Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: An assortment of short fiction from authors famous and not so famous, all in the Life+70 Years public domain. 1: Devil's Fire / Albert Snow 2: The Mask of Midas / G K Chesterton 3: The Young Earl / Anonymous 4: The Voyager / Roy Bridges 5: The Oak / Roy Bridges 6: The Desk / Roy Bridges 7: Once An Outlaw— / Edwin Truett Long 8: Rain in Dahomey / Edwin Truett Long 9: A Golden Grave / Allan Stephens 10: The Two Looks / John Galsworthy 11: Pistol-Packin' Gran'ma / Laurence Donovan 13: The Cat of the Stars / Sinclair Lewis 14: Paper Ladies / Sumner Locke 15: Kiwi / Raoul Whitfield 16: At Twilight

PAST MASTERS 113

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

21 January 2023

Contents

1: Devil's Fire / Albert Snow

2: The Mask of Midas / G K Chesterton

3: The Young Earl / Anonymous

4: The Voyager / Roy Bridges

5: The Oak / Roy Bridges

6: The Desk / Roy Bridges

7: Once An Outlaw— / Edwin Truett Long

8: Rain in Dahomey / Edwin Truett Long

9: A Golden Grave / Allan Stephens

10: The Two Looks / John Galsworthy

11: Pistol-Packin' Gran'ma / Laurence Donovan

13: The Cat of the Stars / Sinclair Lewis

14: Paper Ladies / Sumner Locke

15: Kiwi / Raoul Whitfield

16: At Twilight / Ethel Lina White

17: Crocodile Tales / Anonymous

18: A Model Crime / W. Pett Ridge

19: The Hunting of Chilton Sahib / Dolf Wyllarde

20: Big, Bad Annie / Ernest M. Poate

21: A Michigan Man / Elia W. Peattie

________________

1: Devil's Fire

Albert Snow
fl. 1941

Spicy Adventure Stories Aug 1941

Only known story by this author, who is otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly a pseudonym.  (The various "spicy" tales are no more spicy than early "Carry On" movies.)

THE storm had knocked my instruments all to the devil; had thrown me hundreds of miles off my course and run me almost out of gas. I was glad enough to see that little green island ahead. Tropical dawn was just breaking. I circled the island, saw human beings on the beach, including a white man; and that was enough for me. I touched down the floats of my amphibian and taxied across the little sheltered bay toward a tiny dock. I saw now that there was even a tin roofed warehouse and a huge oil tank. Farther back was a neat looking white cottage.

Maybe I shouldn't have tried that flight solo anyway, across the Pacific. But the war was causing hell to pop in the orient. All I had was a plane and what skill I had picked up along with my reputation. I wanted to get back to the States and offer my plane and services to the government. A hell of a job I'd made, so far.

The native women were good looking but large and muscular, I saw as I came toward the dock. The white man was effeminate in appearance. Being pretty muscular and heavily built myself, maybe I looked good to the women. Anyway, I got a pretty good welcome. I stepped up on the dock. The women chattered and giggled. Over my shoulder I noted the approach of a white-clad figure, a figure that came forward with dainty, mincing steps. The man, if man he was, clapped his hands indignantly at the curious women, made a noise that sounded exactly like a child's boo! The women drew aside at his approach, and the little man turned to me, hand on hip, lips puckered in disapproval.

"What are you doing here, my good man?"

I had to laugh at the figure so indignant before me, lips puckered in even keener disapproval an two widely spaced blue eyes swept over my figure and out to the moored plane, and back again.

While this went on I was taking unconscious note of the strange scene about me. The women had resumed work sullenly. Some trundled queer copra-laden carts into the warehouse, to emerge shortly as wonder-struck as ever. Others bore unbelievably huge loads on sinewy backs; search as I might in the few allotted seconds, I discovered never a man among them!

The little man seemed to grow more cordial. He said, "We were not expecting visitors today, sir! You must forgive my appearance— I know I look a sight!"

A hand adorned by many rings pushed back an imaginary lock of straying hair. His expression was almost coy. "I'm Forest," he simpered, extending jeweled fingers.

"I'm Dick Raines."

While I explained my misfortune, the loss of my route and the exhaustion of my gas supply, Forest hustled me into the cottage beside the oil tank.

A GOLDEN-SKINNED native girl was setting a table, and at Forest's command hurried for another plate, dark eyes lingering over her shoulder at me. Nervous and excited, Forest led me to a lavatory where I washed the stains of three thousand miles of air travel from my swarthy face and hands. At a word of command from Forest a clean towel appeared.

Connoisseur of beauty, ever appreciative, I eyed the glowing figure of perfection with plain approval, my mouth splitting in a smile.

In spite of Forest's evident distaste I placed my hand on her bare shoulder. She was clad only in a sarong, flowers in her hair. At the touch of my fingers her eyes blazed, her breath drew in in a sharp hiss, her whole body, from alluring, pear-shaped breasts to quivering thighs seemed to pulse and tremble.

In the twinkling of an eye she swayed toward me, her sloe eyes blazing, and only a sharp word of command from Forest prevented her from pressing exotic loveliness to me!

I laughed as he took the towel, but he was puzzled.

"So unnecessary!" exclaimed Forest testily, arising. "But forgive her. She's been starved for two years!" His voice was a simper. The remark only added to my bewilderment; later I was to learn all too well the meaning behind the man's words.

At breakfast the same native girl served us, but kept her eyes obediently on the stone-flagoned floor. However, she lost no opportunity to hover behind me, to brush against me with her rounded arms, and once when she leaned over to replenish my glass a round breast throbbed against my shoulder. Forest spoke in reprimand again, but she merely tossed her head defiantly and flashed a white toothed smile.

I admitted that most of all I needed sleep, after which I was anxious to report my safety by radio. To my surprise Forest hastened to explain that there was a wireless at the plantation— that although steamers called but twice yearly at Tenefu they managed to keep in touch with the world. Gasoline also was available in any quantity whenever I was ready to resume my flight!

"Tenefu! Tenefu!" I mused. "Where have I heard that name?"

"Tenefu, the Island of Women!" said Forest softly.

In spite of my weariness I threw back my head and roared with laughter. "Tenefu, by gad! The Island of the Amazons! And out of the whole Pacific I pick this spot to land! No wonder all the gals give me that come hither look!

"I've heard about this island for years, but always thought it was more or less of a myth! So this is Tenefu! Now show me the master-mind, the old warhorse behind it all, and I'll be satisfied. I'd like to see this Madame— what's her name? Madame Rigaud!"

"Well, turn around and look!"

Forest dropped his glass with an effeminate little shriek; even I leaped to my feet. There in the doorway with a leering smile on her face stood the owner and absolute ruler of Tenefu, Madame Rigaud herself, automatic strapped to one hip, heavy quirt dangling from her wrist. She wore a man's white shirt, open at the throat; her long legs were thrust into riding breeches, encased in high boots. She was without a feminine curve in her elongated body! Hair, slightly gray, was shingled like that of a man; her nose was bold, curved, and predatory like the beak of a hawk, and the arrogant, flashing eyes spoke further of power! She swung the heavy quirt lovingly, suggestively, grinned wolfishly when Forest cringed away.

"Dick Raines, the world famous flyer!" she mocked. "Now you have seen Madame Rigaud, what do you think of her?" Forest started to interpose, but she stopped him with a gesture of contempt. "Welcome to Tenefu, my dear Raines! It's been a long time since we've had such distinguished company!"

