasure, had killed his delicate emotions, and as he rode towards his death Nature’s last message came to him unheeded. As, in a dull and petulant mood, he sat in the carriage, he was a striking example of the mere “folly” of debauchery.

When he arrived at last at the little village of Envermeau he stopped at the cabaret the “Pannier d’or,” and inquired about the road to the Maison Noir.

The house, the landlord told him, was on the very outskirts of the wood, and there was no road to it that a carriage could traverse. It was, however, added the patron, an easy way, and Jean the stable-boy could carry his bag if he intended to stop there for the night. Vavin had been proffered the hospitality of a bed by the artists in the letter they had written to Varnier, and accepting the offer of a porter he stepped into the inn and ordered a cognac.

He sat there for a few minutes smoking a cigarette, and he noticed that the inmates of the house seemed to be in some trouble. The landlord’s face was white and drawn, with the look of one who had not slept, and the eyes of his wife, a buxom Norman girl, were red with weeping. The few peasants who were in the place, drinking a rummer of beer after their work in the fields was done, talked in subdued tones, and now and again ventured a word of sympathy to the host and his wife. An air of gloom and also of expectation seemed to hang over the place, and every chance footstep on the road outside attracted instant attention.

At last a firm tread was heard upon the flags, mingled with the clank of metal against stone, and the village gendarme entered,

“Ah, Pierre!” said the woman with a catching of the breath. “You have heard something, have you not ? You have found her? Tell me you have!”

“No, Marie,” said the man, “not yet, I do not know anything yet; but courage! They are all out on the country side. They will find her by night; no harm can come to her. The little one is asleep in the wood, that is all, and our Good Lady will watch over her tenderly, you may be sure. She is certain to do it— our Lady. Pere Gougi is even now upon his knees in church, and you know he has great influence with the Blessed Dame. So courage, Marie and Michel! I will find your little Cerisette before moonrise. Even now they may have found her— all the boys are beating through the wood. How we shall all laugh to-night, shall we not ? It will be a good excuse for a carouse. Au revoir!”

And twirling his heavy moustache and throwing back his head with a confident gesture, the worthy fellow clanked out into the street.

His firm and cheery voice, and the official air which his uniform gave to his utterances, had a reassuring effect upon every one.

“Eh bien, qa ira,” said one rustic to another, “Pierre will find little Cerisette, he has a wonderful mind. What he does not know I would not give a dried apple for. He is bon garçon is Pierre.”

The sorrowful mother herself seemed a little comforted, and Michel turned to Vavin and said :

“Ah, yes, m’sieu, we shall find her soon if Father Gougi prays for her; it will be all quite right soon, only, m’sieu, you may conceive that we are a trifle disturbed. Our little girl is only three years old, and it’s a bad thinking to know the poor little mite has lost herself with evening falling.”

Vavin was rather touched, a sensation that surprised him as it came.

“Oh, you will find little Cerisette to-night,” he said kindly, “and look you, to-morrow I will come and make her acquaintance with a handful of bonbons, and then she will not be frightened by my ugly face. And now give me a stable-lad to lead me to the Maison Noir, for it grows late, and before dark I must be there. Good night and good fortune; the angels will watch over Cerisette.”

He went out into the street with something like tenderness in his heart ; and the simple love of the peasant and his wife, and their belief that the Mother of God would keep watch and ward over the little wandering child brought a mist before the eyes of the boulevardier. One is glad now to think that he was a little touched.

He walked down the village street with the stable-lad trudging by his side, and, as they passed the church, the cure came out, a kindly and venerable old man, and bowed politely to the stranger. The way went past the village mill, over a little bridge leading to the cornfields which skirted the wood, which was beginning to show black against the rosy western sky.

“Is it far?” Vavin asked the guide.

“But some fifteen minutes from here,” said the boy. “Monsieur will not be in the least fatigued. The chalet is on the edge of the wood.”

“And what are they like, the artist gentlemen who live there ? ”

“I have never seen them,” said the boy, “but they do not come to mass, and they do say in the village that there is something strange about them. There is a big one and a little one, and M. Michel says that the big one is like Satan himself. But I do not believe him. M. Michel is stay-at-home and does not know about things. I have been to Rouen and he never has, and I have been up the tower of the cathedral and seen the figure of Jeanne d’Arc in the market-place. I am very experienced, m’sieu. I think it is foolish to believe all that one hears. I never do it, I would rather see for myself.”

As he spoke they came upon a small common, dotted with furze and leading to the edge of the wood. In the fading light Vavin could see a tall house, surrounded by walls, some four hundred yards away.

“Is that the place?” he enquired.

“That is it, monsieur.”

“Then I will trouble you no longer. Give me the bag. Here is a five-franc piece for you; remember what you have told me. Take nothing on the evidence of other people. Trust nobody but yourself. It is the only way. Goodnight.”

The lad took the coin with profuse thanks, and, with a genial “Dormez bien,” went back away through the fields. Vavin could hear him singing as he went.

Then, while he drew near the house, the world grew silent as the night crept upon it. In the wood an owl hooted and a fox gave tongue, but the sounds seemed to be outside the stillness and unable to break it. The last dying fires of the day gleamed in the west, and in the front rose the tall, lonely house, sharply outlined in a silhouette. He was within some sixty paces of the place when the profound stillness was broken by the musical notes of a bell. The bell gave three or tour beats— like the Angelus— and simultaneously, from a curious squat chimney on the roof, came a single, sudden puff of purple smoke, which hung for a moment, like a little cloud, over the house, and then slowly dispersed. Everything became silent again. It was just as if some one had thrown a handful of powder— some incense one might have fancied it to be— on a furnace at the bottom of the chimney.

The sudden, extraordinary occurrence arrested Vavin’s steps, and he stood still in a great surprise. There was something disturbing in the whole thing. The melancholy hour, the lonely house, and the dark, mysterious forest beyond, all seemed to be in keeping with the sudden tolling and the puff of smoke. It was all unreal and fantastic, and for a moment he felt inclined to turn back and seek the safe companionship of the inn.

“It is like a drawing by Karl Boinbaum,” he muttered ; and then, ashamed of his uneasiness, he walked resolutely up to the house, skirting the wall till he came to a door. There was a bell handle let into the wall, and, pulling it vigorously, he waited. The peal reverberated loudly some distance away. He listened for nearly two minutes, waiting for the sound of footsteps ; but there was an absolute silence. No dog barked, no doors shut, there was no sign that any life was near the place. He resolved to give another pull, and at the precise moment when his hand touched the handle and he was about to grasp it, the door opened noiselessly, and a voice said:

“Will Mr. Vavin be pleased to come inside?”

It was very startling. There had been no indication whatever that any one was there; and the fact that the door had opened at the exact moment when his fingers touched the handle of the bell seemed theatrical and unreal. It was like some mechanical trick. He did not like it.

The person who had so startled him was a tall and very stout man, dressed as a servant. There was nothing unusual about him, except the singular smoothness of his large, clean-shaven face, which was unmarked by a single wrinkle.

“My masters expect you,” he said, taking Vavin’s portmanteau and leading him across the garden which stood round the house.

The place did not look nearly so gloomy on the other side of the high wall. The garden was laid out in parterres of bright flowers, and the white gravel paths were trim and neatly kept. At this hour, just as the dew was falling, the earth gave out a pleasant, moist smell; and the perfume from this old garden of mint and marigold and mignonette lay in strata of fragrance on the still evening air.

The house itself was less attractive— a tall, white erection, with little to break the monotony of line and colour but the green Venetian shutters on either side the windows. At the left side of the building was a large chapel-like edifice, jutting out to meet the wall, and, from the position of its windows and skylights, Vavin could see that this was the studio. It was here, also, he noticed that the squat chimney from whence the smoke had come was placed, and he caught a hasty glimpse of a copper bell hanging from a joist which projected from the gable.

He had just time to notice these things when they arrived at the door, which was standing open, leading into a lofty hall somewhat sombre in its furniture and dark decorations.

“M. Stein and M. Beaugerac will be with you in a few minutes,” said the man. “They are at present engaged in the studio. Monsieur will, no doubt, not object to wait in the study.”

The room in which Vavin found himsell was furnished with a good deal of luxury and an obvious attention to the little details of comfort. It reassured him at once. Some delightfully-bound books lined the fireplace wall, the mantelshelf bore pipes, cigarette cases, and all the little personalia of a bachelor establishment, and the chairs were soft and roomy. There were a good many drawings scattered about the walls— drawings of that esoteric morbidity that Vavin loved; and the walls were further decorated with a good many African curiosities.

There were long, cruel-looking knives, horns of roughlybeaten copper and bronze, and a little drum of serpent skins. He noticed also, displayed upon a shelf, a thing which he recognised at once, though he had never seen one before. It startled him, for he knew that there were, probably, only two more in Europe. He took it up, examining its shining steel and leather, with a little shudder at the horrible instrument of which so much had been said and written. He could not understand its presence here, for even in the darkest places of the West African coast the instrument was rare. It interested him to see it, and the fascination it exercised was in itself a pleasing sensation.

It would be a great tale to tell when he went back to the Boulevard, he reflected— how he had seen and handled that devil-knife. He would be able to describe the real appearance of it, and to confute many morbid minds who were in the habit of dwelling on the thing. He had just put the frightful object down when he heard voices and foot-steps in the hall. He listened curiously, unable to account for the strangeness with which one of the voices fell upon his ear. The two men outside, whom he concluded were his hosts, were giving some directions to the servant, and the voice of one of them, though it spoke in a cultured manner, and in excellent French, had a curious and indefinably unfamiliar ring.

The mystery was soon explained, for in a minute or two the door opened and Beaugerac came into the room, followed by Stein. Beaugerac was a youngish-looking man with an impassive face and close-cropped black hair; but his companion attracted Vavin’s instant attention. With a start of inexpressible surprise he saw that Stein was no less than a negro, of full black blood.

More than six feet high, and enormously broad, he was a splendid specimen of a man, and his almost coal-black face and thick, yellowish lips proclaimed him of a family which had known no alien admixture of race. Stein was very well dressed indeed, and his manners and conversation were those of a well-bred gentleman. He spoke French without a single trace of foreign accent, and he talked with the ease and point of a citizen of the world. To Vavin it was extraordinary to find this great negro— who one might have imagined with a head ring, and a spear in his hand— a person of the most assured and cultured cleverness, and a man who. would obviously dominate any society in which he might be found.

He greeted Vavin very courteously, and after a well-served dinner they went into the studio to see some of the posters the artists were engaged on. The studio was very large and lofty. A poster-artist cannot work in a small space, because it is necessary that he should be able to get some distance away from his work to judge the effect that it will have upon the hoardings. It was bare of furniture and lighted only by a few oil lamps. The walls were painted a dull maroon, the sad colour presenting nothing to take the eye away from the affiches which hung upon it. One end of the place was entirely cut off from the rest of the room by some heavy black curtains, and above them, for they did not quite reach the roof, a dull glow, as from a fire or from shaded lamps, threw monstrous purple shadows among the joists and beams. The place was full of shadows and curious light effects, and in the uncertain illumination. It was bare it was difficult to see it in its entirety.

The two artists unrolled poster after poster for Vavin to see and judge upon. Their work was extraordinary in its appropriateness and strength. Everything was done in flat tones, and the central idea in each production was the importance of the silhouette as a means of expression. Their Dusé poster, for instance, was done entirely in black, brown, and purple, with more than half the lines omitted, and yet the arrangement was so good that the merest hint of an intention was sufficient to produce all the effect of a finished and considered production.

There could be no doubt about it; Beaugerac and Stein were head and shoulders above their contemporaries. They were the greatest living exponents of their particular branch of art. Their work, Vavin saw, could not be called decadent. It was too strong in conception and execution for that. There, was, however, he could not help feeling, something sinister about it. These vast pictured creatures, seen so closely, wore a cold-blooded and cruel aspect, and, examined at close quarters, their features, which on the hoardings were so effective, had an air of stupid and sombre malignancy that struck coldly upon his nerves. The impression was heightened by the shadowy studio and the active figure of the great negro as he went hither and thither with the long canvas rolls in his arms.

Vavin wanted to be back again in the comfortable sitting-room, there was a chill in this place. Some influence he could not account for was filling his brain and laying cold fingers upon his heart. Beaugerac said very little, and the silence and his occasional sudden jarring laughter was also a disturbing element. Stein was, he thought, too suave and smooth in his manners to be pleasant.

The critic felt lonely and ill at ease, and the words Dotricourt had whispered in his ear came vividly to him again and again. A few days before, Vavin had seen that Mann, Rogers and Greaves, the great English firm of cocoa makers, who had shops in all the big French towns, had advertised that they were about to publish a poster by his hosts. Accordingly, as the memory came to him, he asked them if he might see it.

When he made the request, Stein was over on the other side of the studio and Beaugerac was standing near him, but Vavin’s words made them wheel round suddenly, and Beaugerac said something in a quick undertone, “I am really very sorry,” said Stein at length, “but most unfortunately the cocoa poster is packed up in waterproof ready to be sent off to-morrow. What a pity you didn’t come a day sooner! Then you could have seen it. These things always happen like that, don’t they? I can show you some of the sketches though. Suppose you go back to the study. I will bring them to you. Beaugerac, show M. Vavin back, and I will join him in a few minutes.”

Vavin went back to the Study, and was left alone. It struck him, as he sat waiting, that there had been something insincere in Stein’s remark about the cocoa poster, and he wondered why it had not been shown to him. There seemed to be no very adequate reason he thought. The room was very hot, so he got up and opened the window.

As he went back to his seat he noticed, with a start of surprise, that the thing which had been lying there on the bracket had disappeared. The circumstance was strange and he could only conjecture that the instrument had been left there by accident in the first instance.

He had hardly settled in his seat, and was feeling in his pocket for some matches, when he heard for the second time the sudden tolling of the bell. It roused his curiosity, already very active, to an almost unendurable pitch. His conversation with the artists had merely enlightened him as to their views on art, and he had been unable, try as he would, to learn anything of their past history. He had asked Stein in what ateliers he had studied, and had been met with the suave “Oh, all over the world, my friend. I have never stayed long in one place. I am cosmopolitan.”

Both his hosts had seemed determined to reveal nothing of their careers. This unusual reticence, together with the attendant circumstances— the sombre studio, the African devil-knife, the unexpected sight of the negro— told him with more and more potency that something was wrong about the place and its owners. The musical notes of the bell, which ceased as suddenly as they begun, put the finishing touches to his uneasiness and curiosity.

He rose up again quickly, and going noiselessly through the hall, went out into the warm starlit night, determined to find out what this sudden tocsin foreboded. He went quietly towards the studio, treading upon the borders of the flower beds to avoid making any noise upon the gravel. The studio was quite dark, save for one faintly-illuminated window at the end. This window he knew, from its position in the wall, must be behind the black curtain which hid one end of the room.

As he approached it he noticed a faint aromatic odour in the air, like the smell of incense. The window-ledge was some seven feet from the ground, and a small projecting buttress at its foot assisted him to raise his head above the level for a few seconds. As he did so, the light flickered up, and he was able to see with some distinctness what was going on inside. On the wall at the end a great poster was hanging; the design, as well as he could make out, consisted of a large head. In front of the poster stood a table of some dark material, though he could not see what it was.

Beaugerac he could not see, but Stein was standing by a brazier full of burning cinders, which was fixed in the wall under a large iron pipe communicating with the chimney. The red light fell on his face and hands, and he appeared to be doing something to the fire. He watched for as long as he could maintain himself in the difficult position, and then with no more information than when he started, quietly returned to the study.

All that he knew was that Stein and his partner had something that they wished to conceal, and that in all probability they had lied to him about the poster. He had not been long seated when they came in, carrying some drawings.

"We had an awful difficulty in finding the sketches," said Stein; “they had got mislaid. We hadn’t any light but the little fire which we use for mixing pigments, and I nearly broke my shin over a table, and nearly hung myself with an old bell-rope, which they used when this place was a school. Very sorry to keep you waiting, but I hurt myself rather badly. All the negro races are very sensitive in the leg bones, and a blow which to you would be nothing is agony to me."

His easy manner and the simple explanation, in some sort, reassured Vavin, and he looked at the sketches with great interest.

The design for the poster was simple, consisting of the bust ol a negro, which filled nearly all the space, the lower part of the body being out of the picture. The lettering was in bold, crimson characters. The figure was sketched in two browns, with as few lines as possible. Even in the small sketch one could see the enormous power of the thing, and it was easy to imagine the effect the great twenty-foot poster would have in the streets. The face of the figure was so cunning and malignant, such immeasurable wickedness lay in it, that his attention was caught and held as if in a vice.

"You see," Beaugerac said, “our idea, in the first instance, has been to have a single unbroken mass which the eye can readily understand. Then, the idea of a poster being to attract attention, we have made the face as repulsive as possible,”

“He is a wicked boy, is he not?"said Stein, leering at the foul thing, and as he did so, himself looking not unlike his own creation, “He would play some fine blood-games if he were alive. What? He would kill his mother, and make a set of dice out of her knuckle-bones, for ten centimes! There is something interesting in his face, yes?— he is cunning, I think?”

Vavin shuddered. Foul as his own imaginings sometimes were, he felt cold to see this great soft-voiced negro nodding and mouthing at his own creation.

“Satan himself has not such a face,” he said.

And then a strange thing happened, for even as he spoke three or four sudden beats of the bell rang out upon the air.

Beaugerac jumped up with an oath, and then suddenly sat down again, and Vavin could see round the corner of the table that the fat hand of the negro was gripping him tightly by the knee.

“O dear, dear me," said Stein quickly, “that stupid cat has got locked up in the studio again. What a nuisance ! I’ll go and let it out, or it will be upsetting something and hurting itself. I won’t be a minute.”

Despite his assertion, he was away half-an-hour, while Vavin kept up a fitful conversation with Beaugerac, who was distrait and dull.

When Stein came back he explained that he had found the cat, which had upset a pot of white paint, and that he had had a great deal of trouble in removing the stains from his hands.

About eleven Vavin went to bed, in a highly-strung and nervous condition. His room was at the head of the stairs, and had a window which looked out into the courtyard of the studio. While he was undressing he could not forget the face upon the poster. It filled all his brain and dominated him, and, as he lay awake in the silence, fear came and whispered strange things into his ear.