Again I laughed. I thrust out my hand and was surprised at the strength in the woman's fingers. A few minutes more found us drinking together, toasting Tenefu and Happy Landings, Forest hovering anxiously in the background.

I EXPLAINED the situation again, requested her to radio my whereabouts as soon as convenient and asked permission to rest a few hours at the cottage. She assented readily, then sat silent for a short space, green eyes glowing and narrowed in peculiar fashion.

"Perhaps you'd like to come up to the chateau," she asked slowly, evenly, "as we have better facilities there. At least you wouldn't have this noise of work to bother you!"

Forest started in surprise, opened red lips to protest. She silenced him with a wave of the quirt.

"Sure!" I said, still grinning. "I was hoping you'd ask me. I'm mighty anxious to see your place. I've heard so much about it!"

Suddenly the tall woman turned, lashed out with the heavy quirt, seemingly at the doorjamb. A muffled scream. A bony arm shot out, dragged the culprit into the room. "Never slip up behind me!" she grated, throwing the golden skinned girl toward the littered table. An angry welt stretched below the native's smooth breast, extended downward.

Astonished and repulsed by the sudden and unjust display of temper, I entered Madame Rigaud's car with misgivings and pity in my heart for the native girl. Madame Rigaud offered no word of explanation. She spoke only after fields and forests had swept by.

"I suppose you've noticed my lack of man power, Mr. Raines?"

"Yes," I admitted. "Aren't there any men on Tenefu but Forest?"

"There are a few others, but very few. Haven't your tales told you about the ogre of Tenefu?" There was sarcasm in her deep voice. Sarcasm and bitterness. I wisely chose to disregard the latter part of her remark.

"You seem to have gotten along very well without men!"

"In every way, my friend— almost every way!"

She stopped the car on the very top of the low hill. Before us in all its glory arose the plantation house of Tenefu, flanked and enhanced in beauty by tropical trees, flowers and shrubs.

Green eyes burned into mine. "In every way but one!" she repeated, her voice low, vibrant. Bony fingers, long and strong, gripped my knee— I heard breath whistling through her teeth, dared not look at her.

"Forgive me," I spoke gently, feeling almost sorry for the ridiculous woman, "I am very tired!"

For a space she sat there silently, fighting to control herself. The gears clanked, and the car leaped forward. I sat silent, wondering just what in hell I had got into this time!

AT THE house I wrote out the radio message I wished sent, and gravely she assented, after which she led me up a long flight of stairs, down cool hallways to a shadowy bedroom in a separate wing of the house.

"This will be yours for as long as you care to stay," she said meaningly. Though her face was as graven as stone, her eyes blazed. Again I chose to disregard the meaning behind the words, the innuendoes and hints. I shrugged as the door closed, looked about me with wonderment.

How in the world did she manage this setting so far away from the jumping off place itself? A low bed hung with a canopy of mosquito netting was along one wall. The floors were of cool tile, the walls frescoed and decorated in the old French manner, painted in a way that spoke of enormous expenditure. The furniture was equally luxurious. A far door disclosed a bathroom with sunken tub that more than invited.

With very few wasted movements I slipped from my travel- stained garments and soon reveled in the cooling water. Later I made for the privacy of my bedroom. In the doorway I paused in surprise, for standing over that bed, rearranging it, was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen!

"Who—who—" I began, glad for the large towel I had wrapped around me. She turned from her task to encompass me with startled eyes. She was native, but the lightest native I could have imagined in my wildest dreams—almost white! Her brilliant sarong
was even scantier than that of the other.

"I am Wana! She spoke with a quaver. Regaining my wits I stepped into the room.

"Well, well! Wana! Think of that, now! How come you walk in on me like this?"

She stopped my advance with a cautioning hand, finger against pursed lips in a gesture of silence. She glanced toward the door, as if warning me of hidden danger. I noted with a suppressed chuckle that, in spite of her caution, her brown eyes devoured me, were lit with what I termed the well known "Tenefu flame!"

Swept away by the pulsing beauty before me, oblivious of danger or anything else, I placed a hand on her trembling shoulder, hut she jerked away looking anxiously toward the door.

"Don't! Don't!" she implored, and, "For God's sake, go! Leave this hell of Tenefu before it is too late!"

"Aw, the devil with it!" I said thickly. "C'mere, baby. You're beautiful!" To me the whole thing was still a joke.

"Pardon me," said a deep voice. Madame Eigaud stood in the doorway.

Eyes blazing with wrath, she motioned the girl from the room. As the slender body half wheeled by her on frightened feet she gestured with the quirt as if to lash at the beautiful back, thought better of it, and smiled grimly at me.

"You wish to sleep, no doubt, Mr. Baines! Again pardon the intrusion; I did not mean to interrupt your pleasure!"

"Not at all," I muttered, and as the door closed, "Boy, what have I stuck my nose into now!"

DINNER that night was something to marvel at. Madame Eigaud outdid herself. She had changed her masculine clothes for those of her own sex, wearing a low cut evening gown which revealed the flat boniness of her breast. Her fingers fairly glittered with rings; a great diamond crowning a tiara winked and blinked high up on her forehead. Rouge and lipstick seemed foreign on her ugly features.

In spite of her efforts, this great show of wealth and beauty elicited no response from me, whom she so evidently hoped to enthrall.

"You live like a queen," I finally remarked, dryly, merely for the sake of conversation. In my heart I laughed.

"I am a queen," she replied, pleased. "A queen on Tenefu, at least!"

Great was my astonishment at the garb of the golden-skinned girls who served us in the huge dining hall. Their incongruous appearance was the final factor in convincing me that my hostess was undoubtedly mad, for impossible as it might seem, they wore nothing more nor less than lingerie, daring in cut, daring in brevity, and alluring in its very scent and hue!

Those dusky skins, contrasting with scanty stepins and inadequate bandeaus, were doubly enticing. Madame Eigaud threw back her head and roared at my evident astonishment.

"You see, my friend," she explained, bony hands again on my arm, "years ago, in my youth, I loved such things! I enjoy them yet—on others, and it surely appears that you, too, are charmed!"

I laughed sheepishly, winced as she poked me jocosely in the ribs.

Champagne and other heady wines loosened the woman's tongue as the meal progressed. Presently she leaned back, and spoke again of the rumors I might have heard concerning the ogre of Tenefu. I admitted that I had heard much, and not all good.

Slowly she unfolded a peculiar tale, the detailed story of a love affair of the past that had been entirely one-sided. Laughed at and jeered for her affair, she had vowed to hate all men, to revenge herself on the whole sex. And, she explained with narrowed eyes, well had she fulfilled that vow.

I paid little attention other than wondering just why she should trouble herself to tell me all this. I was much more interested in those charming figures flitting about the room, particularly my little friend Wana, who was a picture of enticement in orchid!

I looked again at the garrulous old woman beside me, noted the quirt on the back of her chair, the three huge iron keys dangling from a ring at her waist. She leaned toward me as she spoke, her voice higher now, eyes sparkling and gleaming.

"He looked exactly as you do now; young, virile, manly! Perhaps that is why I brought you here, cheri!" Her hand was closing over mine. "Do you know," she continued dreamily, "you are the first man I have dined with in twelve years! You do something to me here!" She tapped her bony chest.

I GOT to my feet— nauseated, revolted. "Let's take a walk," I requested quickly, indicating the moonlit garden. As we walked toward the French doors I noted Wana in the shadows shaking her head frantically in warning. Helplessly, not knowing whether to laugh or to be angry, I stepped into the tropical garden with the woman close to my side.