About two he awoke from a fitful slumber, and, finding himself hot and covered with perspiration, he got out of bed and went to the window, intending to open it wider. As he came to it he heard a slight movement in the court below, and peering down he could just discover a large grey mass moving across it. The object came right up to the wall and seemed to enter the house at the door just below him. Simultaneously a faint light appeared in the doorway of the studio opposite. The light grew brighter as some one holding it came nearer to the door, until he saw Stein and Beaugerac standing in conversation on the step.

The monstrous shadows thrown by the candle did not at first allow him to see their faces, but with a quick pulsing of his heart he noticed at once that in his hand Stein carried the instrument he had seen in the study. A sudden flicker of the candle which Beaugerac held showed him that they were gazing expectantly at the wall just below him. Beaugerac was smiling.

Fearful that he would be seen, he shrank noiselessly away from the window, and as he did so, he distinctly heard in the passage outside his room the sudden cry of a child awakened from sleep. He opened the door and crept out. At the other end of the passage a door stood open and a light shone out towards him. He could hear something moving about in the room, and there was the sound of heavy breathing. Hearing footsteps approaching the door, he sank into the deep embrasure of a window. The footsteps came slowly along the passage towards him, and then this is what he saw.

The black figure of a man, larger than human figure ever was, was walking past him, holding a candle in one vast hand. In his right arm he held a little white-robed girl of two or three years of age, and his face was, line for line, the face of the great poster. The little child lay quite still, with staring, open eyes, and the thing was bending its head and looking into her face, lolling out its tongue and rolling its great eyes. It had just got to the head of the stairs when Vavin was seized with a frightful and uncontrollable wave of passion and hatred for the cruel, bestial thing.

With a horrid scream he leapt upon it, snarling like a dog, and then he was conscious of the shouting of a great company of people, a sensation as of rapidly falling through black water, and nothing more.

He died the next day in agonies of terror, yet not before he had had a long conference with the priest, who gave him absolution. Before his final paroxysm Pere Gougi told him that when the villagers had burst into the house they found little Cerisette white and still at the bottom of the stairway.

Stein and Beaugerac had disappeared and were never seen again in Normandy. It was afterwards discovered that a long package had arrived in the Rue des Martyrs— the Paris office of Messrs. Mann, Rogers and Greaves— with a letter accompanying it from Stein, saying that he sent the completed poster.

When it was opened the great sheet of canvas bore nothing but some scarlet lettering.

_________________

16: The House and the Brain

Edward Bulwer-Lytton

1803-1873

Blackwoods Magazine, Aug 1859

Much reprinted horror story by the 19th century author and theosophist Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. I found it in a magazine called The Scrap Book, October 1906, a US magazine. The OCR wasn't very good, and I found instead a Project Gutenberg version which was much better.

A FRIEND of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me one day, as if between jest and earnest, "Fancy! since we last met I have discovered a haunted house in the midst of London."

"Really haunted,— and by what?— ghosts?"

"Well, I can't answer that question; all I know is this: six weeks ago my wife and I were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, 'Apartments, Furnished.' The situation suited us; we entered the house, liked the rooms, engaged them by the week,— and left them the third day. No power on earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer; and I don't wonder at it."

"What did you see?"

"Excuse me; I have no desire to be ridiculed as a superstitious dreamer,— nor, on the other hand, could I ask you to accept on my affirmation what you would hold to be incredible without the evidence of your own senses. Let me only say this, it was not so much what we saw or heard (in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our own excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us away, as it was an undefinable terror which seized both of us whenever we passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we neither saw nor heard anything. And the strangest marvel of all was, that for once in my life I agreed with my wife, silly woman though she be,— and allowed, after the third night, that it was impossible to stay a fourth in that house. Accordingly, on the fourth morning I summoned the woman who kept the house and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not quite suit us, and we would not stay out our week." She said dryly, "I know why; you have stayed longer than any other lodger. Few ever stayed a second night; none before you a third. But I take it they have been very kind to you."

"'They,— who?' I asked, affecting to smile.

"'Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are. I don't mind them. I remember them many years ago, when I lived in this house, not as a servant; but I know they will be the death of me some day. I don't care,— I'm old, and must die soon anyhow; and then I shall be with them, and in this house still.' The woman spoke with so dreary a calmness that really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her further. I paid for my week, and too happy were my wife and I to get off so cheaply."

"You excite my curiosity," said I; "nothing I should like better than to sleep in a haunted house. Pray give me the address of the one which you left so ignominiously."

My friend gave me the address; and when we parted, I walked straight towards the house thus indicated.

It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in a dull but respectable thoroughfare. I found the house shut up,— no bill at the window, and no response to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy, collecting pewter pots at the neighboring areas, said to me, "Do you want any one at that house, sir?"

"Yes, I heard it was to be let."

"Let!— why, the woman who kept it is dead,— has been dead these three weeks, and no one can be found to stay there, though Mr. J—— offered ever so much. He offered mother, who chars for him, £1 a week just to open and shut the windows, and she would not."

"Would not!— and why?"

"The house is haunted; and the old woman who kept it was found dead in her bed, with her eyes wide open. They say the devil strangled her."

"Pooh! You speak of Mr. J——. Is he the owner of the house?"

"Yes."

"Where does he live?"

"In G—— Street, No. —."

"What is he? In any business?"

"No, sir,— nothing particular; a single gentleman."

I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and proceeded to Mr. J——, in G—— Street, which was close by the street that boasted the haunted house. I was lucky enough to find Mr. J—— at home,—an elderly man with intelligent countenance and prepossessing manners.

I communicated my name and my business frankly. I said I heard the house was considered to be haunted,—that I had a strong desire to examine a house with so equivocal a reputation; that I should be greatly obliged if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willing to pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined to ask. "Sir," said Mr. J——, with great courtesy, "the house is at your service, for as short or as long a time as you please. Rent is out of the question,—the obligation will be on my side should you be able to discover the cause of the strange phenomena which at present deprive it of all value. I cannot let it, for I cannot even get a servant to keep it in order or answer the door. Unluckily the house is haunted, if I may use that expression, not only by night, but by day; though at night the disturbances are of a more unpleasant and sometimes of a more alarming character. The poor old woman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom I took out of a workhouse; for in her childhood she had been known to some of my family, and had once been in such good circumstances that she had rented that house of my uncle. She was a woman of superior education and strong mind, and was the only person I could ever induce to remain in the house. Indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and the coroner's inquest, which gave it a notoriety in the neighborhood, I have so despaired of finding any person to take charge of the house, much more a tenant, that I would willingly let it rent free for a year to any one who would pay its rates and taxes."

"How long is it since the house acquired this sinister character?"

"That I can scarcely tell you, but very many years since. The old woman I spoke of, said it was haunted when she rented it between thirty and forty years ago. The fact is, that my life has been spent in the East Indies, and in the civil service of the Company. I returned to England last year, on inheriting the fortune of an uncle, among whose possessions was the house in question. I found it shut up and uninhabited. I was told that it was haunted, that no one would inhabit it. I smiled at what seemed to me so idle a story. I spent some money in repairing it, added to its old-fashioned furniture a few modern articles,— advertised it, and obtained a lodger for a year. He was a colonel on half-pay. He came in with his family, a son and a daughter, and four or five servants: they all left the house the next day; and, although each of them declared that he had seen something different from that which had scared the others, a something still was equally terrible to all. I really could not in conscience sue, nor even blame, the colonel for breach of agreement. Then I put in the old woman I have spoken of, and she was empowered to let the house in apartments. I never had one lodger who stayed more than three days. I do not tell you their stories,— to no two lodgers have there been exactly the same phenomena repeated. It is better that you should judge for yourself, than enter the house with an imagination influenced by previous narratives; only be prepared to see and to hear something or other, and take whatever precautions you yourself please."

"Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house?" "Yes. I passed not a night, but three hours in broad daylight alone in that house. My curiosity is not satisfied, but it is quenched. I have no desire to renew the experiment. You cannot complain, you see, sir, that I am not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest be exceedingly eager and your nerves unusually strong, I honestly add, that I advise you not to pass a night in that house."

"My interest is exceedingly keen," said I; "and though only a coward will boast of his nerves in situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my nerves have been seasoned in such variety of danger that I have the right to rely on them,— even in a haunted house."

Mr. J—— said very little more; he took the keys of the house out of his bureau, gave them to me,— and, thanking him cordially for his frankness, and his urbane concession to my wish, I carried off my prize.

Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached home, I summoned my confidential servant,— a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as free from superstitious prejudice as any one I could think of.

"F——," said I, "you remember in Germany how disappointed we were at not finding a ghost in that old castle, which was said to be haunted by a headless apparition? Well, I have heard of a house in London which, I have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I mean to sleep there to-night. From what I hear, there is no doubt that something will allow itself to be seen or to be heard,— something, perhaps, excessively horrible. Do you think if I take you with me, I may rely on your presence of mind, whatever may happen?"

"Oh, sir, pray trust me," answered F——, grinning with delight.

"Very well; then here are the keys of the house,— this is the address. Go now,—select for me any bedroom you please; and since the house has not been inhabited for weeks, make up a good fire, air the bed well,— see, of course, that there are candles as well as fuel. Take with you my revolver and my dagger,— so much for my weapons; arm yourself equally well; and if we are not a match for a dozen ghosts, we shall be but a sorry couple of Englishmen."

I was engaged for the rest of the day on business so urgent that I had not leisure to think much on the nocturnal adventure to which I had plighted my honor. I dined alone, and very late, and while dining, read, as is my habit. I selected one of the volumes of Macaulay's Essays. I thought to myself that I would take the book with me; there was so much of healthfulness in the style, and practical life in the subjects, that it would serve as an antidote against the influences of superstitious fancy.

Accordingly, about half-past nine, I put the book into my pocket, and strolled leisurely towards the haunted house. I took with me a favorite dog: an exceedingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull-terrier,— a dog fond of prowling about strange, ghostly corners and passages at night in search of rats; a dog of dogs for a ghost.

It was a summer night but chilly, the sky somewhat gloomy and overcast. Still there was a moon, faint and sickly but still a moon, and if the clouds permitted, after midnight it would be brighter.

I reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened with a cheerful smile.

"All right, sir, and very comfortable."

"Oh!" said I, rather disappointed; "have you not seen nor heard anything remarkable?"

"Well, sir, I must own I have heard something queer."

"What?— what?"

"The sound of feet pattering behind me; and once or twice small noises like whispers close at my ear,— nothing more."

"You are not at all frightened?"

"I! not a bit of it, sir;" and the man's bold look reassured me on one point,— namely, that happen what might, he would not desert me.

We were in the hall, the street-door closed, and my attention was now drawn to my dog. He had at first run in eagerly enough, but had sneaked back to the door, and was scratching and whining to get out. After patting him on the head, and encouraging him gently, the dog seemed to reconcile himself to the situation, and followed me and F—— through the house, but keeping close at my heels instead of hurrying inquisitively in advance, which was his usual and normal habit in all strange places. We first visited the subterranean apartments,— the kitchen and other offices, and especially the cellars, in which last there were two or three bottles of wine still left in a bin, covered with cobwebs, and evidently, by their appearance, undisturbed for many years. It was clear that the ghosts were not winebibbers. For the rest we discovered nothing of interest. There was a gloomy little backyard, with very high walls. The stones of this yard were very damp; and what with the damp, and what with the dust and smoke-grime on the pavement, our feet left a slight impression where we passed. And now appeared the first strange phenomenon witnessed by myself in this strange abode. I saw, just before me, the print of a foot suddenly form itself, as it were. I stopped, caught hold of my servant, and pointed to it. In advance of that footprint as suddenly dropped another. We both saw it. I advanced quickly to the place; the footprint kept advancing before me, a small footprint,— the foot of a child: the impression was too faint thoroughly to distinguish the shape, but it seemed to us both that it was the print of a naked foot. This phenomenon ceased when we arrived at the opposite wall, nor did it repeat itself on returning. We remounted the stairs, and entered the rooms on the ground-floor, a dining parlor, a small back-parlor, and a still smaller third room that had been probably appropriated to a footman,—all still as death. We then visited the drawing-rooms, which seemed fresh and new. In the front room I seated myself in an arm-chair. F—— placed on the table the candlestick with which he had lighted us. I told him to shut the door. As he turned to do so a chair opposite to me moved from the wall quickly and noiselessly, and dropped itself about a yard from my own chair, immediately fronting it.

"Why, this is better than the turning-tables," said I, with a half-laugh; and as I laughed, my dog put back his head and howled.

F——, coming back, had not observed the movement of the chair. He employed himself now in stilling the dog. I continued to gaze on the chair, and fancied I saw on it a pale, blue, misty outline of a human figure, but an outline so indistinct that I could only distrust my own vision. The dog now was quiet.

"Put back that chair opposite to me," said I to F—-; "put it back to the wall."

F—— obeyed. "Was that you, sir?" said he, turning abruptly.

"I!— what?"

"Why, something struck me. I felt it sharply on the shoulder,— just here."

"No," said I. "But we have jugglers present, and though we may not discover their tricks, we shall catch them before they frighten us."

We did not stay long in the drawing-rooms,— in fact, they felt so damp and so chilly that I was glad to get to the fire upstairs. We locked the doors of the drawing-rooms,— a precaution which, I should observe, we had taken with all the rooms we had searched below. The bedroom my servant had selected for me was the best on the floor,— a large one, with two windows fronting the street. The four-posted bed, which took up no inconsiderable space, was opposite to the fire, which burned clear and bright; a door in the wall to the left, between the bed and the window, communicated with the room which my servant appropriated to himself. This last was a small room with a sofa-bed, and had no communication with the landing-place,— no other door but that which conducted to the bedroom I was to occupy. On either side of my fireplace was a cupboard without locks, flush with the wall, and covered with the same dull-brown paper. We examined these cupboards,—only hooks to suspend female dresses, nothing else; we sounded the walls,—evidently solid, the outer walls of the building. Having finished the survey of these apartments, warmed myself a few moments, and lighted my cigar, I then, still accompanied by F——, went forth to complete my reconnoitre. In the landing-place there was another door; it was closed firmly. "Sir," said my servant, in surprise, "I unlocked this door with all the others when I first came; it cannot have got locked from the inside, for—"

Before he had finished his sentence, the door, which neither of us then was touching, opened quietly of itself. We looked at each other a single instant. The same thought seized both,—some human agency might be detected here. I rushed in first, my servant followed. A small, blank, dreary room without furniture; a few empty boxes and hampers in a corner; a small window; the shutters closed; not even a fireplace; no other door but that by which we had entered; no carpet on the floor, and the floor seemed very old, uneven, worm-eaten, mended here and there, as was shown by the whiter patches on the wood; but no living being, and no visible place in which a living being could have hidden. As we stood gazing round, the door by which we had entered closed as quietly as it had before opened; we were imprisoned.

For the first time I felt a creep of undefinable horror. Not so my servant. "Why, they don't think to trap us, sir; I could break that trumpery door with a kick of my foot."

"Try first if it will open to your hand," said I, shaking off the vague apprehension that had seized me, "while I unclosed the shutters and see what is without."

I unbarred the shutters,— the window looked on the little backyard I have before described; there was no ledge without,— nothing to break the sheer descent of the wall. No man getting out of that window would have found any footing till he had fallen on the stones below.

F——, meanwhile, was vainly attempting to open the door. He now turned round to me and asked my permission to use force. And I should here state, in justice to the servant, that, far from evincing any superstitious terrors, his nerve, composure, and even gayety amidst circumstances so extraordinary, compelled my admiration, and made me congratulate myself on having secured a companion in every way fitted to the occasion. I willingly gave him the permission he required. But though he was a remarkably strong man, his force was as idle as his milder efforts; the door did not even shake to his stoutest kick. Breathless and panting, he desisted. I then tried the door myself, equally in vain. As I ceased from the effort, again that creep of horror came over me; but this time it was more cold and stubborn. I felt as if some strange and ghastly exhalation were rising up from the chinks of that rugged floor, and filling the atmosphere with a venomous influence hostile to human life. The door now very slowly and quietly opened as of its own accord. We precipitated ourselves into the landing-place. We both saw a large, pale light— as large as the human figure, but shapeless and unsubstantial— move before us, and ascend the stairs that led from the landing into the attics. I followed the light, and my servant followed me. It entered, to the right of the landing, a small garret, of which the door stood open. I entered in the same instant. The light then collapsed into a small globule, exceedingly brilliant and vivid, rested a moment on a bed in the corner, quivered, and vanished. We approached the bed and examined it,— a half-tester, such as is commonly found in attics devoted to servants. On the drawers that stood near it we perceived an old faded silk kerchief, with the needle still left in a rent half repaired. The kerchief was covered with dust; probably it had belonged to the old woman who had last died in that house, and this might have been her sleeping-room. I had sufficient curiosity to open the drawers: there were a few odds and ends of female dress, and two letters tied round with a narrow ribbon of faded yellow. I took the liberty to possess myself of the letters. We found nothing else in the room worth noticing,— nor did the light reappear; but we distinctly heard, as we turned to go, a pattering footfall on the floor, just before us. We went through the other attics (in all four), the footfall still preceding us. Nothing to be seen,— nothing but the footfall heard. I had the letters in my hand; just as I was descending the stairs I distinctly felt my wrist seized, and a faint, soft effort made to draw the letters from my clasp. I only held them the more tightly, and the effort ceased.

We regained the bedchamber appropriated to myself, and I then remarked that my dog had not followed us when we had left it. He was thrusting himself close to the fire, and trembling. I was impatient to examine the letters; and while I read them, my servant opened a little box in which he had deposited the weapons I had ordered him to bring, took them out, placed them on a table close at my bed-head, and then occupied himself in soothing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed him very little.

The letters were short,— they were dated; the dates exactly thirty-five years ago. They were evidently from a lover to his mistress, or a husband to some young wife. Not only the terms of expression, but a distinct reference to a former voyage, indicated the writer to have been a seafarer. The spelling and handwriting were those of a man imperfectly educated, but still the language itself was forcible. In the expressions of endearment there was a kind of rough, wild love; but here and there were dark unintelligible hints at some secret not of love,— some secret that seemed of crime. "We ought to love each other," was one of the sentences I remember, "for how every one else would execrate us if all was known." Again: "Don't let any one be in the same room with you at night,— you talk in your sleep." And again: "What's done can't be undone; and I tell you there's nothing against us unless the dead could come to life." Here there was underlined in a better handwriting (a female's), "They do!" At the end of the letter latest in date the same female hand had written these words: "Lost at sea the 4th of June, the same day as—"

I put down the letters, and began to muse over their contents.

Fearing, however, that the train of thought into which I fell might unsteady my nerves, I fully determined to keep my mind in a fit state to cope with whatever of marvellous the advancing night might bring forth. I roused myself; laid the letters on the table; stirred up the fire, which was still bright and cheering; and opened my volume of Macaulay. I read quietly enough till about half-past eleven. I then threw myself dressed upon the bed, and told my servant he might retire to his own room, but must keep himself awake. I bade him leave open the door between the two rooms. Thus alone, I kept two candles burning on the table by my bed-head. I placed my watch beside the weapons, and calmly resumed my Macaulay. Opposite to me the fire burned clear; and on the hearthrug, seemingly asleep, lay the dog. In about twenty minutes I felt an exceedingly cold air pass by my cheek, like a sudden draught. I fancied the door to my right, communicating with the landing-place, must have got open; but no,— it was closed. I then turned my glance to my left, and saw the flame of the candles violently swayed as by a wind. At the same moment the watch beside the revolver softly slid from the table,— softly, softly; no visible hand,—it was gone. I sprang up, seizing the revolver with the one hand, the dagger with the other; I was not willing that my weapons should share the fate of the watch. Thus armed, I looked round the floor,— no sign of the watch. Three slow, loud, distinct knocks were now heard at the bed-head; my servant called out, "Is that you, sir?"

"No; be on your guard."

The dog now roused himself and sat on his haunches, his ears moving quickly backwards and forwards. He kept his eyes fixed on me with a look so strange that he concentred all my attention on himself. Slowly he rose up, all his hair bristling, and stood perfectly rigid, and with the same wild stare. I had no time, however, to examine the dog. Presently my servant emerged from his room; and if ever I saw horror in the human face, it was then. I should not have recognized him had we met in the street, so altered was every lineament. He passed by me quickly, saying, in a whisper that seemed scarcely to come from his lips, "Run, run! it is after me!" He gained the door to the landing, pulled it open, and rushed forth. I followed him into the landing involuntarily, calling him to stop; but, without heeding me, he bounded down the stairs, clinging to the balusters, and taking several steps at a time. I heard, where I stood, the street-door open,—heard it again clap to. I was left alone in the haunted house.

It was but for a moment that I remained undecided whether or not to follow my servant; pride and curiosity alike forbade so dastardly a flight. I re-entered my room, closing the door after me, and proceeded cautiously into the interior chamber. I encountered nothing to justify my servant's terror. I again carefully examined the walls, to see if there were any concealed door. I could find no trace of one,— not even a seam in the dull-brown paper with which the room was hung. How, then, had the THING, whatever it was, which had so scared him, obtained ingress except through my own chamber?

I returned to my room, shut and locked the door that opened upon the interior one, and stood on the hearth, expectant and prepared. I now perceived that the dog had slunk into an angle of the wall, and was pressing himself close against it, as if literally striving to force his way into it. I approached the animal and spoke to it; the poor brute was evidently beside itself with terror. It showed all its teeth, the slaver dropping from its jaws, and would certainly have bitten me if I had touched it. It did not seem to recognize me. Whoever has seen at the Zoological Gardens a rabbit, fascinated by a serpent, cowering in a corner, may form some idea of the anguish which the dog exhibited. Finding all efforts to soothe the animal in vain, and fearing that his bite might be as venomous in that state as in the madness of hydrophobia, I left him alone, placed my weapons on the table beside the fire, seated myself, and recommenced my Macaulay.

Perhaps, in order not to appear seeking credit for a courage, or rather a coolness, which the reader may conceive I exaggerate, I may be pardoned if I pause to indulge in one or two egotistical remarks.

As I hold presence of mind, or what is called courage, to be precisely proportioned to familiarity with the circumstances that lead to it, so I should say that I had been long sufficiently familiar with all experiments that appertain to the marvellous. I had witnessed many very extraordinary phenomena in various parts of the world,— phenomena that would be either totally disbelieved if I stated them, or ascribed to supernatural agencies. Now, my theory is that the supernatural is the impossible, and that what is called supernatural is only a something in the laws of Nature of which we have been hitherto ignorant. Therefore, if a ghost rise before me, I have not the right to say, "So, then, the supernatural is possible;" but rather, "So, then, the apparition of a ghost, is, contrary to received opinion, within the laws of Nature,— that is, not supernatural."

Now, in all that I had hitherto witnessed, and indeed in all the wonders which the amateurs of mystery in our age record as facts, a material living agency is always required. On the Continent you will find still magicians who assert that they can raise spirits. Assume for the moment that they assert truly, still the living material form of the magician is present; and he is the material agency by which, from some constitutional peculiarities, certain strange phenomena are represented to your natural senses.

Accept, again, as truthful, the tales of spirit-manifestation in America,— musical or other sounds; writings on paper, produced by no discernible hand; articles of furniture moved without apparent human agency; or the actual sight and touch of hands, to which no bodies seem to belong,— still there must be found the MEDIUM, or living being, with constitutional peculiarities capable of obtaining these signs. In fine, in all such marvels, supposing even that there is no imposture, there must be a human being like ourselves by whom, or through whom, the effects presented to human beings are produced. It is so with the now familiar phenomena of mesmerism or electro-biology; the mind of the person operated on is affected through a material living agent. Nor, supposing it true that a mesmerized patient can respond to the will or passes of a mesmerizer a hundred miles distant, is the response less occasioned by a material being; it may be through a material fluid— call it Electric, call it Odic, call it what you will— which has the power of traversing space and passing obstacles, that the material effect is communicated from one to the other. Hence, all that I had hitherto witnessed, or expected to witness, in this strange house, I believed to be occasioned through some agency or medium as mortal as myself; and this idea necessarily prevented the awe with which those who regard as supernatural things that are not within the ordinary operations of Nature, might have been impressed by the adventures of that memorable night.

As, then, it was my conjecture that all that was presented, or would be presented to my senses, must originate in some human being gifted by constitution with the power so to present them, and having some motive so to do, I felt an interest in my theory which, in its way, was rather philosophical than superstitious. And I can sincerely say that I was in as tranquil a temper for observation as any practical experimentalist could be in awaiting the effects of some rare, though perhaps perilous, chemical combination. Of course, the more I kept my mind detached from fancy, the more the temper fitted for observation would be obtained; and I therefore riveted eye and thought on the strong daylight sense in the page of my Macaulay.

I now became aware that something interposed between the page and the light,— the page was over-shadowed. I looked up, and I saw what I shall find it very difficult, perhaps impossible, to describe.

It was a Darkness shaping itself forth from the air in very undefined outline. I cannot say it was of a human form, and yet it had more resemblance to a human form, or rather shadow, than to anything else. As it stood, wholly apart and distinct from the air and the light around it, its dimensions seemed gigantic, the summit nearly touching the ceiling. While I gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me. An iceberg before me could not more have chilled me; nor could the cold of an iceberg have been more purely physical. I feel convinced that it was not the cold caused by fear. As I continued to gaze, I thought— but this I cannot say with precision— that I distinguished two eyes looking down on me from the height. One moment I fancied that I distinguished them clearly, the next they seemed gone; but still two rays of a pale-blue light frequently shot through the darkness, as from the height on which I half believed, half doubted, that I had encountered the eyes.

I strove to speak,— my voice utterly failed me; I could only think to myself, "Is this fear? It is not fear!" I strove to rise,—in vain; I felt as if weighed down by an irresistible force. Indeed, my impression was that of an immense and overwhelming Power opposed to my volition,— that sense of utter inadequacy to cope with a force beyond man's, which one may feel physically in a storm at sea, in a conflagration, or when confronting some terrible wild beast, or rather, perhaps, the shark of the ocean, I felt morally. Opposed to my will was another will, as far superior to its strength as storm, fire, and shark are superior in material force to the force of man.

And now, as this impression grew on me,— now came, at last, horror, horror to a degree that no words can convey. Still I retained pride, if not courage; and in my own mind I said, "This is horror, but it is not fear; unless I fear I cannot be harmed; my reason rejects this thing; it is an illusion,— I do not fear." With a violent effort I succeeded at last in stretching out my hand towards the weapon on the table; as I did so, on the arm and shoulder I received a strange shock, and my arm fell to my side powerless. And now, to add to my horror, the light began slowly to wane from the candles,— they were not, as it were, extinguished, but their flame seemed very gradually withdrawn; it was the same with the fire,— the light was extracted from the fuel; in a few minutes the room was in utter darkness. The dread that came over me, to be thus in the dark with that dark Thing, whose power was so intensely felt, brought a reaction of nerve. In fact, terror had reached that climax, that either my senses must have deserted me, or I must have burst through the spell. I did burst through it. I found voice, though the voice was a shriek. I remember that I broke forth with words like these, "I do not fear, my soul does not fear;" and at the same time I found strength to rise. Still in that profound gloom I rushed to one of the windows; tore aside the curtain; flung open the shutters; my first thought was— LIGHT. And when I saw the moon high, clear, and calm, I felt a joy that almost compensated for the previous terror. There was the moon, there was also the light from the gas-lamps in the deserted slumberous street. I turned to look back into the room; the moon penetrated its shadow very palely and partially,— but still there was light. The dark Thing, whatever it might be, was gone,— except that I could yet see a dim shadow, which seemed the shadow of that shade, against the opposite wall.

My eye now rested on the table, and from under the table (which was without cloth or cover,— an old mahogany round-table) there rose a hand, visible as far as the wrist. It was a hand, seemingly, as much of flesh and blood as my own, but the hand of an aged person, lean, wrinkled, small too,—a woman's hand. That hand very softly closed on the two letters that lay on the table; hand and letters both vanished. There then came the same three loud, measured knocks I had heard at the bedhead before this extraordinary drama had commenced.

As those sounds slowly ceased, I felt the whole room vibrate sensibly; and at the far end there rose, as from the floor, sparks or globules like bubbles of light, many colored,— green, yellow, fire-red, azure. Up and down, to and fro, hither, thither, as tiny Will-o'-the-Wisps, the sparks moved, slow or swift, each at its own caprice. A chair (as in the drawing-room below) was now advanced from the wall without apparent agency, and placed at the opposite side of the table. Suddenly, as forth from the chair, there grew a shape,— a woman's shape. It was distinct as a shape of life, —ghastly as a shape of death. The face was that of youth, with a strange, mournful beauty; the throat and shoulders were bare, the rest of the form in a loose robe of cloudy white. It began sleeking its long, yellow hair, which fell over its shoulders; its eyes were not turned towards me, but to the door; it seemed listening, watching, waiting. The shadow of the shade in the background grew darker; and again I thought I beheld the eyes gleaming out from the summit of the shadow,—eyes fixed upon that shape.

As if from the door, though it did not open, there grew out another shape, equally distinct, equally ghastly,— a man's shape, a young man's. It was in the dress of the last century, or rather in a likeness of such dress (for both the male shape and the female, though defined, were evidently unsubstantial, impalpable,— simulacra, phantasms); and there was something incongruous, grotesque, yet fearful, in the contrast between the elaborate finery, the courtly precision of that old-fashioned garb, with its ruffles and lace and buckles, and the corpse-like aspect and ghost-like stillness of the flitting wearer. Just as the male shape approached the female, the dark Shadow started from the wall, all three for a moment wrapped in darkness. When the pale light returned, the two phantoms were as if in the grasp of the Shadow that towered between them; and there was a blood-stain on the breast of the female; and the phantom male was leaning on its phantom sword, and blood seemed trickling fast from the ruffles, from the lace; and the darkness of the intermediate Shadow swallowed them up,— they were gone. And again the bubbles of light shot, and sailed, and undulated, growing thicker and thicker and more wildly confused in their movements.

The closet door to the right of the fireplace now opened, and from the aperture there came the form of an aged woman. In her hand she held letters,—the very letters over which I had seen the Hand close; and behind her I heard a footstep. She turned round as if to listen, and then she opened the letters and seemed to read; and over her shoulder I saw a livid face, the face as of a man long drowned,— bloated, bleached, seaweed tangled in its dripping hair; and at her feet lay a form as of a corpse; and beside the corpse there cowered a child, a miserable, squalid child, with famine in its cheeks and fear in its eyes. And as I looked in the old woman's face, the wrinkles and lines vanished, and it became a face of youth,— hard-eyed, stony, but still youth; and the Shadow darted forth, and darkened over these phantoms as it had darkened over the last.

Nothing now was left but the Shadow, and on that my eyes were intently fixed, till again eyes grew out of the Shadow,— malignant, serpent eyes. And the bubbles of light again rose and fell, and in their disordered, irregular, turbulent maze, mingled with the wan moonlight. And now from these globules themselves, as from the shell of an egg, monstrous things burst out; the air grew filled with them: larvae so bloodless and so hideous that I can in no way describe them except to remind the reader of the swarming life which the solar microscope brings before his eyes in a drop of water,— things transparent, supple, agile, chasing each other, devouring each, other; forms like nought ever beheld by the naked eye. As the shapes were without symmetry, so their movements were without order. In their very vagrancies there was no sport; they came round me and round, thicker and faster and swifter, swarming over my head, crawling over my right arm, which was outstretched in involuntary command against all evil beings. Sometimes I felt myself touched, but not by them; invisible hands touched me. Once I felt the clutch as of cold, soft fingers at my throat. I was still equally conscious that if I gave way to fear I should be in bodily peril; and I concentred all my faculties in the single focus of resisting stubborn will. And I turned my sight from the Shadow; above all, from those strange serpent eyes,— eyes that had now become distinctly visible. For there, though in nought else around me, I was aware that there was a WILL, and a will of intense, creative, working evil, which might crush down my own.

The pale atmosphere in the room began now to redden as if in the air of some near conflagration. The larvæ grew lurid as things that live in fire. Again the room vibrated; again were heard the three measured knocks; and again all things were swallowed up in the darkness of the dark Shadow, as if out of that darkness all had come, into that darkness all returned.

As the gloom receded, the Shadow was wholly gone. Slowly, as it had been withdrawn, the flame grew again into the candles on the table, again into the fuel in the grate. The whole room came once more calmly, healthfully into sight.

The two doors were still closed, the door communicating with the servant's room still locked. In the corner of the wall, into which he had so convulsively niched himself, lay the dog. I called to him,— no movement; I approached,—the animal was dead: his eyes protruded; his tongue out of his mouth; the froth gathered round his jaws. I took him in my arms; I brought him to the fire. I felt acute grief for the loss of my poor favorite,— acute self-reproach; I accused myself of his death; I imagined he had died of fright. But what was my surprise on finding that his neck was actually broken. Had this been done in the dark? Must it not have been by a hand human as mine; must there not have been a human agency all the while in that room? Good cause to suspect it. I cannot tell. I cannot do more than state the fact fairly; the reader may draw his own inference.

Another surprising circumstance,— my watch was restored to the table from which it had been so mysteriously withdrawn; but it had stopped at the very moment it was so withdrawn, nor, despite all the skill of the watchmaker, has it ever gone since,— that is, it will go in a strange, erratic way for a few hours, and then come to a dead stop; it is worthless.

Nothing more chanced for the rest of the night. Nor, indeed, had I long to wait before the dawn broke. Nor till it was broad daylight did I quit the haunted house. Before I did so, I revisited the little blind room in which my servant and myself had been for a time imprisoned. I had a strong impression—for which I could not account— that from that room had originated the mechanism of the phenomena, if I may use the term, which had been experienced in my chamber. And though I entered it now in the clear day, with the sun peering through the filmy window, I still felt, as I stood on its floors, the creep of the horror which I had first there experienced the night before, and which had been so aggravated by what had passed in my own chamber. I could not, indeed, bear to stay more than half a minute within those walls. I descended the stairs, and again I heard the footfall before me; and when I opened the street door, I thought I could distinguish a very low laugh. I gained my own home, expecting to find my runaway servant there; but he had not presented himself, nor did I hear more of him for three days, when I received a letter from him, dated from Liverpool to this effect:—

HONORED SIR,—

I humbly entreat your pardon, though I can scarcely hope that you will think that I deserve it, unless— which Heaven forbid!— you saw what I did. I feel that it will be years before I can recover myself; and as to being fit for service, it is out of the question. I am therefore going to my brother-in-law at Melbourne. The ship sails to-morrow. Perhaps the long voyage may set me up. I do nothing now but start and tremble, and fancy IT is behind me. I humbly beg you, honored sir, to order my clothes, and whatever wages are due to me, to be sent to my mother's, at Walworth,— John knows her address.

The letter ended with additional apologies, somewhat incoherent, and explanatory details as to effects that had been under the writer's charge. This flight may perhaps warrant a suspicion that the man wished to go to Australia, and had been somehow or other fraudulently mixed up with the events of the night. I say nothing in refutation of that conjecture; rather, I suggest it as one that would seem to many persons the most probable solution of improbable occurrences. My belief in my own theory remained unshaken. I returned in the evening to the house, to bring away in a hack cab the things I had left there, with my poor dog's body. In this task I was not disturbed, nor did any incident worth note befall me, except that still, on ascending and descending the stairs, I heard the same footfall in advance. On leaving the house, I went to Mr. J——'s. He was at home. I returned him the keys, told him that my curiosity was sufficiently gratified, and was about to relate quickly what had passed, when he stopped me, and said, though with much politeness, that he had no longer any interest in a mystery which none had ever solved.

I determined at least to tell him of the two letters I had read, as well as of the extraordinary manner in which they had disappeared; and I then inquired if he thought they had been addressed to the woman who had died in the house, and if there were anything in her early history which could possibly confirm the dark suspicions to which the letters gave rise. Mr. J—— seemed startled, and, after musing a few moments, answered, "I am but little acquainted with the woman's earlier history, except as I before told you, that her family were known to mine. But you revive some vague reminiscences to her prejudice. I will make inquiries, and inform you of their result. Still, even if we could admit the popular superstition that a person who had been either the perpetrator or the victim of dark crimes in life could revisit, as a restless spirit, the scene in which those crimes had been committed, I should observe that the house was infested by strange sights and sounds before the old woman died— you smile— what would you say?"

"I would say this, that I am convinced, if we could get to the bottom of these mysteries, we should find a living human agency."

"What! you believe it is all an imposture? For what object?"