Try as I might I could not silence her as she confessed every horrid detail of her past life to me. She went so far as to describe her means to power, her hopes and dreams, emphasizing her wealth and boundless resources. Finally, disgusted, I could stand it no longer.

"Why do you tell me these things?"

Two hands were on my shoulders; two eyes gazed into mine. "Because you, too, may have them! I will share a kingdom with you, Dick Raines. I offer you wealth, and power, and— love!"

An arm slid around my neck; I felt the thin, muscular sharpness of bony form against my own; hungry, questing lips, parched and hard, were on my cheek even as I pulled away. Strident breath whistled in my ear.

I laughed. That laugh was the biggest mistake I ever made during my adventurous career, for the neurotic woman sprang away from me as if I had slapped her face!

"So! You laugh! Laugh! Laugh at me, you fool! Just as the other, you laugh! I offer you a kingdom, a paradise on earth, and you laugh! Fool! Moron! Imbecile! I too, I, Theresa Rigaud, laugh!"

Her screams of rage trailed off into hysterical laughter, high- pitched, terrible to hear.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I didn't mean—" but that laughter cut me off. She slapped her thin hands together with a report like the shot of a .gun. Out of the semi-darkness materialized two formidable women like genii of the lamp, women as large as I myself. Each wore an automatic; each carried a gleaming Malay kris.

"Bring him along!" grated Madame Rigaud, and stalked ahead.

They shoved me roughly after the retreating figure, and still half inclined to laugh at the absurdity of the whole thing, I followed obediently.

Along the dark pathway I thought fast. Evidently the woman was crazy. There was no doubt of that! I wondered a little vaguely if temporary safety lay in playing up to her, but the thought of that bony, masculine body nauseated and repulsed me. I sighed a little at the comic injustice of it all. Why couldn't she have been someone like little Wana?

The strange procession did not halt in the living room but marched silently through, traversing darkened hallways, back, back to the very rear of the house. Before a huge black door I was brought to a halt.

"I will be fair with you, my young friend," spoke Madame Rigaud. "I am about to show you— men. You asked me if we had men on Tenefu and I told you yes. Now, you shall see for yourself! First, you must understand that all of these creatures have attempted to cross me in one way or another. I need hardly explain— after you have seen them— that all were unsuccessful. Remember that they, too, came to Tenefu, just as you came— unasked."

She thrust one of the three great keys into the lock. "I show you this simply to prove what it means
to oppose me, my arrogant friend. Come!" She thrust the heavy door open, flipped a switch, and life stirred in the room.

I SICKENED, drew back in amazement at the sight that met my eyes. Sprawled and huddled on pallets on the bare floor were fully thirty native men— or what had been men!

"This man," she indicated an unfortunate who groveled and cringed away from her, "attempted to nose into my affairs too often!" She cracked the whip and, abject in terror, the wretch extended the stumps of two withered arms. The hands had been hacked off above the wrists!

She threw back her head and laughed. "This one," she continued, "is my prize beauty!" The man she pointed out covered his face with his hands. "He is Wana- la, blood brother of Wana, your favorite!" The woman smirked.

"He came after his sister; he nosed around; he talked! Look at him now!" Again she swung the whip with a sharp report! Wanala dropped his hands sullenly, his eyes blazed at his tormentor. I stood nauseated, but fascinated.

Two great holes indicated where the boy's nose had once been and the terrible gibbering emitted from colorless lips proved that a blackened stump alone remained of his tongue!

"Well," said Madame Rigaud, the Queen of Tenefu, in a harsh, dry voice, "have you seen enough?"

Shrieking with laughter she prodded me with her quirt.

"You!" Her voice sobered, became less harsh, "I give you a choice!" Those deep tones were almost a caress. "You can be a king, can rule beside me! Together we will seek and find happiness, or else—" She gestured wordlessly toward the wrecks at her feet.

"I'm internationally known," I said as my voice choked with emotion, "and you've already given news of my arrival. A disappearance would be hard for you to explain!"

"Fool! Do you think I radioed Papeete? Certainly not! Should you choose this way," again a wave of the quirt, "I simply tow your plane a few miles to sea and break it up. In a few weeks, when parts of the wreckage are found— pfft! Simply a sorrowful headline in the papers announcing the death of another aviator."

"You wouldn't— you— " I stepped toward her. An Amazon shoved me back roughly, tapping the holstered automatic at her hip.

"Tonight I give you to prepare your answer, to make your decision," the woman spoke coldly. "I have been spurned for the last time, and if you will not have me, you shall never have another woman! You'll never want another woman to look at you!"

She giggled and the bodyguard giggled in response.

LOCKED in my room I paced the floor far into the night. The thought of the mutilated wretches in the basement room sickened me, brought me back to reality with a bang. The woman was undoubtedly crazed! How in the world could I extract myself from such a mess?

Eventually, long after midnight, I cast myself fully clothed on the bed, half determined to accede to her wishes and watch future opportunities for escape.

The guarded sound of a key in the lock brought me to alertness. Carefully I arose, tiptoed to the door, seizing a heavy chair for a weapon. Into the moonlit room stole the white body of Wana.

Seeing me, she leaned against the door breathlessly, finger against her lips in warning gesture. She was clad as I had last seen her, in thin chiffon. In spite of the terrible danger, it required an effort on my part to keep my hands off her.

Her entire being was a challenge. Uplifted breasts, impudent, beneath the sheer lace of the bandeau! Rounded hips, turned to perfection! I gulped, trembled, and followed eagerly when she led me away from the door.

Against the bed she paused, thrust something at me. My fingers found and recognized the three keys last seen at Madame Rigaud's girdle!

"Go," she breathed, very close to me, "go before that devil kills you! Before she mutilates you as she has my brother!"

I tossed the keys to the bed, seized her in my arms. Her body quivered against mine. For a long moment of ecstasy she strained to me there in the moonlight, lips pressed to mine.

"We'll go together," I whispered hoarsely. "You must come with me! We'll make Forest give us gasoline and be away before she misses us!"

"I can't," she moaned. "I can't! I must not leave my brother! I must stay until I free him, too, from the clutches of this devil!"

"I won't go without you!" I said tersely, and sought her lips again. My arms pressed her sinuous body closer and closer to me, felt the svelte curve of her arched back. Her lips seemed to drain life itself from me.

Light flooded the room!

There in the doorway, white with anger, was Madame Rigaud. Her lips were a thin cruel line, her eyes demoniac, glittering as those of a deadly snake. Without a word she sprang toward us, whip raised to strike. Wana, knowing too well that whip, dodged away, stumbled over a stool and sprawled on the floor.

The quirt flashed in the light, rose and descended, rose and fell again, leaving crimson welts in its vicious wake— angry welts across rounded back and shoulders, horribly discernible even through taut chiffon. Wana moaned, rolling to escape the blows. The whip hissed again, leaving claw-like marks across the proud shoulders.

By this time I sprang into action. I seized the mad woman from behind, held the whip with my right hand, the other encompassing her bony chest. Wana, freed from her torturer, seized the three keys from the bed, ran sobbing from the room.

I WAS far too busy even to note her departure, for the strength of Madame Rigaud was the strength of the possessed. Her gown ripped in my fingers. She sprang free, leaving it in my hands.

Open-mouthed at the shock of a nearly nude Amazon before me, I hesitated. That moment of inaction was all she needed. With a single flick of her wrist she quickly unscrewed the top of the heavy quirt. A short, evil-appearing knife was in her hand! She neither screamed for help nor expected it.