"Not an imposture in the ordinary sense of the word. If suddenly I were to sink into a deep sleep, from which you could not awake me, but in that sleep could answer questions with an accuracy which I could not pretend to when awake,— tell you what money you had in your pocket, nay, describe your very thoughts,— it is not necessarily an imposture, any more than it is necessarily supernatural. I should be, unconsciously to myself, under a mesmeric influence, conveyed to me from a distance by a human being who had acquired power over me by previous rapport."

"But if a mesmerizer could so affect another living being, can you suppose that a mesmerizer could also affect inanimate objects: move chairs,— open and shut doors?"

"Or impress our senses with the belief in such effects,— we never having been en rapport with the person acting on us? No. What is commonly called mesmerism could not do this; but there may be a power akin to mesmerism, and superior to it,— the power that in the old days was called Magic. That such a power may extend to all inanimate objects of matter, I do not say; but if so, it would not be against Nature,— it would be only a rare power in Nature which might be given to constitutions with certain peculiarities, and cultivated by practice to an extraordinary degree. That such a power might extend over the dead,— that is, over certain thoughts and memories that the dead may still retain,— and compel, not that which ought properly to be called the SOUL, and which is far beyond human reach, but rather a phantom of what has been most earth-stained on earth, to make itself apparent to our senses, is a very ancient though obsolete theory upon which I will hazard no opinion. But I do not conceive the power would be supernatural. Let me illustrate what I mean from an experiment which Paracelsus describes as not difficult, and which the author of the 'Curiosities of Literature' cites as credible: A flower perishes; you burn it. Whatever were the elements of that flower while it lived are gone, dispersed, you know not whither; you can never discover nor re-collect them. But you can, by chemistry, out of the burned dust of that flower, raise a spectrum of the flower, just as it seemed in life. It may be the same with the human being. The soul has as much escaped you as the essence or elements of the flower. Still you may make a spectrum of it. And this phantom, though in the popular superstition it is held to be the soul of the departed, must not be confounded with the true soul; it is but the eidolon of the dead form. Hence, like the best attested stories of ghosts or spirits, the thing that most strikes us is the absence of what we hold to be soul,— that is, of superior emancipated intelligence. These apparitions come for little or no object,— they seldom speak when they do come; if they speak, they utter no ideas above those of an ordinary person on earth. American spirit-seers have published volumes of communications, in prose and verse, which they assert to be given in the names of the most illustrious dead: Shakespeare, Bacon,— Heaven knows whom. Those communications, taking the best, are certainly not a whit of higher order than would be communications from living persons of fair talent and education; they are wondrously inferior to what Bacon, Shakespeare, and Plato said and wrote when on earth. Nor, what is more noticeable, do they ever contain an idea that was not on the earth before. Wonderful, therefore, as such phenomena may be (granting them to be truthful), I see much that philosophy may question, nothing that it is incumbent on philosophy to deny,— namely, nothing supernatural. They are but ideas conveyed somehow or other (we have not yet discovered the means) from one mortal brain to another. Whether, in so doing, tables walk of their own accord, or fiendlike shapes appear in a magic circle, or bodiless hands rise and remove material objects, or a Thing of Darkness, such as presented itself to me, freeze our blood,— still am I persuaded that these are but agencies conveyed, as by electric wires, to my own brain from the brain of another. In some constitutions there is a natural chemistry, and those constitutions may produce chemic wonders,— in others a natural fluid, call it electricity, and these may produce electric wonders. But the wonders differ from Normal Science in this,—they are alike objectless, purposeless, puerile, frivolous. They lead on to no grand results; and therefore the world does not heed, and true sages have not cultivated them. But sure I am, that of all I saw or heard, a man, human as myself, was the remote originator; and I believe unconsciously to himself as to the exact effects produced, for this reason: no two persons, you say, have ever told you that they experienced exactly the same thing. Well, observe, no two persons ever experience exactly the same dream. If this were an ordinary imposture, the machinery would be arranged for results that would but little vary; if it were a supernatural agency permitted by the Almighty, it would surely be for some definite end. These phenomena belong to neither class; my persuasion is, that they originate in some brain now far distant; that that brain had no distinct volition in anything that occurred; that what does occur reflects but its devious, motley, ever-shifting, half-formed thoughts; in short, that it has been but the dreams of such a brain put into action and invested with a semi-substance. That this brain is of immense power, that it can set matter into movement, that it is malignant and destructive, I believe; some material force must have killed my dog; the same force might, for aught I know, have sufficed to kill myself, had I been as subjugated by terror as the dog,— had my intellect or my spirit given me no countervailing resistance in my will."

"It killed your dog,— that is fearful! Indeed it is strange that no animal can be induced to stay in that house; not even a cat. Bats and mice are never found in it."

"The instincts of the brute creation detect influences deadly to their existence. Man's reason has a sense less subtle, because it has a resisting power more supreme. But enough; do you comprehend my theory?"

"Yes, though imperfectly,— and I accept any crotchet (pardon the word), however odd, rather than embrace at once the notion of ghosts and hobgoblins we imbibed in our nurseries. Still, to my unfortunate house, the evil is the same. What on earth can I do with the house?"

"I will tell you what I would do. I am convinced from my own internal feelings that the small, unfurnished room at right angles to the door of the bed-room which I occupied, forms a starting-point or receptacle for the influences which haunt the house; and I strongly advise you to have the walls opened, the floor removed,— nay, the whole room pulled down. I observe that it is detached from the body of the house, built over the small backyard, and could be removed without injury to the rest of the building."

"And you think, if I did that—"

"You would cut off the telegraph wires. Try it. I am so persuaded that I am right, that I will pay half the expense if you will allow me to direct the operations."

"Nay, I am well able to afford the cost; for the rest allow me to write to you."

About ten days after I received a letter from Mr. J——, telling me that he had visited the house since I had seen him; that he had found the two letters I had described, replaced in the drawer from which I had taken them; that he had read them with misgivings like my own; that he had instituted a cautious inquiry about the woman to whom I rightly conjectured they had been written. It seemed that thirty-six years ago (a year before the date of the letters) she had married, against the wish of her relations, an American of very suspicious character; in fact, he was generally believed to have been a pirate. She herself was the daughter of very respectable tradespeople, and had served in the capacity of a nursery governess before her marriage. She had a brother, a widower, who was considered wealthy, and who had one child of about six years old. A month after the marriage the body of this brother was found in the Thames, near London Bridge; there seemed some marks of violence about his throat, but they were not deemed sufficient to warrant the inquest in any other verdict than that of "found drowned."

The American and his wife took charge of the little boy, the deceased brother having by his will left his sister the guardian of his only child,— and in event of the child's death the sister inherited. The child died about six months afterwards,— it was supposed to have been neglected and ill-treated. The neighbors deposed to have heard it shriek at night. The surgeon who had examined it after death said that it was emaciated as if from want of nourishment, and the body was covered with livid bruises. It seemed that one winter night the child had sought to escape; crept out into the backyard; tried to scale the wall; fallen back exhausted; and been found at morning on the stones in a dying state. But though there was some evidence of cruelty, there was none of murder; and the aunt and her husband had sought to palliate cruelty by alleging the exceeding stubbornness and perversity of the child, who was declared to be half-witted. Be that as it may, at the orphan's death the aunt inherited her brother's fortune. Before the first wedded year was out, the American quitted England abruptly, and never returned to it. He obtained a cruising vessel, which was lost in the Atlantic two years afterwards. The widow was left in affluence, but reverses of various kinds had befallen her: a bank broke; an investment failed; she went into a small business and became insolvent; then she entered into service, sinking lower and lower, from housekeeper down to maid-of-all-work,— never long retaining a place, though nothing decided against her character was ever alleged. She was considered sober, honest, and peculiarly quiet in her ways; still nothing prospered with her. And so she had dropped into the workhouse, from which Mr. J—— had taken her, to be placed in charge of the very house which she had rented as mistress in the first year of her wedded life.

Mr. J—— added that he had passed an hour alone in the unfurnished room which I had urged him to destroy, and that his impressions of dread while there were so great, though he had neither heard nor seen anything, that he was eager to have the walls bared and the floors removed as I had suggested. He had engaged persons for the work, and would commence any day I would name.

The day was accordingly fixed. I repaired to the haunted house,— we went into the blind, dreary room, took up the skirting, and then the floors. Under the rafters, covered with rubbish, was found a trap-door, quite large enough to admit a man. It was closely nailed down, with clamps and rivets of iron. On removing these we descended into a room below, the existence of which had never been suspected. In this room there had been a window and a flue, but they had been bricked over, evidently for many years. By the help of candles we examined this place; it still retained some mouldering furniture,— three chairs, an oak settle, a table,— all of the fashion of about eighty years ago. There was a chest of drawers against the wall, in which we found, half-rotted away, old-fashioned articles of a man's dress, such as might have been worn eighty or a hundred years ago by a gentleman of some rank; costly steel buckles and buttons, like those yet worn in court-dresses, a handsome court sword; in a waistcoat which had once been rich with gold-lace, but which was now blackened and foul with damp, we found five guineas, a few silver coins, and an ivory ticket, probably for some place of entertainment long since passed away. But our main discovery was in a kind of iron safe fixed to the wall, the lock of which it cost us much trouble to get picked.

In this safe were three shelves and two small drawers. Ranged on the shelves were several small bottles of crystal, hermetically stopped. They contained colorless, volatile essences, of the nature of which I shall only say that they were not poisons,— phosphor and ammonia entered into some of them. There were also some very curious glass tubes, and a small pointed rod of iron, with a large lump of rock-crystal, and another of amber,—also a loadstone of great power.

In one of the drawers we found a miniature portrait set in gold, and retaining the freshness of its colors most remarkably, considering the length of time it had probably been there. The portrait was that of a man who might be somewhat advanced in middle life, perhaps forty-seven or forty-eight. It was a remarkable face,— a most impressive face. If you could fancy some mighty serpent transformed into man, preserving in the human lineaments the old serpent type, you would have a better idea of that countenance than long descriptions can convey: the width and flatness of frontal; the tapering elegance of contour disguising the strength of the deadly jaw; the long, large, terrible eye, glittering and green as the emerald,—and withal a certain ruthless calm, as if from the consciousness of an immense power.

Mechanically I turned round the miniature to examine the back of it, and on the back was engraved a pentacle; in the middle of the pentacle a ladder, and the third step of the ladder was formed by the date 1765. Examining still more minutely, I detected a spring; this, on being pressed, opened the back of the miniature as a lid. Within-side the lid were engraved, "Marianna to thee. Be faithful in life and in death to ——." Here follows a name that I will not mention, but it was not unfamiliar to me. I had heard it spoken of by old men in my childhood as the name borne by a dazzling charlatan who had made a great sensation in London for a year or so, and had fled the country on the charge of a double murder within his own house,—that of his mistress and his rival. I said nothing of this to Mr. J——, to whom reluctantly I resigned the miniature.

We had found no difficulty in opening the first drawer within the iron safe; we found great difficulty in opening the second: it was not locked, but it resisted all efforts, till we inserted in the chinks the edge of a chisel. When we had thus drawn it forth, we found a very singular apparatus in the nicest order. Upon a small, thin book, or rather tablet, was placed a saucer of crystal; this saucer was filled with a clear liquid,— on that liquid floated a kind of compass, with a needle shifting rapidly round; but instead of the usual points of a compass were seven strange characters, not very unlike those used by astrologers to denote the planets. A peculiar but not strong nor displeasing odor came from this drawer, which was lined with a wood that we afterwards discovered to be hazel. Whatever the cause of this odor, it produced a material effect on the nerves. We all felt it, even the two workmen who were in the room,— a creeping, tingling sensation from the tips of the fingers to the roots of the hair. Impatient to examine the tablet, I removed the saucer. As I did so the needle of the compass went round and round with exceeding swiftness, and I felt a shock that ran through my whole frame, so that I dropped the saucer on the floor. The liquid was spilled; the saucer was broken; the compass rolled to the end of the room, and at that instant the walls shook to and fro, as if a giant had swayed and rocked them.

The two workmen were so frightened that they ran up the ladder by which we had descended from the trapdoor; but seeing that nothing more happened, they were easily induced to return.

Meanwhile I had opened the tablet: it was bound in plain red leather, with a silver clasp; it contained but one sheet of thick vellum, and on that sheet were inscribed, within a double pentacle, words in old monkish Latin, which are literally to be translated thus: "On all that it can reach within these walls, sentient or inanimate, living or dead, as moves the needle, so work my will! Accursed be the house, and restless be the dwellers therein."

We found no more. Mr. J—— burned the tablet and its anathema. He razed to the foundations the part of the building containing the secret room with the chamber over it. He had then the courage to inhabit the house himself for a month, and a quieter, better-conditioned house could not be found in all London. Subsequently he let it to advantage, and his tenant has made no complaints.

_______________

17: The Bohemian Girl

Willa Cather

1873-1947

McClure’s Magazine, Aug 1912

THE TRANSCONTINENTAL EXPRESS swung along the windings of the Sand River Valley, and in the rear seat of the observation car a young man sat greatly at his ease, not in the least discomfited by the fierce sunlight which beat in upon his brown face and neck and strong back. There was a look of relaxation and of great passivity about his broad shoulders, which seemed almost too heavy until he stood up and squared them. He wore a pale flannel shirt and a blue silk necktie with loose ends. His trousers were wide and belted at the waist, and his short sack coat hung open. His heavy shoes had seen good service. His reddish-brown hair, like his clothes, had a foreign cut. He had deep-set, dark blue eyes under heavy reddish eyebrows. His face was kept clean only by close shaving, and even the sharpest razor left a glint of yellow in the smooth brown of his skin. His teeth and the palms of his hands were very white.

His head, which looked hard and stubborn, lay indolently in the green cushion of the wicker chair, and as he looked out at the ripe summer country a teasing, not unkindly smile played over his lips.

Once, as he basked thus comfortably, a quick light flashed in his eyes, curiously dilating the pupils, and his mouth became a hard, straight line, gradually relaxing into its former smile of rather kindly mockery. He told himself, apparently, that there was no point in getting excited; and he seemed a master hand at taking his ease when he could. Neither the sharp whistle of the locomotive nor the brakeman's call disturbed him. It was not until after the train had stopped that he rose, put on a Panama hat, took from the rack a small valise and a flute case, and stepped deliberately to the station platform. The baggage was already unloaded, and the stranger presented a check for a battered sole-leather steamer trunk.

"Can you keep it here for a day or two?" he asked the agent. "I may send for it, and I may not."

"Depends on whether you like the country, I suppose?" demanded the agent in a challenging tone.

"Just so."

The agent shrugged his shoulders, looked scornfully at the small trunk, which was marked "N.E.," and handed out a claim check without further comment. The stranger watched him as he caught one end of the trunk and dragged it into the express room. The agent's manner seemed to remind him of something amusing. "Doesn't seem to be a very big place," he remarked, looking about.

"It's big enough for us," snapped the agent, as he banged the trunk into a corner.

That remark, apparently, was what Nils Ericson had wanted. He chuckled quietly as he took a leather strap from his pocket and swung his valise around his shoulder. Then he settled his Panama securely on his head, turned up his trousers, tucked the flute case under his arm, and started off across the fields. He gave the town, as he would have said, a wide berth, and cut through a great fenced pasture, emerging, when he rolled under the barbed wire at the farther corner, upon a white dusty road which ran straight up from the river valley to the high prairies, where the ripe wheat stood yellow and the tin roofs and weathercocks were twinkling in the fierce sunlight. By the time Nils had done three miles, the sun was sinking and the farm wagons on their way home from town came rattling by, covering him with dust and making him sneeze.

When one of the farmers pulled up and offered to give him a lift, he clambered in willingly. The driver was a thin, grizzled old man with a long lean neck and a foolish sort of beard, like a goat's.

"How fur ye goin'?" he asked, as he clucked to his horses and started off.

"Do you go by the Ericson place?"

"Which Ericson?" The old man drew in his reins as if he expected to stop again.

"Preacher Ericson's."

"Oh, the Old Lady Ericson's!" He turned and looked at Nils. "La, me! If you're goin' out there you might a' rid out in the automobile. That's a pity, now. The Old Lady Ericson was in town with her auto. You might 'a' heard it snortin' anywhere about the post-office er the butcher shop."

"Has she a motor?" asked the stranger absently.

"'Deed an' she has! She runs into town every night about this time for her mail and meat for supper. Some folks say she's afraid her auto won't get exercise enough, but I say that's jealousy."

"Aren't there any other motors about here?"

"Oh, yes! we have fourteen in all. But nobody else gets around like the Old Lady Ericson. She's out, rain er shine, over the whole county, chargin' into town and out amongst her farms, an' up to her sons' places. Sure you ain't goin' to the wrong place?"

He craned his neck and looked at Nils' flute case with eager curiosity. "The old woman ain't got any piany that I knows on. Olaf, he has a grand. His wife's musical: took lessons in Chicago."

"I'm going up there tomorrow," said Nils imperturbably. He saw that the driver took him for a piano tuner.

"Oh, I see!" The old man screwed up his eyes mysteriously. He was a little dashed by the stranger's noncommunicativeness, but he soon broke out again.

"I'm one o' Miss Ericson's tenants. Look after one of her places. I did own the place myself once, but I lost it a while back, in the bad years just after the World's Fair. Just as well, too, I say. Lets you out o' payin' taxes. The Ericsons do own most of the county now. I remember the old preacher's favorite text used to be, 'To them that hath shall be given.' They've spread something wonderful— run over this here country like bindweed. But I ain't one that begretches it to 'em. Folks is entitled to what they kin git; and they're hustlers. Olaf, he's in the Legislature now, and a likely man fur Congress. Listen, if that ain't the old woman comin' now. Want I should stop her?"

Nils shook his head. He heard the deep chug-chug of a motor vibrating steadily in the clear twilight behind them. The pale lights of the car swam over the hill, and the old man slapped his reins and turned clear out of the road, ducking his head at the first of three angry snorts from behind. The motor was running at a hot, even speed, and passed without turning an inch from its course. The driver was a stalwart woman who sat at ease in the front seat and drove her car bareheaded. She left a cloud of dust and a trail of gasoline behind her. Her tenant threw back his head and sneezed.

"Whew! I sometimes say I'd as lief be before Mrs. Ericson as behind her. She does beat all! Nearly seventy, and never lets another soul touch that car. Puts it into commission herself every morning, and keeps it tuned up by the hitch-bar all day. I never stop work for a drink o' water that I don't hear her achurnin' up the road. I reckon her darter-in-laws never sets down easy nowadays. Never know when she'll pop in. Mis' Otto, she says to me: 'We're so afraid that thing'll blow up and do Ma some injury yet, she's so turrible venturesome.' Says I: 'I wouldn't stew, Mis' Otto; the old lady'll drive that car to the funeral of every darter-in-law she's got.' That was after the old woman had jumped a turrible bad culvert."

The stranger heard vaguely what the old man was saying.

Just now he was experiencing something very much like homesickness, and he was wondering what had brought it about.

The mention of a name or two, perhaps; the rattle of a wagon along a dusty road; the rank, resinous smell of sunflowers and ironweed, which the night damp brought up from the draws and low places; perhaps, more than all, the dancing lights of the motor that had plunged by. He squared his shoulders with a comfortable sense of strength.

The wagon, as it jolted westward, climbed a pretty steady up-grade. The country, receding from the rough river valley, swelled more and more gently, as if it had been smoothed out by the wind. On one of the last of the rugged ridges, at the end of a branch road, stood a grim square house with a tin roof and double porches. Behind the house stretched a row of broken, wind-racked poplars, and down the hill slope to the left straggled the sheds and stables. The old man stopped his horses where the Ericsons' road branched across a dry sand creek that wound about the foot of the hill.

"That's the old lady's place. Want I should drive in?" "No, thank you. I'll roll out here. Much obliged to you. Good night."

His passenger stepped down over the front wheel, and the old man drove on reluctantly, looking back as if he would like to see how the stranger would be received.

As Nils was crossing the dry creek he heard the restive tramp of a horse coming toward him down the hill. Instantly he flashed out of the road and stood behind a thicket of wild plum bushes that grew in the sandy bed. Peering through the dusk, be saw a light horse, under tight rein, descending the hill at a sharp walk. The rider was a slender woman— barely visible against the dark hillside— wearing an old-fashioned derby hat and a long riding skirt. She sat lightly in the saddle, with her chin high, and seemed to be looking into the distance. As she passed the plum thicket her horse snuffed the air and shied. She struck him, pulling him in sharply, with an angry exclamation, "Blazne!" in Bohemian. Once in the main road, she let him out into a lope, and they soon emerged upon the crest of high land, where they moved along the skyline, silhouetted against the band of faint colour that lingered in the west. This horse and rider, with their free, rhythmical gallop, were the only moving things to be seen on the face of the flat country. They seemed, in the last sad light of evening, not to be there accidentally, but as an inevitable detail of the landscape.

Nils watched them until they had shrunk to a mere moving speck against the sky, then he crossed the sand creek and climbed the hill. When he reached the gate the front of the house was dark, but a light was shining from the side windows. The pigs were squealing in the hog corral, and Nils could see a tall boy, who carried two big wooden buckets, moving about among them.

Halfway between the barn and the house, the windmill wheezed lazily. Following the path that ran around to the back porch, Nils stopped to look through the screen door into the lamplit kitchen. The kitchen was the largest room in the house; Nils remembered that his older brothers used to give dances there when he was a boy. Beside the stove stood a little girl with two light yellow braids and a broad, flushed face, peering anxiously into a frying pan. In the dining-room beyond, a large, broad-shouldered woman was moving about the table. She walked with an active, springy step. Her face was heavy and florid, almost without wrinkles, and her hair was black at seventy. Nils felt proud of her as he watched her deliberate activity; never a momentary hesitation, or a movement that did not tell. He waited until she came out into the kitchen and, brushing the child aside, took her place at the stove. Then he tapped on the screen door and entered.

"It's nobody but Nils, Mother. I expect you weren't looking for me."

Mrs. Ericson turned away from the stove and stood staring at him. "Bring the lamp, Hilda, and let me look."

Nils laughed and unslung his valise. "What's the matter, Mother? Don't you know me?"

Mrs. Ericson put down the lamp. "You must be Nils. You don't look very different, anyway."

"Nor you, Mother. You hold your own. Don't you wear glasses yet?"

"Only to read by. Where's your trunk, Nils?"

"Oh, I left that in town. I thought it might not be convenient for you to have company so near threshing-time."

"Don't be foolish, Nils." Mrs. Ericson turned back to the stove. "I don't thresh now. I hitched the wheat land onto the next farm and have a tenant. Hilda, take some hot water up to the company room, and go call little Eric."

The tow-haired child, who had been standing in mute amazement, took up the tea-kettle and withdrew, giving Nils a long, admiring look from the door of the kitchen stairs.

"Who's the youngster?" Nils asked, dropping down on the bench behind the kitchen stove.

"One of your Cousin Henrik's."

"How long has Cousin Henrik been dead?"

"Six years. There are two boys. One stays with Peter and one with Anders. Olaf is their guardeen."

There was a clatter of pails on the porch, and a tall, lanky boy peered wonderingly in through the screen door. He had a fair, gentle face and big grey eyes, and wisps of soft yellow hair hung down under his cap. Nils sprang up and pulled him into the kitchen, hugging him and slapping him on the shoulders. "Well, if it isn't my kid! Look at the size of him!

Don't you know me, Eric?"

The boy reddened tinder his sunburn and freckles, and hung his head. "I guess it's Nils," he said shyly.

"You're a good guesser," laughed Nils giving the lad's hand a swing. To himself he was thinking: "That's why the little girl looked so friendly. He's taught her to like me. He was only six when I went away, and he's remembered for twelve years."

Eric stood fumbling with his cap and smiling. "You look just like I thought you would," he ventured.

"Go wash your hands, Eric," called Mrs. Ericson. "I've got cob corn for supper, Nils. You used to like it. I guess you don't get much of that in the old country. Here's Hilda; she'll take you up to your room. You'll want to get the dust off you before you eat."

Mrs. Ericson went into the dining-room to lay another plate, and the little girl came up and nodded to Nils as if to let him know that his room was ready. He put out his hand and she took it, with a startled glance up at his face. Little Eric dropped his towel, threw an arm about Nils and one about Hilda, gave them a clumsy squeeze, and then stumbled out to the porch.

During supper Nils heard exactly how much land each of his eight grown brothers farmed, how their crops were coming on, and how much livestock they were feeding. His mother watched him narrowly as she talked. "You've got better looking, Nils," she remarked abruptly, whereupon he grinned and the children giggled.

Eric, although he was eighteen and as tall as Nils, was always accounted a child, being the last of so many sons. His face seemed childlike, too, Nils thought, and he had the open, wandering eves of a little boy. All the others had been men at his age.

After supper Nils went out to the front porch and sat down on the step to smoke a pipe. Mrs. Ericson drew a rocking-chair up near him and began to knit busily. It was one of the few Old World customs she had kept up, for she could not bear to sit with idle hands.

"Where's little Eric, Mother?"

"He's helping Hilda with the dishes. He does it of his own will; I don't like a boy to be too handy about the house."

"He seems like a nice kid."

"He's very obedient."

Nils smiled a little in the dark. It was just as well to shift the line of conversation. "What are you knitting there, Mother?"

"Baby stockings. The boys keep me busy." Mrs. Ericson chuckled and clicked her needles.

"How many grandchildren have you?"

"Only thirty-one now. Olaf lost his three. They were sickly, like their mother."

"I supposed he had a second crop by this time!"

"His second wife has no children. She's too proud. She tears about on horseback all the time. But she'll get caught up with, yet. She sets herself very high, though nobody knows what for. They were low enough Bohemians she came of. I never thought much of Bohemians; always drinking."

Nils puffed away at his pipe in silence, and Mrs. Ericson knitted on. In a few moments she added grimly: "She was down here tonight, just before you came. She'd like to quarrel with me and come between me and Olaf, but I don't give her the chance.

I suppose you'll be bringing a wife home some day."

"I don't know. I've never thought much about it."

"Well, perhaps it's best as it is," suggested Mrs. Ericson hopefully. "You'd never be contented tied down to the land.

There was roving blood in your father's family, and it's come out in you. I expect your own way of life suits you best." Mrs.

Ericson had dropped into a blandly agreeable tone which Nils well remembered. It seemed to amuse him a good deal and his white teeth flashed behind his pipe. His mother's strategies had always diverted him, even when he was a boy— they were so flimsy and patent, so illy proportioned to her vigor and force.

"They've been waiting to see which way I'd jump," he reflected.

He felt that Mrs. Ericson was pondering his case deeply as she sat clicking her needles.

"I don't suppose you've ever got used to steady work," she went on presently. "Men ain't apt to if they roam around too long. It's a pity you didn't come back the year after the World's Fair. Your father picked up a good bit of land cheap then, in the hard times, and I expect maybe he'd have give you a farm. it's too bad you put off comin' back so long, for I always thought he meant to do something by you."

Nils laughed and shook the ashes out of his pipe. "I'd have missed a lot if I had come back then. But I'm sorry I didn't get back to see father."

"Well, I suppose we have to miss things at one end or the other. Perhaps you are as well satisfied with your own doings, now, as you'd have been with a farm," said Mrs. Ericson reassuringly.

"Land's a good thing to have," Nils commented, as he lit another match and sheltered it with his hand.

His mother looked sharply at his face until the match burned out. "Only when you stay on it!" she hastened to say.

Eric came round the house by the path just then, and Nils rose, with a yawn. "Mother, if you don't mind, Eric and I will take a little tramp before bedtime. It will make me sleep."

"Very well; only don't stay long. I'll sit up and wait for you. I like to lock up myself."

Nils put his hand on Eric's shoulder, and the two tramped down the hill and across the sand creek into the dusty highroad beyond.

Neither spoke. They swung along at an even gait, Nils puffing at his pipe. There was no moon, and the white road and the wide fields lay faint in the starlight. Over everything was darkness and thick silence, and the smell of dust and sunflowers. The brothers followed the road for a mile or more without finding a place to sit down. Finally, Nils perched on a stile over the wire fence, and Eric sat on the lower step.

"I began to think you never would come back, Nils," said the boy softly.

"Didn't I promise you I would?"

"Yes; but people don't bother about promises they make to babies. Did you really know you were going away for good when you went to Chicago with the cattle that time?"

"I thought it very likely, if I could make my way."

"I don't see how you did it, Nils. Not many fellows could."

Eric rubbed his shoulder against his brother's knee.

"The hard thing was leaving home you and father. It was easy enough, once I got beyond Chicago. Of course I got awful homesick; used to cry myself to sleep. But I'd burned my bridges."

"You had always wanted to go, hadn't you?"

"Always. Do you still sleep in our little room? Is that cottonwood still by the window?"

Eric nodded eagerly and smiled up at his brother in the grey darkness.

"You remember how we always said the leaves were whispering when they rustled at night? Well, they always whispered to me about the sea. Sometimes they said names out of the geography books. In a high wind they had a desperate sound, like someone trying to tear loose."

"How funny, Nils," said Eric dreamily, resting his chin on his hand. "That tree still talks like that, and 'most always it talks to me about you."

They sat a while longer, watching the stars. At last Eric whispered anxiously: "Hadn't we better go back now? Mother will get tired waiting for us." They rose and took a short cut home, through the pasture.

ii

THE NEXT MORNING Nils woke with the first flood of light that came with dawn. The white-plastered walls of his room reflected the glare that shone through the thin window shades, and he found it impossible to sleep. He dressed hurriedly and slipped down the hall and up the back stairs to the half-story room which be used to share with his little brother. Eric, in a skimpy nightshirt, was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes, his pale yellow hair standing up in tufts all over his head. When he saw Nils, he murmured something confusedly and hustled his long legs into his trousers. "I didn't expect you'd be up so early, Nils," he said, as his head emerged from his blue shirt.

"Oh, you thought I was a dude, did you?" Nils gave him a playful tap which bent the tall boy up like a clasp knife. "See here: I must teach you to box." Nils thrust his hands into his pockets and walked about. "You haven't changed things much up here. Got most of my old traps, haven't you?"

He took down a bent, withered piece of sapling that hung over the dresser. "If this isn't the stick Lou Sandberg killed himself with!"

The boy looked up from his shoe-lacing.

"Yes; you never used to let me play with that. Just how did he do it, Nils? You were with father when he found Lou, weren't you?"

"Yes. Father was going off to preach somewhere, and, as we drove along, Lou's place looked sort of forlorn, and we thought we'd stop and cheer him up. When we found him father said he'd been dead a couple days. He'd tied a piece of binding twine round his neck, made a noose in each end, fixed the nooses over the ends of a bent stick, and let the stick spring straight; strangled himself."

"What made him kill himself such a silly way?"

The simplicity of the boy's question set Nils laughing. He clapped little Eric on the shoulder. "What made him such a silly as to kill himself at all, I should say!"

"Oh, well! But his hogs had the cholera, and all up and died on him, didn't they?"

"Sure they did; but he didn't have cholera; and there were plenty of bogs left in the world, weren't there?"

"Well, but, if they weren't his, how could they do him any good?" Eric asked, in astonishment.

"Oh, scat! He could have had lots of fun with other people's hogs. He was a chump, Lou Sandberg. To kill yourself for a pig— think of that, now!" Nils laughed all the way downstairs, and quite embarrassed little Eric, who fell to scrubbing his face and hands at the tin basin. While he was parting his wet hair at the kitchen looking glass, a heavy tread sounded on the stairs. The boy dropped his comb. "Gracious, there's Mother. We must have talked too long." He hurried out to the shed, slipped on his overalls, and disappeared with the milking pails.

Mrs. Ericson came in, wearing a clean white apron, her black hair shining from the application of a wet brush.

"Good morning, Mother. Can't I make the fire for you?"

"No, thank you, Nils. It's no trouble to make a cob fire, and I like to manage the kitchen stove myself" Mrs. Ericson paused with a shovel full of ashes in her hand. "I expect you will be wanting to see your brothers as soon as possible. I'll take you up to Anders' place this morning. He's threshing, and most of our boys are over there."

"Will Olaf be there?"

Mrs. Ericson went on taking out the ashes, and spoke between shovels. "No; Olaf's wheat is all in, put away in his new barn.

He got six thousand bushel this year. He's going to town today to get men to finish roofing his barn."

"So Olaf is building a new barn?" Nils asked absently.

"Biggest one in the county, and almost done. You'll likely be here for the barn-raising. He's going to have a supper and a dance as soon as everybody's done threshing. Says it keeps the voters in good humour. I tell him that's all nonsense; but Olaf has a head for politics."

"Does Olaf farm all Cousin Henrik's land?"

Mrs. Ericson frowned as she blew into the faint smoke curling up about the cobs. "Yes; he holds it in trust for the children, Hilda and her brothers. He keeps strict account of everything he raises on it, and puts the proceeds out at compound interest for them."

Nils smiled as he watched the little flames shoot up. The door of the back stairs opened, and Hilda emerged, her arms behind her, buttoning up her long gingham apron as she came. He nodded to her gaily, and she twinkled at him out of her little blue eyes, set far apart over her wide cheekbones.

"There, Hilda, you grind the coffee— and just put in an extra handful; I expect your Cousin Nils likes his strong," said Mrs. Ericson, as she went out to the shed.

Nils turned to look at the little girl, who gripped the coffee grinder between her knees and ground so hard that her two braids bobbed and her face flushed under its broad spattering of freckles. He noticed on her middle finger something that had not been there last night, and that had evidently been put on for company: a tiny gold ring with a clumsily set garnet stone. As her hand went round and round he touched the ring with the tip of his finger, smiling.

Hilda glanced toward the shed door through which Mrs. Ericson had disappeared. "My Cousin Clara gave me that," she whispered bashfully. "She's Cousin Olaf's wife."

iii

MRS. OLAF ERICSON— Clara Vavrika, as many people still called her— was moving restlessly about her big bare house that morning.

Her husband had left for the county town before his wife was out of bed— her lateness in rising was one of the many things the Ericson family had against her. Clara seldom came downstairs before eight o'clock, and this morning she was even later, for she had dressed with unusual care. She put on, however, only a tightfitting black dress, which people thereabouts thought very plain. She was a tall, dark woman of thirty, with a rather sallow complexion and a touch of dull salmon red in her cheeks, where the blood seemed to burn under her brown skin. Her hair, parted evenly above her low forehead, was so black that there were distinctly blue lights in it. Her black eyebrows were delicate half-moons and her lashes were long and heavy. Her eyes slanted a little, as if she had a strain of Tartar or gypsy blood, and were sometimes full of fiery determination and sometimes dull and opaque. Her expression was never altogether amiable; was often, indeed, distinctly sullen, or, when she was animated, sarcastic. She was most attractive in profile, for then one saw to advantage her small, well-shaped head and delicate ears, and felt at once that here was a very positive, if not an altogether pleasing, personality.

The entire management of Mrs. Olaf's household devolved upon her aunt, Johanna Vavrika, a superstitious, doting woman of fifty.

When Clara was a little girl her mother died, and Johanna's life had been spent in ungrudging service to her niece. Clara, like many self-willed and discontented persons, was really very apt, without knowing it, to do as other people told her, and to let her destiny be decided for her by intelligences much below her own.

It was her Aunt Johanna who had humoured and spoiled her in her girlhood, who had got her off to Chicago to study piano, and who had finally persuaded her to marry Olaf Ericson as the best match she would be likely to make in that part of the country. Johanna Vavrika had been deeply scarred by smallpox in the old country.

She was short and fat, homely and jolly and sentimental. She was so broad, and took such short steps when she walked, that her brother, Joe Vavrika, always called her his duck. She adored her niece because of her talent, because of her good looks and masterful ways, but most of all because of her selfishness.

Clara's marriage with Olaf Ericson was Johanna's particular triumph. She was inordinately proud of Olaf's position, and she found a sufficiently exciting career in managing Clara's house, in keeping it above the criticism of the Ericsons, in pampering Olaf to keep him from finding fault with his wife, and in concealing from every one Clara's domestic infelicities. While Clara slept of a morning, Johanna Vavrika was bustling about, seeing that Olaf and the men had their breakfast, and that the cleaning or the buttermaking or the washing was properly begun by the two girls in the kitchen. Then, at about eight o'clock, she would take Clara's coffee up to her, and chat with her while she drank it, telling her what was going on in the house. Old Mrs. Ericson frequently said that her daughter-in-law would not know what day of the week it was if Johanna did not tell her every morning. Mrs. Ericson despised and pitied Johanna, but did not wholly dislike her. The one thing she hated in her daughter-in-law above everything else was the way in which Clara could come it over people. It enraged her that the affairs of her son's big, barnlike house went on as well as they did, and she used to feel that in this world we have to wait overlong to see the guilty punished. "Suppose Johanna Vavrika died or got sick?" the old lady used to say to Olaf. "Your wife wouldn't know where to look for her own dish-cloth." Olaf only shrugged his shoulders. The fact remained that Johanna did not die, and, although Mrs. Ericson often told her she was looking poorly, she was never ill. She seldom left the house, and she slept in a little room off the kitchen. No Ericson, by night or day, could come prying about there to find fault without her knowing it. Her one weakness was that she was an incurable talker, and she sometimes made trouble without meaning to.