Crouched low like a professional brawler, knife cradled close to her breast, insanity burning in her eyes, she came slowly toward me. I braced myself to meet her, sick and nauseated by her appearance.

Her entire body was scabrous, skin splotched and spotted, but there was a tremendous amount of muscle evident in that thin body. Further, here was the double strength of the mad!

The gleaming knife whistled through the air as she sprang, and in spite of my quickness, buried itself in my forearm. I leaped back, tripped over the same stool, staggered and crashed to the floor! Like a tigress she was upon me, bony shoulders hitting me with a terrific whack, driving the breath from me, pinning me to the floor.

The sharp blade scratched down across my abdomen, cut half through the thick leather belt before I could force it aside.

Struggling erect I gripped her knife wrist firmly, but her strength was equal to mine, and the wounded forearm weakened me rapidly. Step by step she pushed me back, back, saliva drooling from cruel lips, yellow teeth snapping like fangs at my flesh! Down, down came the glittering blade.

The wall was at my back; with a quick twist I deflected the descending blade, sinking the point into the wall. With all of the remaining strength in her mad body she flung up her knee.

Flame danced before my eyes. My hold on her wrist relaxed. I sank to the floor fighting nausea, unconsciousness. Through half closed eyes I saw her pull the knife from the wall with a convulsive effort; through ears that roared and rang, I heard her shrill laugh of triumph. Weakly I raised my hand to fend off the horror I knew was coming.

THE patter of hare feet sounded like the approach of a storm. Through the door, like a pack of wolves scenting a kill, surged the freed prisoners, relieved of their shackles by Wana, who urged them on from the hallway. Strange sounds, gibbering, wails, laughter, hysterical and high- pitched, emanated from emaciated bodies as they bore their former tyrant to the floor under sheer weight of numbers, the tongueless Wanala in the van.

I saw the handless one in the midst of the fray, heard the sickening crunch of bony stumps against the woman's body, saw teeth, spaced like fangs, tear and gnaw at the dying woman's throat. Once only she screamed, and that scream ended in her throat as a death rattle while the men who were no longer men chortled and howled like demons at their terrible task of vengeance.

Wana eventually stopped the horror from the doorway.

"Stop it! Stop it!" she commanded. "There are still the four bodyguards to reckon with!"

One by one, reluctantly, the men arose from the bloody mess on the floor, to trot off down the hall on eager feet in search of their appointed kill.

Racked with pain and horror I drew the trembling Wana into the protective circle of my arms.

Early that morning the giant amphibian roared into life on the bay.

I, who had found happiness in hell, smiled down on the beautiful face beside me and waved to the natives on the shore as the plane glided over the water in a perfect take-off. A little white figure in the foreground, Forest, sang as loudly as any of the natives, "Tofa Me Felini," the farewell song of the natives.

______________

2: The Mask of Midas

G K Chesterton

1874-1936

1936 (Posthumous publication)

It has turned out to be amazingly difficult to identify the first publication of this last Father Brown story, found in his papers after his death, and published posthumously in 1936.

A MAN was standing outside a small shop, as rigidly as a wooden Highlander outside an old-fashioned tobacconist's. It was hard to believe that anyone would stand so steadily outside the shop unless he were the shopkeeper; but there was an almost grotesque incongruity between the shopkeeper and the shop. For the shop was one of those delightful dens of rubbish which children and the very wise explore with their eyes like a fairyland; but which many of a tidier and tamer taste are unable to distinguish from a dustbin. In short, it called itself in its prouder moments a curiosity shop; but was more generally called a junk shop; especially by the hard-headed and hustling commercial population of the industrial seaport in one of whose meaner streets it stood. Those who have a taste for such things will not need to have unrolled the tale of its treasures, of which the most precious were difficult to connect with any purpose whatever. Tiny models of fully-rigged ships sealed in bubbles of glass or glue or some queer Oriental gum; crystal balls in which snowstorms descended on very stolid human figures; enormous eggs that might have been laid by prehistoric birds; misshapen gourds that might have been swollen with poison rather than wine; queer weapons; queer musical instruments, and all the rest; and all sinking deeper and deeper in dust and disorder. The guardian standing outside such a shop might well be some decrepit Jew, with something of the dignity and long dress of the Arab; or some gypsy of a brazen and tropical beauty, hung with hoops of gold or brass. But the sentinel was something quite startlingly different. He was a lean, alert young man, in neat clothes of American cut, with the long, rather hard face so often seen in the Irish-American. He had a Stetson cocked over one eye and a stinking Pittsburgh cigar sticking out at a sharp angle from one corner of his mouth. If he had also had an automatic in his hip-pocket, those then gazing at him would not have been very much surprised. The name dimly printed above his shop was "Denis Hara".

Those thus gazing at him happened to be persons of some importance; and even perhaps of some importance to him. But nobody could have guessed it from his flinty features and his angular repose. The most prominent of these was Colonel Grimes, the Chief Constable of that county. A loose-built man with long legs and a long head; trusted by those who knew him well, but not very popular even with his own class, because he showed distinct signs of wanting to be a policeman rather than a country gentleman. In short, the Constable had committed the subtle sin of preferring the Constabulary to the County. This eccentricity had encouraged his natural taciturnity; and he was, even for a capable detective, unusually silent and secretive about his plans and discoveries. His two companions, who knew him well, were all the more surprised when he stopped in front of the man with the cigar and spoke in a loud clear voice, very seldom heard from him in public.

"It is only fair to tell you, Mr. Hara, that my men have received information which justifies my obtaining a search-warrant to examine your premises. It may turn out, as I hope, that it will be unnecessary to incommode you further. But I must warn you that a watch is being kept on any movements of departure from this place."

"Are you all out to get one of my nice little toy ships done up in gum?" enquired Mr. Hara with calm. "Well, Colonel, I wouldn't like to set any limits to your free and glorious British Constitution; or I would rather doubt whether you can burgle my little grey home like that."

"You will find I am right," replied the Colonel; "in fact I am going straight to two of the magistrates, whose signatures are needed for the search-warrant."

The two men standing behind the Chief Constable exhibited fine though different shades of a faint mystification. Inspector Beltane, a big dark heavy man, reliable in his work if not very rapid in it, looked a little dazed as his superior turned sharply away. The third man was stumpy and sturdy, with a round black clerical hat and a round black clerical figure, as well as a round face which had looked up to that moment a little sleepy; but a sharper gleam shone between his screwed eyelids; and he also was looking at the Chief Constable; but with something a little more than mere bewilderment; rather as if a new notion had suddenly come into his head.

"Look here," said Colonel Grimes, "you fellows will be wanting your lunch; it's a shame to trail you about like this after three o'clock. Fortunately, the first man I want to see is in the bank we are just passing; and there's quite a decent restaurant next door. I'll dash round to the other man who is only in the next street, when I've settled you down to some grub. They are the only two J.P.s in this part of the town; and it's lucky they live so near together. The banker will do what I want straight away; so we'll just go in and settle that first."

An array of doors decorated with glass and gilding led them through a labyrinth of passages in the Casterville and County Bank; and the Chief Constable went straight to the inner sanctum, with which he seemed to be fairly familiar. There he found Sir Archer Anderson, the famous financial writer and organiser, and the head of this and many other highly respectable banking enterprises; a grave and graceful old gentleman with grey curly hair and a grey pointed beard of a rather old-fashioned cut; but dressed otherwise in a sober but exact version of the current fashion. A glance at him would suggest that he was quite at home with the County as well as the Constable; but he seemed to share something of the Constable's preference for work rather than play. He pushed a formidable block of documents on one side; and said a word of welcome, pointing to a chair and suggesting a readiness to do banking business at any moment.