This morning Clara was tying a wine-coloured ribbon about her throat when Johanna appeared with her coffee. After putting the tray on a sewing table, she began to make Clara's bed, chattering the while in Bohemian.

"Well, Olaf got off early, and the girls are baking. I'm going down presently to make some poppy-seed bread for Olaf. He asked for prune preserves at breakfast, and I told him I was out of them, and to bring some prunes and honey and cloves from town."

Clara poured her coffee. "Ugh! I don't see how men can eat so much sweet stuff. In the morning, too!"

Her aunt chuckled knowingly. "Bait a bear with honey, as we say in the old country."

"Was he cross?" her niece asked indifferently.

"Olaf? Oh, no! He was in fine spirits. He's never cross if you know how to take him. I never knew a man to make so little fuss about bills. I gave him a list of things to get a yard long, and he didn't say a word; just folded it up and put it in his pocket."

"I can well believe he didn't say a word," Clara remarked with a shrug. "Some day he'll forget how to talk."

"Oh, but they say he's a grand speaker in the Legislature. He knows when to keep quiet. That's why he's got such influence in politics. The people have confidence in him." Johanna beat up a pillow and held it under her fat chin while she slipped on the case. Her niece laughed.

"Maybe we could make people believe we were wise, Aunty, if we held our tongues. Why did you tell Mrs. Ericson that Norman threw me again last Saturday and turned my foot? She's been talking to Olaf."

Johanna fell into great confusion. "Oh, but, my precious, the old lady asked for you, and she's always so angry if I can't give an excuse. Anyhow, she needn't talk; she's always tearing up something with that motor of hers."

When her aunt clattered down to the kitchen, Clara went to dust the parlour. Since there was not much there to dust, this did not take very long. Olaf had built the house new for her before their marriage, but her interest in furnishing it had been shortlived. It went, indeed, little beyond a bathtub and her piano.

They had disagreed about almost even, other article of furniture, and Clara had said she would rather have her house empty than full of things she didn't want. The house was set in a hillside, and the west windows of the parlour looked out above the kitchen yard thirty feet below. The east windows opened directly into the front yard. At one of the latter, Clara, while she was dusting, heard a low whistle. She did not turn at once, but listened intently as she drew her cloth slowly along the round of a chair. Yes, there it was:

I dreamt that I dwelt in ma-a-arble halls.

She turned and saw Nils Ericson laughing in the sunlight, his hat in his hand, just outside the window. As she crossed the room he leaned against the wire screen. "Aren't you at all surprised to see me, Clara Vavrika?"

"No; I was expecting to see you. Mother Ericson telephoned Olaf last night that you were here."

Nils squinted and gave a long whistle. "Telephoned? That must have been while Eric and I were out walking. Isn't she enterprising? Lift this screen, won't you?"

Clara lifted the screen, and Nils swung his leg across the window-sill. As he stepped into the room she said: "You didn't think you were going to get ahead of your mother, did you?"

He threw his hat on the piano. "Oh, I do sometimes. You see, I'm ahead of her now. I'm supposed to be in Anders' wheat-field.

But, as we were leaving, Mother ran her car into a soft place beside the road and sank up to the hubs. While they were going for the horses to pull her out, I cut away behind the stacks and escaped." Nils chuckled. Clara's dull eyes lit up as she looked at him admiringly.

"You've got them guessing already. I don't know what your mother said to Olaf over the telephone, but be came back looking as if he'd seen a ghost, and he didn't go to bed until a dreadful hour— ten o'clock, I should think. He sat out on the porch in the dark like a graven image. It had been one of his talkative days, too." They both laughed, easily and lightly, like people who have laughed a great deal together; but they remained standing.

"Anders and Otto and Peter looked as if they had seen ghosts, too, over in the threshing field. What's the matter with them all?"

Clara gave him a quick, searching look. "Well, for one thing, they've always been afraid you have the other will."

Nils looked interested. "The other will?"

"Yes. A later one. They knew your father made another, but they never knew what he did with it. They almost tore the old house to pieces looking for it. They always suspected that he carried on a clandestine correspondence with you, for the one thing he would do was to get his own mail himself. So they thought he might have sent the new will to you for safekeeping. The old one, leaving everything to your mother, was made long before you went away, and it's understood among them that it cuts you out— that she will leave all the property to the others. Your father made the second will to prevent that. I've been hoping you had it. It would be such fun to spring it on them." Clara laughed mirthfully, a thing she did not often do now.

Nils shook his head reprovingly. "Come, now, you're malicious."

"No, I'm not. But I'd like something to happen to stir them all up, just for once. There never was such a family for having nothing ever happen to them but dinner and threshing. I'd almost be willing to die, just to have a funeral. You wouldn't stand it for three weeks."

Nils bent over the piano and began pecking at the keys with the finger of one hand. "I wouldn't? My dear young lady, how do you know what I can stand? You wouldn't wait to find out."

Clara flushed darkly and frowned. "I didn't believe you would ever come back— " she said defiantly.

"Eric believed I would, and he was only a baby when I went away. However, all's well that ends well, and I haven't come back to be a skeleton at the feast. We mustn't quarrel. Mother mill be here with a search warrant pretty soon." He swung round and faced her, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets. "Come, you ought to be glad to see me, if you want something to happen. I'm something, even without a will. We can have a little fun, can't we? I think we can!"

She echoed him, "I think we can!" They both laughed and their eyes sparkled. Clara Vavrika looked ten years younger than when she had put the velvet ribbon about her throat that morning.

"You know, I'm so tickled to see mother," Nils went on. "I didn't know I was so proud of her. A regular pile driver. How about little pigtails, down at the house? Is Olaf doing the square thing by those children?"

Clara frowned pensively. "Olaf has to do something that looks like the square thing, now that he's a public man!" She glanced drolly at Nils. "But he makes a good commission out of it. On Sundays they all get together here and figure. He lets Peter and Anders put in big bills for the keep of the two boys, and he pays them out of the estate. They are always having what they call accountings. Olaf gets something out of it, too. I don't know just how they do it, but it's entirely a family matter, as they say. And when the Ericsons say that—" Clara lifted her eyebrows.

Just then the angry honk-honk of an approaching motor sounded from down the road. Their eyes met and they began to laugh. They laughed as children do when they can not contain themselves, and can not explain the cause of their mirth to grown people, but share it perfectly together. When Clara Vavrika sat down at the piano after he was gone, she felt that she had laughed away a dozen years. She practised as if the house were burning over her head.

When Nils greeted his mother and climbed into the front seat of the motor beside her, Mrs. Ericson looked grim, but she made no comment upon his truancy until she had turned her car and was retracing her revolutions along the road that ran by Olaf's big pasture. Then she remarked dryly:

"If I were you I wouldn't see too much of Olaf's wife while you are here. She's the kind of woman who can't see much of men without getting herself talked about. She was a good deal talked about before he married her."

"Hasn't Olaf tamed her?" Nils asked indifferently.

Mrs. Ericson shrugged her massive shoulders. "Olaf don't seem to have much luck, when it comes to wives. The first one was meek enough, but she was always ailing. And this one has her own way.

He says if he quarreled with her she'd go back to her father, and then he'd lose the Bohemian vote. There are a great many Bohunks in this district. But when you find a man under his wife's thumb you can always be sure there's a soft spot in him somewhere."

Nils thought of his own father, and smiled. "She brought him a good deal of money, didn't she, besides the Bohemian vote?"

Mrs. Ericson sniffed. "Well, she has a fair half section in her own name, but I can't see as that does Olaf much good. She will have a good deal of property some day, if old Vavrika don't marry again. But I don't consider a saloonkeeper's money as good as other people's money,"

Nils laughed outright. "Come, Mother, don't let your prejudices carry you that far. Money's money. Old Vavrika's a mighty decent sort of saloonkeeper. Nothing rowdy about him."

Mrs. Ericson spoke up angrily. "Oh, I know you always stood up for them! But hanging around there when you were a boy never did you any good, Nils, nor any of the other boys who went there.

There weren't so many after her when she married Olaf, let me tell you. She knew enough to grab her chance."

Nils settled back in his seat. "Of course I liked to go there, Mother, and you were always cross about it. You never took the trouble to find out that it was the one jolly house in this country for a boy to go to. All the rest of you were working yourselves to death, and the houses were mostly a mess, full of babies and washing and flies. oh, it was all right— I understand that; but you are young only once, and I happened to be young then.

Now, Vavrika's was always jolly. He played the violin, and I used to take my flute, and Clara played the piano, and Johanna used to sing Bohemian songs. She always had a big supper for us— herrings and pickles and poppy-seed bread, and lots of cake and preserves.

Old Joe had been in the army in the old country, and he could tell lots of good stories. I can see him cutting bread, at the head of the table, now. I don't know what I'd have done when I was a kid if it hadn't been for the Vavrikas, really."

"And all the time he was taking money that other people had worked hard in the fields for," Mrs. Ericson observed.

"So do the circuses, Mother, and they're a good thing. People ought to get fun for some of their money. Even father liked old Joe."

"Your father," Mrs. Ericson said grimly, "liked everybody."

As they crossed the sand creek and turned into her own place, Mrs. Ericson observed, "There's Olaf's buggy. He's stopped on his way from town." Nils shook himself and prepared to greet his brother, who was waiting on the porch.

Olaf was a big, heavy Norwegian, slow of speech and movement.

His head was large and square, like a block of wood. When Nils, at a distance, tried to remember what his brother looked like, he could recall only his heavy head, high forehead, large nostrils, and pale blue eyes, set far apart. Olaf's features were rudimentary: the thing one noticed was the face itself, wide and flat and pale; devoid of any expression, betraying his fifty years as little as it betrayed anything else, and powerful by reason of its very stolidness. When Olaf shook hands with Nils he looked at him from under his light eyebrows, but Nils felt that no one could ever say what that pale look might mean. The one thing he had always felt in Olaf was a heavy stubbornness, like the unyielding stickiness of wet loam against the plow. He had always found Olaf the most difficult of his brothers.

"How do you do, Nils? Expect to stay with us long?"

"Oh, I may stay forever," Nils answered gaily. "I like this country better than I used to."

"There's been some work put into it since you left," Olaf remarked.

"Exactly. I think it's about ready to live in now— and I'm about ready to settle down." Nils saw his brother lower his big head ("Exactly like a bull," he thought.) "Mother's been persuading me to slow down now, and go in for farming," he went on lightly.

Olaf made a deep sound in his throat. "Farming ain't learned in a day," he brought out, still looking at the ground.

"Oh, I know! But I pick things up quickly." Nils had not meant to antagonize his brother, and he did not know now why he was doing it. "Of course," he went on, "I shouldn't expect to make a big success, as you fellows have done. But then, I'm not ambitious.

I won't want much. A little land, and some cattle, maybe."

Olaf still stared at the ground, his head down. He wanted to ask Nils what he had been doing all these years, that he didn't have a business somewhere he couldn't afford to leave; why he hadn't more pride than to come back with only a little sole-leather trunk to show for himself, and to present himself as the only failure in the family. He did not ask one of these questions, but he made them all felt distinctly.

"Humph!" Nils thought. "No wonder the man never talks, when he can butt his ideas into you like that without ever saying a word. I suppose he uses that kind of smokeless powder on his wife all the time. But I guess she has her innings." He chuckled, and Olaf looked up. "Never mind me, Olaf. I laugh without knowing why, like little Eric. He's another cheerful dog."

"Eric," said Olaf slowly, "is a spoiled kid. He's just let his mother's best cow go dry because he don't milk her right. I was hoping you'd take him away somewhere and put him into business.

If he don't do any good among strangers, he never will." This was a long speech for Olaf, and as he finished it he climbed into his buggy.

Nils shrugged his shoulders. "Same old tricks," he thought. "Hits from behind you every time. What a whale of a man!" He turned and went round to the kitchen, where his mother was scolding little Eric for letting the gasoline get low.

iv

JOE VAVRIKA'S saloon was not in the county seat, where Olaf and Mrs. Ericson did their trading, but in a cheerfuller place, a little Bohemian settlement which lay at the other end of the county, ten level miles north of Olaf's farm. Clara rode up to see her father almost every day. Vavrika's house was, so to speak, in the back yard of his saloon. The garden between the two buildings was inclosed by a high board fence as tight as a partition, and in summer Joe kept beer tables and wooden benches among the gooseberry bushes under his little cherry tree. At one of these tables Nils Ericson was seated in the late afternoon, three days after his return home. Joe had gone in to serve a customer, and Nils was lounging on his elbows, looking rather mournfully into his halfemptied pitcher, when he heard a laugh across the little garden.

Clara, in her riding habit, was standing at the back door of the house, under the grapevine trellis that old Joe had grown there long ago. Nils rose.

"Come out and keep your father and me company. We've been gossiping all afternoon. Nobody to bother us but the flies."

She shook her head. "No, I never come out here any more. Olaf doesn't like it. I must live up to my position, you know."

"You mean to tell me you never come out and chat with the boys, as you used to? He has tamed you! Who keeps up these flower-beds?"

"I come out on Sundays, when father is alone, and read the Bohemian papers to him. But I am never here when the bar is open.

What have you two been doing?"

"Talking, as I told you. I've been telling him about my travels. I find I can't talk much at home, not even to Eric."

Clara reached up and poked with her riding-whip at a white moth that was fluttering in the sunlight among the vine leaves. "I suppose you will never tell me about all those things."

"Where can I tell them? Not in Olaf's house, certainly.

What's the matter with our talking here?" He pointed persuasively with his hat to the bushes and the green table, where the flies were singing lazily above the empty beer glasses.

Clara shook her head weakly. "No, it wouldn't do. Besides, I am going now."

"I'm on Eric's mare. Would you be angry if I overtook you?"

Clara looked back and laughed. "You might try and see. I can leave you if I don't want you. Eric's mare can't keep up with Norman."

Nils went into the bar and attempted to pay his score. Big Joe, six feet four, with curly yellow hair and mustache, clapped him on the shoulder. "Not a Goddamn a your money go in my drawer, you hear? Only next time you bring your flute, te-te-te-te-te-ty."

Joe wagged his fingers in imitation of the flute player's position.

"My Clara, she come all-a-time Sundays an' play for me. She not like to play at Ericson's place." He shook his yellow curls and laughed. "Not a Goddamn a fun at Ericson's. You come a Sunday.

You like-a fun. No forget de flute." Joe talked very rapidly and always tumbled over his English. He seldom spoke it to his customers, and had never learned much.

Nils swung himself into the saddle and trotted to the west of the village, where the houses and gardens scattered into prairie land and the road turned south. Far ahead of him, in the declining light, he saw Clara Vavrika's slender figure, loitering on horseback. He touched his mare with the whip, and shot along the white, level road, under the reddening sky. When he overtook Olaf's wife he saw that she had been crying. "What's the matter, Clara Vavrika?" he asked kindly.

"Oh, I get blue sometimes. It was awfully jolly living there with father. I wonder why I ever went away."

Nils spoke in a low, kind tone that he sometimes used with women:

"That's what I've been wondering these many years. You were the last girl in the country I'd have picked for a wife for Olaf. What made you do it, Clara?"

"I suppose I really did it to oblige the neighbours"— Clara tossed her head. "People were beginning to wonder."

"To wonder?"

"Yes— why I didn't get married. I suppose I didn't like to keep them in suspense. I've discovered that most girls marry out of consideration for the neighbourhood."

Nils bent his head toward her and his white teeth flashed.

"I'd have gambled that one girl I knew would say, 'Let the neighbourhood be damned.'"

Clara shook her head mournfully. "You see, they have it on you, Nils; that is, if you're a woman. They say you're beginning to go off. That's what makes us get married: we can't stand the laugh."

Nils looked sidewise at her. He had never seen her head droop before. Resignation was the last thing he would have expected of her. "In your case, there wasn't something else?"

"Something else?"

"I mean, you didn't do it to spite somebody? Somebody who didn't come back?"

Clara drew herself up. "Oh, I never thought you'd come back.

Not after I stopped writing to you, at least. That was all over, long before I married Olaf."

"It never occurred to you, then, that the meanest thing you could do to me was to marry Olaf?"

Clara laughed. "No; I didn't know you were so fond of Olaf."

Nils smoothed his horse's mane with his glove. "You know, Clara Vavrika, you are never going to stick it out. You'll cut away some day, and I've been thinking you might as well cut away with me."

Clara threw up her chin. "Oh, you don't know me as well as you think. I won't cut away. Sometimes, when I'm with father, I feel like it. But I can hold out as long as the Ericsons can.

They've never got the best of me yet, and one can live, so long as one isn't beaten. If I go back to father, it's all up with Olaf in politics. He knows that, and he never goes much beyond sulking. I've as much wit as the Ericsons. I'll never leave them unless I can show them a thing or two."

"You mean unless you can come it over them?"

"Yes— unless I go away with a man who is cleverer than they are, and who has more money."

Nils whistled. "Dear me, you are demanding a good deal. The Ericsons, take the lot of them, are a bunch to beat. But I should think the excitement of tormenting them would have worn off by this time."

"It has, I'm afraid," Clara admitted mournfully.

"Then why don't you cut away? There are more amusing games than this in the world. When I came home I thought it might amuse me to bully a few quarter sections out of the Ericsons; but I've almost decided I can get more fun for my money somewhere else."

Clara took in her breath sharply. "Ah, you have got the other will! That was why you came home!"

"No, it wasn't. I came home to see how you were getting on with Olaf."

Clara struck her horse with the whip, and in a bound she was far ahead of him. Nils dropped one word, "Damn!" and whipped after her; but she leaned forward in her saddle and fairly cut the wind.