"I'm afraid this isn't banking business," said Grimes, "but anyhow, my business won't interrupt yours for more than a minute or two. You're a magistrate, aren't you; well, the law requires me to have the signatures of two magistrates, for a search-warrant on premises I have reason to believe are very suspicious."

"Indeed," said Sir Archer politely. "What sort of suspicion?"

"Well," said Grimes, "it's rather a queer case, and quite new, I should say, in these parts. Of course we have our own little criminal population, you may say; and, what is quite different and much more natural, the ordinary disposition of down-and-outs to hang together, even a little outside the law. But it looks to me as if that man Hara, who's certainly an American, is also an American gangster. A gangster on a large scale and with a whole machinery of crime practically unknown in this country. To begin with, I don't know whether you know the very latest news of this neighbourhood?"

"Very possibly not," replied the banker, with a rather frosty smile. "I am not very well instructed in the police news; and I only came here recently to look over the affairs of the branch. Till then I was in London."

"A convict escaped yesterday," said the Colonel gravely. "You know there is a large penal settlement on the moors, a mile or two from this town. There are a good many men doing time there; but there is one less than there was the day before yesterday."

"Surely that is not so very unheard of," said the other. "Prisoners do sometimes break prison, don't they?"

"True," assented the Chief Constable. "Perhaps that would not be so extraordinary in itself. What is extraordinary is that he has not only escaped but disappeared. Prisoners break prison; but they almost always go back to prison; or at least we get some notion of how they managed to get away. This man seems to have simply and suddenly vanished, like a ghost or a fairy, a few hundred yards from the prison gates. Now as I have sceptical doubts myself about whether he really is a ghost or a fairy, I must fall back on the only possible natural explanation. And that is that he was spirited away instantly in a car, almost certainly part of a whole organization of cars, to say nothing of spies and conspirators working out a completed plan. Now I take it as certain that his own friends and neighbours, however much they might sympathise, could not possibly organize anything like that. He is quite a poor man, accused of being a poacher; all his friends are poor and probably most of them poachers; and there is no doubt that he killed a game keeper. It's only fair to say that some thought it ought to have been called manslaughter and not murder; indeed they had to commute the sentence to a long imprisonment; and since then, perhaps on a fairer reconsideration, they have reduced it to a comparatively short sentence. But somebody has shortened it very much more than that. And in a way which means money and petrol and practical experience in such raids; he certainly could not have done it for himself and none of his companions in the common way could have done it for him. Now I won't bother you with the details of our discoveries; but I'm quite certain that the headquarters of the organization is in that little junk-shop round the corner; and our best chance is to get a warrant to search it at once. You will understand, Sir Archer, that this does not commit you to anything beyond the preliminary search; if the man in the shop is innocent, we are all quite free to testify to it; but I'm certain a preliminary search ought to be made, and for that I must have the signatures of two magistrates. That is why I am wasting your time with the police news; when it is so valuable in the financial news. If you feel you can sign such a document, I have it here ready for you; and there will be no excuse for my interrupting your own financial duties any further."

He laid a paper in front of Sir Archer Anderson; and, after reading it rapidly, but with a frown of habitual responsibility, the banker picked up his pen and signed it.

The Chief Constable rose with rapid but warm expressions of obligation, and passed towards the door, merely remarking at random, as a man might talk about the weather, "I don't suppose a business of your standing is affected by slumps or modern complications. But I'm told these are anxious days, sometimes, even for the most solid of the smaller corporations."

Sir Archer Anderson rose at once swiftly and stiffly, with a certain air of indignation at being even momentarily associated with small corporations.

"If you know anything of the Casterville and County Bank," he said, not without a faint touch of fire, "you will know it is not likely to be affected by anything or anybody."

Colonel Grimes shepherded his friends out of the Bank and, with a certain benevolent despotism, deposited them in the restaurant next door; while he himself darted on to complete his task by pouncing on the other local magistrate; an old lawyer who was also an old friend, one Wicks by name, who had sometimes assisted him in details of legal theory. Inspector Beltane and Father Brown were left facing each other somewhat solemnly in the restaurant, to await his return.

"Am I wrong," asked Father Brown with a friendly smile, "if I suspect that you are a little puzzled by something?"

"I wouldn't say puzzled," said the Inspector. "All that business with the banker was simple enough; but when you know a man very well, there is always a funny feeling when he doesn't act quite like himself. Now the Colonel is the most silent and secret worker I've ever known in the police. Often he never tells the colleagues nearest to him what's in his mind at the moment. Why did he stand talking at the top of his voice in a public street to a public enemy: to tell him he was going to raid his shop? Other people, let alone ourselves, were beginning to gather and listen. Why the devil should he tell this godforsaken gunman that he was going to raid his shop? Why didn't he simply raid it?"

"The answer is," said Father Brown, "that he wasn't going to raid his shop."

"Then why did he shout to the whole town that he was going to?"

"Well, I think," said Father Brown, "so that the whole town might talk about his visit to the gangster and not notice his visit to the banker. The only words he really wanted to say were those last few words he said to the banker; watching for the reaction. But if there are any rumours about the bank, the town would have been all up in the air about his going straight to the bank. He had to have a good ordinary reason for going there; and he could hardly have had a better one than asking two ordinary magistrates to sign an ordinary document. Quite a flight of imagination."

Inspector Beltane was gaping at him across the table.

"What on earth do you mean?" he demanded at last.

"I mean," replied the priest, "that perhaps Colonel Grimes was not so far out in talking of the poacher as a fairy. Or shall we say a ghost?"

"You can't possibly mean," said the Inspector incredulously, "that Grimes invented the murdered gamekeeper and the escaped convict out of his own head? Why, he told me about them himself beforehand, as a bit of ordinary police-business."

"I wouldn't go quite so far as that," said Father Brown indifferently. "There may be some such local story; but it's got nothing to do with the story Grimes is after just now. I wish it had."

"Why do you say that?" asked the other.

Father Brown looked him full in the face with grey eyes of unmistakable gravity and candour.

"Because I am out of my depth," he said. "Oh, I know well enough when I'm out of my depth; and I knew I should be, when I found we were hunting a fraudulent financier instead of an ordinary human murderer. You see, I don't quite know how I came to take a hand originally in this sort of detective business; but almost all my experience was with ordinary human murderers. Now murder's almost always human and personal; but modern theft has been allowed to become quite impersonal. It isn't only secret; it's anonymous; almost avowedly anonymous. Even if you die, you may catch a glimpse of the face of the man who stabbed you. But however long you live, you may never get even a glimpse of the name of the man who robbed you. My first case was just a small private affair about a man's head being cut off and another head put on instead; I wish I were back among quiet homely little idylls like that. I wasn't out of my depth with them."

"A very idyllic incident indeed," said the Inspector.

"A very individual incident, anyhow," replied the priest. "Not like all this irresponsible officialism in finance. They can't cut off heads as they cut off hot water, by the decision of a Board or a Committee; but they can cut off dues or dividends in that way. Or again, although two heads could be put on one man, we all know that one man hasn't really got two heads. But one firm can have two heads; or two faces, or half-a hundred faces. No, I wish you could lead me back to my murderous poacher and my murdered gamekeeper. I should understand all about them; but for the unfortunate fact that they possibly never existed."