Her long riding skirt rippled in the still air behind her. The sun was just sinking behind the stubble in a vast, clear sky, and the shadows drew across the fields so rapidly that Nils could scarcely keep in sight the dark figure on the road. When he overtook her he caught her horse by the bridle. Norman reared, and Nils was frightened for her; but Clara kept her seat.

"Let me go, Nils Ericson!" she cried. "I hate you more than any of them. You were created to torture me, the whole tribe of you— to make me suffer in every possible way."

She struck her horse again and galloped away from him. Nils set his teeth and looked thoughtful. He rode slowly home along the deserted road, watching the stars come out in the clear violet sky.

They flashed softly into the limpid heavens, like jewels let fall into clear water. They were a reproach, he felt, to a sordid world. As he turned across the sand creek, he looked up at the North Star and smiled, as if there were an understanding between them. His mother scolded him for being late for supper.

v

ON SUNDAY afternoon Joe Vavrika, in his shirt sleeves arid carpet slippers, was sitting in his garden, smoking a long-tasseled porcelain pipe with a hunting scene painted on the bowl. Clara sat under the cherry tree, reading aloud to him from the, weekly Bohemian papers. She had worn a white muslin dress under her riding habit, and the leaves of the cherry tree threw a pattern of sharp shadows over her skirt. The black cat was dozing in the sunlight at her feet, and Joe's dachshund was scratching a hole under the scarlet geraniums and dreaming of badgers. Joe was filling his pipe for the third time since dinner, when he heard a knocking on the fence. He broke into a loud guffaw and unlatched the little door that led into the street. He did not call Nils by name, but caught him by the hand and dragged him in. Clara stiffened and the colour deepened under her dark skin. Nils, too, felt a little awkward. He had not seen her since the night when she rode away from him and left him alone on the level road between the fields. Joe dragged him to the wooden bench beside the green table.

"You bring de flute," he cried, tapping the leather case under Nils' arm. "Ah, das-a good' Now we have some liddle fun like old times. I got somet'ing good for you." Joe shook his finger at Nils and winked his blue eye, a bright clear eye, full of fire, though the tiny bloodvessels on the ball were always a little distended. "I got somet'ing for you from"— he paused and waved his hand—  "Hongarie. You know Hongarie? You wait!" He pushed Nils down on the bench, and went through the back door of his saloon.

Nils looked at Clara, who sat frigidly with her white skirts drawn tight about her. "He didn't tell you he had asked me to come, did he? He wanted a party and proceeded to arrange it.

Isn't he fun? Don't be cross; let's give him a good time."

Clara smiled and shook out her skirt. "Isn't that like Father? And he has sat here so meekly all day. Well, I won't pout. I'm glad you came. He doesn't have very many good times now any more. There are so few of his kind left. The second generation are a tame lot."

Joe came back with a flask in one hand and three wine glasses caught by the stems between the fingers of the other. These he placed on the table with an air of ceremony, and, going behind Nils, held the flask between him and the sun, squinting into it admiringly. "You know dis, Tokai? A great friend of mine, he bring dis to me, a present out of Hongarie. You know how much it cost, dis wine? Chust so much what it weigh in gold. Nobody but de nobles drink him in Bohemie. Many, many years I save him up, dis Tokai." Joe whipped out his official corkscrew and delicately removed the cork. "De old man die what bring him to me, an' dis wine he lay on his belly in my cellar an' sleep. An' now," carefully pouring out the heavy yellow wine, "an' now he wake up; and maybe he wake us up, too!" He carried one of the glasses to his daughter and presented it with great gallantry.

Clara shook her head, but, seeing her father's disappointment, relented. "You taste it first. I don't want so much."

Joe sampled it with a beatific expression, and turned to Nils.

"You drink him slow, dis wine. He very soft, but he go down hot.

You see!"

After a second glass Nils declared that he couldn't take any more without getting sleepy. "Now get your fiddle, Vavrika," he said as he opened his flute case.

But Joe settled back in his wooden rocker and wagged his big carpet slipper. "No-no-no-no-no-no-no! No play fiddle now any more: too much ache in de finger," waving them, "all-a-time rheumatic. You play de flute, te-tety-tetety-te. Bohemie songs."

"I've forgotten all the Bohemian songs I used to play with you and Johanna. But here's one that will make Clara pout. You remember how her eyes used to snap when we called her the Bohemian Girl?" Nils lifted his flute and began "When Other Lips and Other Hearts," and Joe hummed the air in a husky baritone, waving his carpet slipper. "Oh-h-h, das-a fine music," he cried, clapping his hands as Nils finished. "Now 'Marble Halls, Marble Halls'! Clara, you sing him."

Clara smiled and leaned back in her chair, beginning softly:

I dreamt that I dwelt in ma-a-arble halls,

With vassals and serfs at my knee,"

and Joe hummed like a big bumblebee.

"There's one more you always played," Clara said quietly, "I remember that best." She locked her hands over her knee and began "The Heart Bowed Down," and sang it through without groping for the words. She was singing with a good deal of warmth when she came to the end of the old song:

"For memory is the only friend

That grief can call its own."

Joe flashed out his red silk handkerchief and blew his nose, shaking his head. "No-no- no-no- no-no-no! Too sad, too sad! I not like-a dat. Play quick somet'ing gay now."

Nils put his lips to the instrument, and Joe lay back in his chair, laughing and singing, "Oh, Evelina, Sweet Evelina!" Clara laughed, too. Long ago, when she and Nils went to high school, the model student of their class was a very homely girl in thick spectacles. Her name was Evelina Oleson; she had a long, swinging walk which somehow suggested the measure of that song, and they used mercilessly to sing it at her.

"Dat ugly Oleson girl, she teach in de school," Joe gasped,

"an' she still walks chust like dat, yup-a, yup-a, yup-a, chust like a camel she go! Now, Nils, we have some more li'l drink. Oh, yes-yes-yes- yes-yes-yes-yes! Dis time you haf to drink, and Clara she haf to, so she show she not jealous. So, we all drink to your girl. You not tell her name, eh? No-no-no, I no make you tell. She pretty, eh? She make good sweetheart? I bet!" Joe winked and lifted his glass. "How soon you get married?"

Nils screwed up his eyes. "That I don't know. When she says."

Joe threw out his chest. "Das-a way boys talks. No way for mans. Mans say, 'You come to de church, an' get a hurry on you.' Das-a way mans talks."

"Maybe Nils hasn't got enough to keep a wife," put in Clara ironically. "How about that, Nils?" she asked him frankly, as if she wanted to know.

Nils looked at her coolly, raising one eyebrow. "oh, I can keep her, all right."

"The way she wants to be kept?"

"With my wife, I'll decide that," replied Nils calmly. "I'll give her what's good for her."

Clara made a wry face. "You'll give her the strap, I expect, like old Peter Oleson gave his wife."

"When she needs it," said Nils lazily, locking his hands behind his head and squinting up through the leaves of the cherry tree. "Do you remember the time I squeezed the cherries all over your clean dress, and Aunt Johanna boxed my ears for me? My gracious, weren't you mad! You had both hands full of cherries, and I squeezed 'em and made the juice fly all over you. I liked to have fun with you; you'd get so mad."

"We did have fun, didn't we? None of the other kids ever had so much fun. We knew how to play."

Nils dropped his elbows on the table and looked steadily across at her. "I've played with lots of girls since, but I haven't found one who was such good fun."

Clara laughed. The late afternoon sun was shining full in her face, and deep in the back of her eyes there shone something fiery, like the yellow drops of Tokai in the brown glass bottle. "Can you still play, or are you only pretending?"

"I can play better than I used to, and harder."

"Don't you ever work, then?" She had not intended to say it.

It slipped out because she was confused enough to say just the wrong thing.

"I work between times." Nils' steady gaze still beat upon her.

"Don't you worry about my working, Mrs. Ericson. You're getting like all the rest of them." He reached his brown, warm hand across the table and dropped it on Clara's, which was cold as an icicle. "Last call for play, Mrs. Ericson!" Clara shivered, and suddenly her hands and cheeks grew warm. Her fingers lingered in his a moment, and they looked at each other earnestly. Joe Vavrika had put the mouth of the bottle to his lips and was swallowing the last drops of the Tokai, standing. The sun, just about to sink behind his shop, glistened on the bright glass, on his flushed face and curly yellow hair. "Look," Clara whispered, "that's the way I want to grow old."

vi

ON THE DAY of Olaf Ericson's barn-raising, his wife, for once in a way, rose early. Johanna Vavrika had been baking cakes and frying and boiling and spicing meats for a week beforehand, but it was not until the day before the party was to take place that Clara showed any interest in it. Then she was seized with one of her fitful spasms of energy, and took the wagon and little Eric and spent the day on Plum Creek, gathering vines and swamp goldenrod to decorate the barn.

By four o'clock in the afternoon buggies and wagons began to arrive at the big unpainted building in front of Olaf's house.

When Nils and his mother came at five, there were more than fifty people in the barn, and a great drove of children. On the ground floor stood six long tables, set with the crockery of seven flourishing Ericson families, lent for the occasion. In the middle of each table was a big yellow pumpkin, hollowed out and filled with woodbine. In one corner of the barn, behind a pile of green -and-white striped watermelons, was a circle of chairs for the old people; the younger guests sat on bushel measures or barbed-wire spools, and the children tumbled about in the haymow. The box stalls Clara had converted into booths. The framework was hidden by goldenrod and sheaves of wheat, and the partitions were covered 'With wild grapevines full of fruit. At one of these Johanna Vavrika watched over her cooked meats, enough to provision an army; and at the next her kitchen girls had ranged the ice-cream freezers, and Clara was already cutting pies and cakes against the hour of serving. At the third stall, little Hilda, in a bright pink lawn dress, dispensed lemonade throughout the afternoon. Olaf, as a public man, had thought it inadvisable to serve beer in his barn; but Joe Vavrika had come over with two demijohns concealed in his buggy, and after his arrival the wagon shed was much frequented by the men.

"Hasn't Cousin Clara fixed things lovely?" little Hilda whispered, when Nils went up to her stall and asked for lemonade.

Nils leaned against the booth, talking to the excited little girl and watching the people. The barn faced the west, and the sun, pouring in at the big doors, filled the whole interior with a golden light, through which filtered fine particles of dust from the haymow, where the children were romping. There was a great chattering from the stall where Johanna Vavrika exhibited to the admiring women her platters heaped with fried chicken, her roasts of beef, boiled tongues, and baked hams with cloves stuck in the crisp brown fat and garnished with tansy and parsley. The older women, having assured themselves that there were twenty kinds of cake, not counting cookies, and three dozen fat pies, repaired to the corner behind the pile of watermelons, put on their white aprons, and fell to their knitting and fancywork. They were a fine company of old women, and a Dutch painter would have loved to find them there together, where the sun made bright patches on the floor and sent long, quivering shafts of gold through the dusky shade up among the rafters. There were fat, rosy old women who looked hot in their best black dresses; spare, alert old women with brown, dark-veined hands; and several of almost heroic frame, not less massive than old Mrs. Ericson herself. Few of them wore glasses, and old Mrs. Svendsen, a Danish woman, who was quite bald, wore the only cap among them. Mrs. Oleson, who had twelve big grandchildren, could still show two braids of yellow hair as thick as her own wrists. Among all these grandmothers there were more brown heads than white. They all had a pleased, prosperous air, as if they were more than satisfied with themselves and with life.

Nils, leaning against Hilda's lemonade stand, watched them as they sat chattering in four languages, their fingers never lagging behind their tongues.

"Look at them over there," he whispered, detaining Clara as she passed him. "Aren't they the Old Guard? I've just counted thirty hands. I guess they've wrung many a chicken's neck and warmed many a boy's jacket for him in their time."

In reality he fell into amazement when he thought of the Herculean labours those fifteen pairs of hands had performed: of the cows they had milked, the butter they had made, the gardens they had planted, the children and grandchildren they had tended, the brooms they had worn out, the mountains of food they had cooked. It made him dizzy. Clara Vavrika smiled a hard, enigmatical smile at him and walked rapidly away. Nils' eyes followed her white figure as she went toward the house. He watched her walking alone in the sunlight, looked at her slender, defiant shoulders and her little hard-set head with its coils of blue-black hair. "No," he reflected; "she'd never be like them, not if she lived here a hundred years. She'd only grow more bitter. You can't tame a wild thing; you can only chain it.

People aren't all alike. I mustn't lose my nerve." He gave Hilda's pigtail a parting tweak and set out after Clara. "Where to?" he asked, as he came upon her in the kitchen.

"I'm going to the cellar for preserves."

"Let me go with you. I never get a moment alone with you.

Why do you keep out of my way?"

Clara laughed. "I don't usually get in anybody's way."

Nils followed her down the stairs and to the far corner of the cellar, where a basement window let in a stream of light.

From a swinging shelf Clara selected several glass jars, each labeled in Johanna's careful hand. Nils took up a brown flask.

"What's this? It looks good."

"It is. It's some French brandy father gave me when I was married. Would you like some? Have you a corkscrew? I'll get glasses."

When she brought them, Nils took them from her and put them down on the window-sill. "Clara Vavrika, do you remember how crazy I used to be about you?"

Clara shrugged her shoulders. "Boys are always crazy about somebody or another. I dare say some silly has been crazy about Evelina Oleson. You got over it in a hurry."

"Because I didn't come back, you mean? I had to get on, you know, and it was hard sledding at first. Then I heard you'd married Olaf."

"And then you stayed away from a broken heart," Clara laughed.

"And then I began to think about you more than I had since I first went away. I began to wonder if you were really as you had seemed to me when I was a boy. I thought I'd like to see. I've had lots of girls, but no one ever pulled me the same way. The more I thought about you, the more I remembered how it used to be— like hearing a wild tune you can't resist, calling you out at night. It had been a long while since anything had pulled me out of my boots, and I wondered whether anything ever could again."

Nils thrust his hands into his coat pockets and squared his shoulders, as his mother sometimes squared hers, as Olaf, in a clumsier manner, squared his. "So I thought I'd come back and see.

Of course the family have tried to do me, and I rather thought I'd bring out father's will and make a fuss. But they can have their old land; they've put enough sweat into it." He took the flask and filled the two glasses carefully to the brim. "I've found out what I want from the Ericsons. Drink skoal, Clara." He lifted his glass, and Clara took hers with downcast eyes. "Look at me, Clara Vavrika. Skoal!"

She raised her burning eyes and answered fiercely: "Skoal!"

THE barn supper began at six o'clock and lasted for two hilarious hours. Yense Nelson had made a wager that he could eat two whole fried chickens, and he did. Eli Swanson stowed away two whole custard pies, and Nick Hermanson ate a chocolate layer cake to the last crumb. There was even a cooky contest among the children, and one thin, slablike Bohemian boy consumed sixteen and won the prize, a gingerbread pig which Johanna Vavrika had carefully decorated with red candies and burnt sugar. Fritz Sweiheart, the German carpenter, won in the pickle contest, but he disappeared soon after supper and was not seen for the rest of the evening. Joe Vavrika said that Fritz could have managed the pickles all right, but he had sampled the demijohn in his buggy too often before sitting down to the table.

While the supper was being cleared away the two fiddlers began to tune up for the dance. Clara was to accompany them on her old upright piano, which had been brought down from her father's. By this time Nils had renewed old acquaintances. Since his interview with Clara in the cellar, he had been busy telling all the old women how young they looked, and all the young ones how pretty they were, and assuring the men that they had here the best farmland in the world. He had made himself so agreeable that old Mrs.

Ericson's friends began to come up to her and tell how lucky she was to get her smart son back again, and please to get him to play his flute. Joe Vavrika, who could still play very well when he forgot that he had rheumatism, caught up a fiddle from Johnny Oleson and played a crazy Bohemian dance tune that set the wheels going. When he dropped the bow every one was ready to dance.

Olaf, in a frock coat and a solemn made-up necktie, led the grand march with his mother. Clara had kept well out of that by sticking to the piano. She played the march with a pompous solemnity which greatly amused the prodigal son, who went over and stood behind her.

"Oh, aren't you rubbing it into them, Clara Vavrika? And aren't you lucky to have me here, or all your wit would be thrown away."

"I'm used to being witty for myself. It saves my life."

The fiddles struck up a polka, and Nils convulsed Joe Vavrika by leading out Evelina Oleson, the homely schoolteacher. His next partner was a very fat Swedish girl, who, although she was an heiress, had not been asked for the first dance, but had stood against the wall in her tight, high-heeled shoes, nervously fingering a lace handkerchief. She was soon out of breath, so Nils led her, pleased and panting, to her seat, and went over to the piano, from which Clara had been watching his gallantry. "Ask Olena Yenson," she whispered. "She waltzes beautifully."

Olena, too, was rather inconveniently plump, handsome in a smooth, heavy way, with a fine colour and good-natured, sleepy eyes. She was redolent of violet sachet powder, and had warm, soft, white hands, but she danced divinely, moving as smoothly as the tide coming in. "There, that's something like," Nils said as he released her. "You'll give me the next waltz, won't you? Now I must go and dance with my little cousin."

Hilda was greatly excited when Nils went up to her stall and held out his arm. Her little eyes sparkled, but she declared that she could not leave her lemonade. Old Mrs. Ericson, who happened along at this moment, said she would attend to that, and Hilda came out, as pink as her pink dress. The dance was a schottische, and in a moment her yellow braids were fairly standing on end.

"Bravo!" Nils cried encouragingly. "Where did you learn to dance so nicely?"

"My Cousin Clara taught me," the little girl panted.

Nils found Eric sitting with a group of boys who were too awkward or too shy to dance, and told him that he must dance the next waltz with Hilda.

The boy screwed up his shoulders. "Aw, Nils, I can't dance. My feet are too big; I look silly."

"Don't be thinking about yourself. It doesn't matter how boys look."

Nils had never spoken to him so sharply before, and Eric made haste to scramble out of his corner and brush the straw from his coat.

Clara nodded approvingly. "Good for you, Nils. I've been trying to get hold of him. They dance very nicely together; I sometimes play for them."

"I'm obliged to you for teaching him. There's no reason why he should grow up to be a lout."

"He'll never be that. He's more like you than any of them.

Only he hasn't your courage." From her slanting eyes Clara shot forth one of those keen glances, admiring and at the same time challenging, which she seldom bestowed on any one, and which seemed to say, "Yes, I admire you, but I am your equal."