"Oh this is all nonsense," cried the Inspector, trying to throw off an atmosphere. "I tell you Grimes did talk about it before. I rather fancy the poacher would have been released soon anyhow, though he did kill the other man pretty savagely, bashing him again and again with the butt of his gun. But he'd found the gamekeeper pretty indefensibly occupied on his own premises. In fact, the gamekeeper was poaching this time. He hadn't a good character in the neighbourhood; and there was certainly what's called provocation. Sort of Unwritten Law business."

"That's just what I mean," said Father Brown. "Modern murder still, very often, has some remote and perverted connection with an unwritten law. But modern robbery takes the form of littering the world with paper and parchment, covered merely with written lawlessness."

"Well, I can't make head or tail of all this," said the Inspector. "There is the poacher who is a prisoner, or an escaped prisoner; there is, or was the gamekeeper; and there is, to all mortal appearance, the gangster. What you mean by starting all this wild stuff about the bank next door is more than I can imagine."

"That's what troubles me," said Father Brown in a sobered and humbled tone. "The Bank next door is beyond my imagination."

At this moment, the restaurant door swung open and the Colonel returned with a swing of triumph; trailing behind him a little lively figure with white hair and a face wrinkled with smiles. It was the other magistrate, whose signature was so essential to the required document.

"Mr. Wicks," said the Colonel, with an introductory gesture, "is the best modern expert in all matters of financial fraud. It is sheer luck that he happens to be a J.P. in this district."

Inspector Beltane gave a gulp and then gasped. "You don't mean to say Father Brown was right."

"I have known it happen," said Colonel Grimes, with moderation.

"If Father Brown said that Sir Archer Anderson is a colossal swindler, he was most certainly right," said Mr. Wicks. "I needn't give you all the steps of the proof here; in fact it will be wiser to give only the earlier stages of it even to the police — and the swindler. We must watch him carefully; and see that he takes no advantage of any mistake of ours. But I think we'd better go round and have a rather more candid interview with him than you seem to have had; an interview in which the poacher and the junk-shop will not perhaps be so exclusively prominent. I think I can let him know enough of what we know to wake him up, without running any risk of libel or damages. And there is always the chance he will let something out, in the very attempt to keep it in. Come, we have heard very disquieting rumours about the business, and want this or that explained on the spot. That is our official position at present." And he sprang up, as if with the mere alertness or restlessness of youth.

The second interview with Sir Archer Anderson was certainly very different in its tone, and especially in its termination. They had gone there without any final determination to challenge the great banker; but they soon found that it was he who was already determined to challenge them. His white moustaches were curled like silver sabres; his white pointed beard was thrust forward like a spike of steel. Before any of them had said more than a few sentences, he stood up and struck the table.

"This is the first time that the Casterville and County Bank has been referred to in this fashion; and I promise you it shall be the last. If my own reputation did not already stand too high for such grotesque calumnies, the credit of the institution itself would alone have made them ludicrous. Leave this place, gentlemen, and go away and amuse yourselves with exposing the High Court of Chancery or inventing naughty stories about the Archbishop of Canterbury."

"That is all very well," said Wicks, with his head at an angle of pertinacity and pugnacity like a bulldog, "but I have a few facts here, Sir Archer, which you will be bound sooner or later to explain."

"To say the least of it," said the Colonel in a milder tone, "there are a good many things that we want to know rather more about."

The voice of Father Brown came in like something curiously cool and distant, as if it came from another room, or from the street outside, or at least from a long way off.

"Don't you think, Colonel, that we know now all that we want to know?"

"No," said the Colonel shortly, "I am a policeman. I may think a great deal and think I am right. But I don't know it."

"Oh," said Father Brown, opening his eyes wide for a moment. "I don't mean what you think you know."

"Well, I suppose it's the same as what you think you know," said Grimes rather gruffly.

"I'm awfully sorry," said Father Brown penitently, "but what I know is quite different."

The air of doubt and difference, in which the small group moved off, leaving the haughty financier apparently master of the field after all, led them to drift once more to the restaurant, for an early tea, a smoke and some attempt at an explanation all round.

"I always knew you were an exasperating person," said the policeman to the priest, "but I have generally had some sort of wild guess about what you meant. My impression at this moment is that you have gone mad."

"It's odd you should say that," said Father Brown; "because I've tried to discover my own deficiencies in a good many directions, and the only thing I think I really know about myself is that I am not mad. I pay the penalty, of course, in being dull. But I have never to my knowledge lost touch with reality; and it seems queer to me that men so brilliant as you are can lose it so quickly."

"What do you mean— reality?" demanded Grimes after a bristling silence.

"I mean common sense," said Father Brown, with one of the explosions so rare in him that it sounded like a gun. "I've said already that I'm out of my depth, about all this financial complexity and corruption. But, hang it all, there is a way of testing things by human beings. I don't know anything about finance; but I have known financiers. In a general way, I've known fraudulent financiers. But you must know much more about them than I do. And yet you can swallow an impossibility like that."

"An impossibility like what?" enquired the staring Colonel.

Father Brown had suddenly leaned across the table, with piercing eyes fixed on Wicks, with an intensity he rarely showed.

"Mr. Wicks, you ought to know better. I'm only a poor parson, and of course I know no better. After all, our friends the police do not often meet bankers; except when a casual cashier cuts his throat. But you must have been perpetually interviewing bankers; and especially bankrupt bankers. Haven't you been in this precise position twenty times before? Haven't you again and again had the pluck to throw the first suspicions on very solid persons, as you did this afternoon? Haven't you talked to twenty or thirty financiers who were crashing, just about a month or two before they crashed?"

"Well, yes," said Mr. Wicks slowly and carefully, "I suppose I have."

"Well," asked Father Brown, "did any single one of the others ever talk like that?"

The little figure of the lawyer gave the faintest imperceptible start; so that one could say no more than that he was sitting up a shade straighter than before.

"Did you ever in your born days," asked the priest with all his new thrusting emphasis, "know a handler of hanky-panky finance who got on the high horse at the first flash of suspicion; and told the police not to dare to meddle with the secrets of his sacred bank? Why, it was like asking the Chief Constable to raid his bank and arrest him on the spot. Well, you know about these things and I don't. But I'd risk a long bet that every single dubious financier you have ever known has done exactly the opposite. Your first queries would have been received not with anger but amusement; if it ever went so far, it would have ended in a bland and complete answer to every one of the nine hundred and ninety-nine questions you had to ask. Explanations! They swim in explanations! Do you suppose a slippery financier has never been asked questions before?"

"But hang it all, you generalise too much," said Grimes. "You seem to be quite captivated with your vision of the perfect swindler. But after all even swindlers are not perfect. It doesn't prove much that one bankrupt banker broke down and lost his nerve."

"Father Brown is right," said Wicks, interceding suddenly after a period of digestive silence. "It's quite true that all that swagger and flamboyant defiance couldn't be the very first line of defence for a swindle. But what else could it be? Respectable bankers don't throw out the banner and blow the trumpet and draw the sword, at a moment's notice, any more than disreputable bankers."

"Besides," said Grimes, "why should he get on the high horse at all? Why should he order us all out of the bank, if he has nothing to hide?"

"Well," said Father Brown very slowly, "I never said he had nothing to hide."

The meeting broke up in a silent, dazed disorder, in which the pertinacious Beltane hooked the priest by the arm for an instant and held him.

"Do you or do you not mean," he asked harshly, "that the banker is not a suspect?"

"No," said Father Brown, "I mean that the suspect is not a banker."

As they filed out of the restaurant, with movements much more vague and groping than were normal to any of them, they were brought up short by a shock and noise in the street outside. It first gave the impression of people breaking windows all along the street; but an instant of nervous recovery enabled them to localise it. It was the gilt glass-doors and windows of the pompous building they had entered that morning; the sacred enclosure of the Casterville and County Bank, that was shaken from within by a din like a dynamite explosion, but proving to be in fact only the direct dynamic destructiveness of man. The Chief Constable and the Inspector darted through the shattered glass-doorways to the dark interior, and returned with faces fixed in astonishment; even more assured and stolid for being astonished.

"There's no doubt about it now," said the Inspector, "he's clubbed the man we left to watch to the ground with a poker; and hurled a cash-box so as to catch in the waistcoat the first man who came in to find out the trouble. He must be a wild beast."

Amid all the grotesque bewilderment, Mr. Wicks the lawyer turned with a gesture of apology and compliment and said to Father Brown, "Well, Sir, you have completely convinced me. He is certainly an entirely new rendering of the absconding banker."

"Well, you must send our men in to hold him at once," said the Constable to the Inspector; "or he'll break up the whole town."

"Yes," said Father Brown, "he's a pretty violent fellow; it's his great temptation. Think how he used his gun blindly as a club on the game-keeper, bringing it down again and again; but never having even the sense to fire. Of course, that is the sort of man who mismanages most things, even murders. But he does generally manage to break prison."

His companions gazed on him with faces that seemed to grow rounder and rounder with wonder; but they got no enlightenment out of his own round and commonplace countenance, before he turned away and went slowly down the street.

"And so," said Father Brown, beaming round at the company over a very mild lager in the restaurant, and looking rather like Mr. Pickwick in a village club; "and so we come back again to our dear old rustic tale of the poacher and the gamekeeper after all. It does so inexpressibly raise my spirits dealing with a cosy fireside crime instead of all this blank bewildering fog of finance; a fog really full of ghosts and shadows. Well, of course you all know the old, old story. At your mothers' knees you have heard it; but it is so important, my friends, to keep those old stories clear in our minds as they were told to us. This little rural tale has been told often enough. A man is imprisoned for a crime of passion, shows a similar violence in captivity, knocks down a warder and escapes in a mist on the moor. He has a stroke of luck; for he meets a gentleman who is well-dressed and presentable, and he forces him to change clothes."

"Yes, I've heard that story often," said Grimes frowning. "You say it is important to remember the story—"

"It is important to remember the story," said Father Brown, "because it is a very clear and correct account of what did not happen."

"And what did happen?" demanded the Inspector.

"Only the flat contrary," said Father Brown. "A small but neat emendation. It was not the convict who set out looking for a well-dressed gentleman, that he might disguise himself in his clothes. It was the gentleman who set out on the moor looking for a convict; that he might enjoy the ecstasy of wearing a convict's clothes. He knew there was a convict loose on the moor; and he ardently wanted his clothes. He probably knew also that there was a well-organised scheme for picking up the convict and rushing him rapidly off the moor. It is not quite certain what part Denis Hara and his gang played in this business; or whether they were cognisant only of the first plot or of the second. But I think it probable they were working for the poacher's friends, and merely in the interest of the poacher, who had very wide public sympathy among the poorer population. I prefer to think that our friend the well-dressed gentleman effected his own little transformation scene by his own native talents. He was a very well-dressed gentleman, being clad in very fashionable gents' suitings, as the tailors say; also with beautiful white hair and moustaches etc. which he owed rather to the barber than the tailor. He had found this very complete costume useful at many times of his life; and you must remember he had only appeared for a very short time as yet, in this particular town and bank. On hailing at last the figure of the convict whose clothes he coveted, he verified his information that he was a man of much the same general figure as himself; and the rest consisted merely of covering the convict with the hat, the wig, the whiskers, the splendid raiment, until the warder he knocked on the head would hardly have known him. Then our brilliant financier put on the convict's clothes; and felt, for the first time for months and perhaps years, that he had escaped and was free.

"For he had no band of poor sympathisers who would help or hide him if they knew the truth. He had no movement in his favour, among the more decent lawyers and governors, suggesting that he had suffered enough or that his liberation might soon be allowable. He had no friends even in the underworld; for he had always been an ornament of the upper world; the world of our conquerors and our masters, whom we allow so easily to have the upper hand. He was one of the modern magicians; he had a genius for finance; and his thefts were thefts from thousands of the poor. When he did cross a line (a pretty faint line, in modern law), when the world did find him out, then the whole world would be against him. I fancy he did subconsciously look towards the prison as a home. We don't know exactly what his plans were; even if the prison authorities captured him and took the trouble to prove by prints and so on that he was not the escaped convict, it's not easy to see what else they could prove against him, at this stage. But I think it more likely that he knew Hara's organisation would help him, and hurry him out of the country without a moment's delay. He may have had dealings with Hara, neither perhaps telling the whole truth; such compromises are common in America between the big business man and the racketeer; because they are both really in the same business.

"Nor was there much trouble in persuading the convict, I imagine. It would seem to him at sight a scheme very hopeful for himself; perhaps he thought it was part of Hara's scheme. Anyhow, the convict got rid of the clothes of conviction, and stepped in first class clothes into a first class position where he might be socially acceptable and at least consider his next move in peace. But, heavens, what an irony! What a trap; what a trick of inverted doom! A man breaking jail nearly at the end of his sentence, for an obscure half-forgiven crime, delighting to dress himself up like a dandy in the costume of the world's greatest criminal, to be hunted tomorrow by searchlights round the whole earth. Sir Archer Anderson has entrapped a good many people in his time; but he never entrapped a man in such a tragedy as the man he benevolently clothed with his best clothes on the moor."

"Well," said Grimes good-humouredly, "now you have given us the tip, we can probably prove it all right; because the convict anyhow will have had his finger-prints taken."

Father Brown bowed his head with a vague gesture as of awe and reverence. "Of course," he said, "Sir Archer Anderson has never had his prints taken. My dear Sir! A man in that position."

"The truth is," said Wicks, "that nobody seems to know very much about him; prints or anything else. When I started studying his ways, I had to start with a blank map that only afterwards turned into a labyrinth. I do happen to know something about such labyrinths; but this was more labyrinthine than the others."

"It's all a labyrinth to me," said the priest with a sigh. "I said I was out of my depth in all this financial business. The one and only thing I was quite sure of was the sort of man who sat opposite me. And I was certain he was much too jumpy and nervy to be a swindler."

______________________

3: The Young Earl

Anonymous

The Daily News, Perth, W.A., 17 Jun 1909

One of the many hundreds of adventures of Sexton Blake, mostly penned by anonymous authors.

EXTRADITION proceedings in connection with a recently-concluded case had brought Sexton Blake to Brussels. He was staying at the Hotel Leopold, in the Boulevard Anspach, and on this particular afternoon he was returning from the Palace de Justice, and was just about to turn into the hotel, when a sharp-looking street urchin accosted him.

"Monsieur ees an Englishman?" queried the boy.

"I am," said Sexton Blake.

"Then I give you this," said the boy.

And he handed Sexton Blake a dirty, mud-stained envelope, on the outside of which was pencilled, in very bad French:

"To the finder. I pray you to give this to the first Englishman you meet."

The detective opened the envelope, and drew out a soiled and crumpled sheet of paper, on which was scribbled, also in pencil, the following startling appeal:

"For Heaven's sake, come at once to No. 37, Rue du Petit Loup, and rescue an unfortunate English girl from a bondage worse than death! I was decoyed to this den more than a month ago, and have never been allowed to cross the threshold since. Do not communicate with the police, for I should die of shame if my escapade got into the papers. A little firmness and a little bluster are all that are needed to frighten the proprietor into giving me my freedom. I am locked up in one of the top rooms. I am going to throw this out of the window in the hope that somebody will find it and give it to one of my countrymen. You who read it, come quickly— quickly— quickly! Mabel Trevor."