Clara was proving a much better host than Olaf, who, once the supper was over, seemed to feel no interest in anything but the lanterns. He had brought a locomotive headlight from town to light the revels, and he kept skulking about as if he feared the mere light from it might set his new barn on fire.

His wife, on the contrary, was cordial to every one, was animated and even gay. The deep salmon colour in her cheeks burned vividly, and her eyes were full of life. She gave the piano over to the fat Swedish heiress, pulled her father away from the corner where he sat gossiping with his cronies, and made him dance a Bohemian dance with her. In his youth Joe had been a famous dancer, and his daughter got him so limbered up that every one sat around and applauded them. The old ladies were particularly delighted, and made them go through the dance again. From their corner where they watched and commented, the old women kept time with their feet and hands, and whenever the fiddles struck up a new air old Mrs. Svendsen's white cap would begin to bob.

Clara was waltzing with little Eric when Nils came up to them, brushed his brother aside, and swung her out among the dancers.

"Remember how we used to waltz on rollers at the old skating rink in town? I suppose people don't do that any more. We used to keep it up for hours. You know, we never did moon around as other boys and girls did. It was dead serious with us from the beginning.

When we were most in love with each other, we used to fight. You were always pinching people; your fingers were like little nippers.

A regular snapping turtle, you were. Lord, how you'd like Stockholm! Sit out in the streets in front of cafes and talk all night in summer. just like a reception— officers and ladies and funny English people. Jolliest people in the world, the Swedes, once you get them going. Always drinking things— champagne and stout mixed, half-and-half, serve it out of big pitchers, and serve plenty. Slow pulse, you know; they can stand a lot. Once they light up, they're glowworms, I can tell you."

"All the same, you don't really like gay people."

"I don't?"

"No; I could tell that when you were looking at the old women there this afternoon. They're the kind you really admire, after all; women like your mother. And that's the kind you'll marry."

"Is it, Miss Wisdom? You'll see who I'll marry, and she won't have a domestic virtue to bless herself with. She'll be a snapping turtle, and she'll be a match for me. All the same, they're a fine bunch of old dames over there. You admire them yourself "No, I don't; I detest them."

"You won't, when you look back on them from Stockholm or Budapest. Freedom settles all that. Oh, but you're the real Bohemian Girl, Clara Vavrika!" Nils laughed down at her sullen frown and began mockingly to sing:

"Oh, how could a poor gypsy maiden like me Expect the proud bride of a baron to be?"

Clara clutched his shoulder. "Hush, Nils; every one is looking at you."

"I don't care. They can't gossip. It's all in the family, as the Ericsons say when they divide up little Hilda's patrimony amongst them. Besides, we'll give them something to talk about when we hit the trail. Lord, it will be a godsend to them! They haven't had anything so interesting to chatter about since the grasshopper year. It'll give them a new lease of life. And Olaf won't lose the Bohemian vote, either. They'll have the laugh on him so that they'll vote two apiece. They'll send him to Congress.

They'll never forget his barn party, or us. They'll always remember us as we're dancing together now. We're making a legend.

Where's my waltz, boys?" he called as they whirled past the fiddlers.

The musicians grinned, looked at each other, hesitated, and began a new air; and Nils sang with them, as the couples fell from a quick waltz to a long, slow glide:

"When other lips and other hearts

Their tale of love shall tell,

In language whose excess imparts

The power they feel so well."

The old women applauded vigorously. "What a gay one he is, that Nils!" And old Mrs. Svendsen's cap lurched dreamily from side to side to the flowing measure of the dance.

Of days that have as ha-a-p-py been,

And you'll remember me."

vii

THE MOONLIGHT flooded that great, silent land. The reaped fields lay yellow in it. The straw stacks and poplar windbreaks threw sharp black shadows. The roads were white rivers of dust.

The sky was a deep, crystalline blue, and the stars were few and faint. Everything seemed to have succumbed, to have sunk to sleep, under the great, golden, tender, midsummer moon. The splendour of it seemed to transcend human life and human fate. The senses were too feeble to take it in, and every time one looked up at the sky one felt unequal to it, as if one were sitting deaf under the waves of a great river of melody. Near the road, Nils Ericson was lying against a straw stack in Olaf's wheat field. His own life seemed strange and unfamiliar to him, as if it were something he had read about, or dreamed, and forgotten. He lay very still, watching the white road that ran in front of him, lost itself among the fields, and then, at a distance, reappeared over a little hill. At last, against this white band he saw something moving rapidly, and he got up and walked to the edge of the field. "She is passing the row of poplars now," he thought. He heard the padded beat of hoofs along the dusty road, and as she came into sight he stepped out and waved his arms. Then, for fear of frightening the horse, he drew back and waited. Clara had seen him, and she came up at a walk. Nils took the horse by the bit and stroked his neck.

"What are you doing out so late, Clara Vavrika? I went to the house, but Johanna told me you had gone to your father's."

"Who can stay in the house on a night like this? Aren't you out yourself?"

"Ah, but that's another matter."

Nils turned the horse into the field.

"What are you doing? Where are you taking Norman?"

"Not far, but I want to talk to you tonight; I have something to say to you. I can't talk to you at the house, with Olaf sitting there on the porch, weighing a thousand tons."

Clara laughed. "He won't be sitting there now. He's in bed by this time, and asleep— weighing a thousand tons."

Nils plodded on across the stubble. "Are you really going to spend the rest of your life like this, night after night, summer after summer? Haven't you anything better to do on a night like this than to wear yourself and Norman out tearing across the country to your father's and back? Besides, your father won't live forever, you know. His little place will be shut up or sold, and then you'll have nobody but the Ericsons. You'll have to fasten down the hatches for the winter then."

Clara moved her head restlessly. "Don't talk about that. I try never to think of it. If I lost Father I'd lose everything, even my hold over the Ericsons."

"Bah! You'd lose a good deal more than that. You'd lose your race, everything that makes you yourself. You've lost a good deal of it now."

"Of what?"

"Of your love of life, your capacity for delight."

Clara put her hands up to her face. "I haven't, Nils Ericson, I haven't! Say anything to me but that. I won't have it!" she declared vehemently.

Nils led the horse up to a straw stack, and turned to Clara, looking at her intently, as he had looked at her that Sunday afternoon at Vavrika's. "But why do you fight for that so? What good is the power to enjoy, if you never enjoy? Your hands are cold again; what are you afraid of all the time? Ah, you're afraid of losing it; that's what's the matter with you! And you will, Clara Vavrika, you will! When I used to know you— listen; you've caught a wild bird in your hand, haven't you, and felt its heart beat so hard that you were afraid it would shatter its little body to pieces? Well, you used to be just like that, a slender, eager thing with a wild delight inside you. That is how I remembered you. And I come back and find you— a bitter woman. This is a perfect ferret fight here; you live by biting and being bitten. Can't you remember what life used to be? Can't you remember that old delight? I've never forgotten it, or known its like, on land or sea."

He drew the horse under the shadow of the straw stack.

Clara felt him take her foot out of the stirrup, and she slid softly down into his arms. He kissed her slowly. He was a deliberate man, but his nerves were steel when he wanted anything. Something flashed out from him like a knife out of a sheath. Clara felt everything slipping away from her; she was flooded by the summer night. He thrust his hand into his pocket, and then held it out at arm's length. "Look," he said. The shadow of the straw stack fell sharp across his wrist, and in the palm of his hand she saw a silver dollar shining. "That's my pile," he muttered; "will you go with me?"

Clara nodded, and dropped her forehead on his shoulder.

Nils took a deep breath. "Will you go with me tonight?"

"Where?" she whispered softly.

"To town, to catch the midnight flyer."

Clara lifted her head and pulled herself together. "Are you crazy, Nils? We couldn't go away like that."

"That's the only way we ever will go. You can't sit on the bank and think about it. You have to plunge. That's the way I've always done, and it's the right way for people like you and me. There's nothing so dangerous as sitting still. You've only got one life, one youth, and you can let it slip through your fingers if you want to; nothing easier. Most people do that.

You'd be better off tramping the roads with me than you are here." Nils held back her head and looked into her eyes. "But I'm not that kind of a tramp, Clara. You won't have to take in sewing. I'm with a Norwegian shipping line; came over on business with the New York offices, but now I'm going straight back to Bergen. I expect I've got as much money as the Ericsons.

Father sent me a little to get started. They never knew about that. There, I hadn't meant to tell you; I wanted you to come on your own nerve."

Clara looked off across the fields. "It isn't that, Nils, but something seems to hold me. I'm afraid to pull against it. It comes out of the ground, I think."

"I know all about that. One has to tear loose. You're not needed here. Your father will understand; he's made like us. As for Olaf, Johanna will take better care of him than ever you could. It's now or never, Clara Vavrika. My bag's at the station; I smuggled it there yesterday."

Clara clung to him and hid her face against his shoulder.

"Not tonight," she whispered. "Sit here and talk to me tonight. I don't want to go anywhere tonight. I may never love you like this again."

Nils laughed through his teeth. "You can't come that on me. That's not my way, Clara Vavrika. Eric's mare is over there behind the stacks, and I'm off on the midnight. It's goodbye, or off across the world with me. My carriage won't wait. I've written a letter to Olaf, I'll mail it in town. When he reads it he won't bother us— not if I know him. He'd rather have the land. Besides, I could demand an investigation of his administration of Cousin Henrik's estate, and that would be bad for a public man. You've no clothes, I know; but you can sit up tonight, and we can get everything on the way. Where's your old dash, Clara Vavrika? What's become of your Bohemian blood? I used to think you had courage enough for anything. Where's your nerve— what are you waiting for?"

Clara drew back her head, and he saw the slumberous fire in her eyes. "For you to say one thing, Nils Ericson."

"I never say that thing to any woman, Clara Vavrika." He leaned back, lifted her gently from the ground, and whispered through his teeth: "But I'll never, never let you go, not to any man on earth but me! Do you understand me? Now, wait here."

Clara sank down on a sheaf of wheat and covered her face with her hands. She did not know what she was going to do— whether she would go or stay. The great, silent country seemed to lay a spell upon her. The ground seemed to hold her as if by roots. Her knees were soft under her. She felt as if she could not bear separation from her old sorrows, from her old discontent.

They were dear to her, they had kept her alive, they were a part of her. There would be nothing left of her if she were wrenched away from them. Never could she pass beyond that skyline against which her restlessness had beat so many times. She felt as if her soul had built itself a nest there on that horizon at which she looked every morning and every evening, and it was dear to her, inexpressibly dear. She pressed her fingers against her eyeballs to shut it out. Beside her she heard the tramping of horses in the soft earth. Nils said nothing to her. He put his hands under her arms and lifted her lightly to her saddle. Then he swung himself into his own.

"We shall have to ride fast to catch the midnight train. A last gallop, Clara Vavrika. Forward!"

There was a start, a thud of hoofs along the moonlit road, two dark shadows going over the hill; and then the great, still land stretched untroubled under the azure night. Two shadows had passed.

viii

A YEAR after the flight of Olaf Ericson's wife, the night train was steaming across the plains of Iowa. The conductor was hurrying through one of the day coaches, his lantern on his arm, when a lank, fair-haired boy sat up in one of the plush seats and tweaked him by the coat.

"What is the next stop, please, sir?"

"Red Oak, Iowa. But you go through to Chicago, don't you?"

He looked down, and noticed that the boy's eyes were red and his face was drawn, as if he were in trouble.

"Yes. But I was wondering whether I could get off at the next place and get a train back to Omaha."

"Well, I suppose you could. Live in Omaha?"

"No. In the western part of the State. How soon do we get to Red Oak?"

"Forty minutes. You'd better make up your mind, so I can tell the baggageman to put your trunk off."

"Oh, never mind about that! I mean, I haven't got any," the boy added, blushing.

"Run away," the conductor thought, as he slammed the coach door behind him.

Eric Ericson crumpled down in his seat and put his brown hand to his forehead. He had been crying, and he had had no supper, and his head was aching violently. "Oh, what shall I do?" he thought, as he looked dully down at his big shoes. "Nils will be ashamed of me; I haven't got any spunk."

Ever since Nils had run away with his brother's wife, life at home had been hard for little Eric. His mother and Olaf both suspected him of complicity. Mrs. Ericson was harsh and faultfinding, constantly wounding the boy's pride; and Olaf was always setting her against him.

Joe Vavrika heard often from his daughter. Clara had always been fond of her father, and happiness made her kinder. She wrote him long accounts of the voyage to Bergen, and of the trip she and Nils took through Bohemia to the little town where her father had grown up and where she herself was born. She visited all her kinsmen there, and sent her father news of his brother, who was a priest; of his sister, who had married a horse-breeder— of their big farm and their many children. These letters Joe always managed to read to little Eric. They contained messages for Eric and Hilda. Clara sent presents, too, which Eric never dared to take home and which poor little Hilda never even saw, though she loved to hear Eric tell about them when they were out getting the eggs together. But Olaf once saw Eric coming out of Vavrika's house— the old man had never asked the boy to come into his saloon— and Olaf went straight to his mother and told her. That night Mrs.

Ericson came to Eric's room after he was in bed and made a terrible scene. She could be very terrifying when she was really angry.

She forbade him ever to speak to Vavrika again, and after that night she would not allow him to go to town alone. So it was a long while before Eric got any more news of his brother. But old Joe suspected what was going on, and he carried Clara's letters about in his pocket. One Sunday he drove out to see a German friend of his, and chanced to catch sight of Eric, sitting by the cattle pond in the big pasture. They went together into Fritz Oberlies' barn, and read the letters and talked things over. Eric admitted that things were getting hard for him at home. That very night old Joe sat down and laboriously penned a statement of the case to his daughter.

Things got no better for Eric. His mother and Olaf felt that, however closely he was watched, he still, as they said, "heard." Mrs. Ericson could not admit neutrality. She had sent Johanna Vavrika packing back to her brother's, though Olaf would much rather have kept her than Anders' eldest daughter, whom Mrs.

Ericson installed in her place. He was not so highhanded as his mother, and he once sulkily told her that she might better have taught her granddaughter to cook before she sent Johanna away.

Olaf could have borne a good deal for the sake of prunes spiced in honey, the secret of which Johanna had taken away with her.

At last two letters came to Joe Vavrika: one from Nils, enclosing a postal order for money to pay Eric's passage to Bergen, and one from Clara, saying that Nils had a place for Eric in the offices of his company, that he was to live with them, and that they were only waiting for him to come. He was to leave New York on one of the boats of Nils' own line; the captain was one of their friends, and Eric was to make himself known at once.

Nils' directions were so explicit that a baby could have followed them, Eric felt. And here he was, nearing Red Oak, Iowa, and rocking backward and forward in despair. Never had he loved his brother so much, and never had the big world called to him so hard. But there was a lump in his throat which would not go down. Ever since nightfall he had been tormented by the thought of his mother, alone in that big house that had sent forth so many men. Her unkindness now seemed so little, and her loneliness so great. He remembered everything she had ever done for him: how frightened she had been when he tore his hand in the corn-sheller, and how she wouldn't let Olaf scold him. When Nils went away he didn't leave his mother all alone, or he would never have gone. Eric felt sure of that.

The train whistled. The conductor came in, smiling not unkindly.

"Well, young man, what are you going to do? We stop at Red Oak in three minutes."

"Yes, thank you. I'll let you know." The conductor went out, and the boy doubled up with misery. He couldn't let his one chance go like this. He felt for his breast pocket and crackled Nils' letter to give him courage. He didn't want Nils to be ashamed of him. The train stopped. Suddenly he remembered his brother's kind, twinkling eyes, that always looked at you as if from far away. The lump in his throat softened. "Ah, but Nils, Nils would understand!" he thought. "That's just it about Nils; he always understands."

A lank, pale boy with a canvas telescope stumbled off the train to the Red Oak siding, just as the conductor called, "All aboard!"

The next night Mrs. Ericson was sitting alone in her wooden rocking-chair on the front porch. Little Hilda had been sent to bed and had cried herself to sleep. The old woman's knitting was on her lap, but her hands lay motionless on top of it. For more than an hour she had not moved a muscle. She simply sat, as only the Ericsons and the mountains can sit. The house was dark, and there was no sound but the croaking of the frogs down in the pond of the little pasture.

Eric did not come home by the road, but across the fields, where no one could see him. He set his telescope down softly in the kitchen shed, and slipped noiselessly along the path to the front porch. He sat down on the step without saying anything.

Mrs. Ericson made no sign, and the frogs croaked on. At last the boy spoke timidly.

"I've come back, Mother."

"Very well," said Mrs. Ericson.

Eric leaned over and picked up a little stick out of the grass.

"How about the milking?" he faltered.

"That's been done, hours ago."

"Who did you get?"

"Get? I did it myself. I can milk as good as any of you."

Eric slid along the step nearer to her. "Oh, Mother, why did you?" he asked sorrowfully. "Why didn't you get one of Otto's boys?"

"I didn't want anybody to know I was in need of a boy," said Mrs. Ericson bitterly. She looked straight in front of her and her mouth tightened. "I always meant to give you the home farm," she added.

The boy stared and slid closer. "Oh, Mother," he faltered, "I don't care about the farm. I came back because I thought you might be needing me, maybe." He hung his head and got no further.

"Very well," said Mrs. Ericson. Her hand went out from her suddenly and rested on his head. Her fingers twined themselves in his soft, pale hair. His tears splashed down on the boards; happiness filled his heart.

_________________

Table of Contents

- 1: Fraulein von Heslau / Ernest Favenc

- 2: The Tiger Lily / J. S. Fletcher

- 3: The Prethereau Sapphire / Margaret Busbee Shipp

- 4: Never Save a Man from the Sea / Ernest Favenc

- 5: Brother Bill / Ellis Parker Butler
- 6: The Medicine Man / Reginald Campbell
- 7: Mad Marix / Ellis Parker Butler

- 8: Eyes of the Dead / Lieutenant Edgar Gardiner

- 9: The Circle of Illusion / Lottie Lesh

- 10: The Justice of Captain Dampier / Ernest Favenc

- 11: Cave of the Criss-Cross Knives / C. C. Spruce

- 12: Sleuth of the Air Waves / Emile C. Tepperman

- 13: The Shadow Jumper / Herman Howard Matteson

- 14: Night / Louis Joseph Vance

- 15: Le Maitres de l'Affiche / C Ranger Gull & Reginald Bacchus

- 16: The House and the Brain / Edward Bulwer-Lytton

- 17: The Bohemian Girl / Willa Cather