"Where did you find this?" asked Sexton Blake.

The boy said he had found the envelope on the pavement, in front of a house in the "Street the Little Wolf." He had read the inscription on the outside of the envelope, had set out in search of an Englishman, and had found Sexton Blake.

"Where is the 'Street of the Little Wolf'?" asked Sexton Blake.

The boy explained that it was about five minutes' walk away, and connected the Quai aux Briques and the Rue de Flandre.

"If monsieur wishes," said the boy, "I will take him to the street and show him the house."

The detective glanced at his watch. It was half-past five, and he had an appointment at his hotel with the Earl of Glaisdale at seven o'clock. However, if the Rue du Petit Loup was only five unfortunate English girl and get back to the hotel by seven o'clock.

"All right," he said, "Lead the way!"

The Street of the Little Wolf proved to be an evil-looking slum, so narrow that the inmates of the houses on one side could almost have shaken hands through the upper windows with the occupants of the houses on the other side. In the deepening gloom—for the date was mid-October and, although it was only a few minutes after half-past five, it was already growing dark—the street looked particularly uninviting.'

Half-way down the boy came to a halt.

"This is the house," he said, "and this"— pointing to a spot on the pavement— "is where I found the letter."

The detective glanced at the house— a miserable, whitewashed hovel, with a door and a window on the ground floor, and a couple of windows above.

"Are you sure this is the house?" he asked. "I've seen the numbers on several of the houses we've passed, and it seems to me that thirty-seven should be farther along, and on the opposite side."

"This is the house," said the boy confidently. "If Monsieur does not believe me, let him look at the number on the door."

The detective glided up to the door, which was slightly ajar, and glanced at the painted number. It was No. 24, and he was just about to turn round and tell the boy that he must be mistaken, when the boy, with a swift and sudden movement, kicked up his right leg, and planted his bare foot in the small of Sexton Blake's back.

As a natural consequence of this, the detective stumbled forward, and crashed up against the outside of the door. As the door was ajar, it immediately flew open, and, before Sexton Blake had fully realised what was happening, he was lying on his face on the stone floor of a dimly-lighted room, with somebody kneeling on his back and the muzzle of a revolver closely applied to the nape of his neck.

ii

"KEEP quiet! Lie still! You're in no danger if you only act sensibly; but it you struggle, or play any trick, I'll put a bullet into your spinal marrow without a moment's hesitation! I have a certain proposal to make to you, and, if you accept it, no harm will come to you."

It was the man who was kneeling on the detective's back who spoke. His voice and accent were those of a well-educated, well-bred Englishman. Before Sexton Blake could make any reply, another voice was heard— the voice of the boy who had lured the detective into the trap.

"My reward, monsieur?" he said excitedly.

"The money is on the stool behind me," answered the man. "I placed it there in readiness for you. Shut the door when you leave."

"The detective heard the jingle of coins; then he heard the boy glide out of the house and close the door behind him.

"So the boy was your confederate?" he said, not because he doubted the fact, but in order to gain time.

"Of course!" replied the man.

"And the note from the unfortunate English girl?" said Sexton Blake.

"Was written by me!" said the man, with a chuckle.

"Do you live here?"

"Not much! I hired this hovel— an empty house, by the way, except for a stool and a lamp— for the purpose of this little comedy."

"And what are your terms?'

"If you'll give me your word of honour that you won't resist, or try to escape, I'll first change clothes with you, and then, after binding, and gagging you, I'll leave you for an hour or two. I'll come back shortly after midnight, and I'll give you your clothes, and set you free, on condition, of course, that you swear not to inform the police or anybody else of what has happened. Those are my terms," he concluded. "Refuse, and I shall be obliged to shoot you here and now."

The detective's answer was a startling one. With a swift and dexterous movement, he unseated his assailant, and sent him floundering on his back. Both men leaped to their feet together, but Sexton Blake got in the first blow, and his opponent, reeling back, stumbled over the stool and struck the back of his head with so much force on the hard stone floor that he was momentarily dazed. And before he had time to collect his scattered wits the rope and gag that had been meant for Sexton Blake had been used to bind and gag the detective's assailant!

By that time Sexton Blake had perceived that his opponent was a young, clean-shaven Englishman, about the same height and build as himself. When, a moment later, he discovered an actor's make-up box in one corner of the hovel, and when he remembered what the man had said about changing clothes with him, he began to have an inkling of the purpose.

"You meant to personate me," he said to the man, who was now quite conscious. "If I had accepted your terms, you intended to disguise yourself as me, and to pass yourself off to somebody as Sexton Blake."

The look of baffled rage which came into the man's eyes told him more eloquently than words that he was right.

"I shall just leave you here for the present," continued Sexton Blake, "while I walk to the Bureau de Police, and I shall return here by-and-by with half a dozen gendarmes. Au revoir!"

Locking the door behind him, he walked briskly to the end of the street. It was then quite dark, and as he turned into the Rue de Flandre he almost ran into a smug-looking and apparently short-sighted Englishman who, at the sight of Sexton Blake, pulled up, with a cry of recognition.

"It's Warren, isn't it?" exclaimed the man, peering and blinking through the gloom. "What a marvellous disguise! You'd pass for Blake anywhere. So it came off all right, then?"

The detective grasped the situation.

"Yes, it came off all right— for me," he said, imitating Warren's voice.

"Splendid!" said the man. "We shall pull it off now, as sure as my name's Monsal! But aren't you surprised to see me here?"

"Very!" said Sexton Blake. "Where are you going?"

"I was coming to tell you," said Monsal, "that our information was at fault. Blake's room at the Leopold isn't forty-nine, but seventy-three. I've only just discovered this fact, and I was hurrying to tell you when I met you. All you've got to do now is to go to the hotel, ask for the key of seventy-three, and wait there till Lord Glaisdale and I arrive."

Lord Glaisdale! The detective started, but, luckily, his short-sighted companion did not notice the start.

"By Jove!" muttered Sexton Blake to himself. "So that's the little game, is it? And this is the tutor, no doubt! Good! Now I know what to do!"

"Does his lordship suspect anything?' he asked aloud.

"Not a thing!" said Monsal. "Why should he?"

"Why should he, indeed!" said Sexton Blake. "Now I must be off. Go back to the young fool, and you'll find me ready for you when you come to the hotel."

With this, the two men parted, and Sexton Blake, after a visit to the Bureau de Police, returned to the Hotel Leopold.

iii

IT has already been mentioned that Sexton Blake had an appointment at his hotel at seven o'clock that evening with the Earl of Glaisdale. It must now be explained that Lord Glaisdale was a brainless young fool who, on attaining his majority, had succeeded to a noble fortune, with which he had forthwith proceeded to play ducks and drakes. In this task be had been ably assisted by his former tutor— a man named Monsal— who had obtained an influence over the young earl that some people did not hesitate to describe as hypnotic.

Lord Glaisdale's friends had tried by every means in their power to persuade him to shake himself free of Monsal's influence; but the more they said against the man, the more the young earl loaded him with favours. At last, to get rid of the importunities of his friends, he started off on a Continental tour, taking Monsal with him.

In Brussels they made the acquaintance of a man named Warren, who, as afterwards appeared, was a notorious "swell mobsman," and a bosom friend of Monsal's. The three men played cards, and Lord Glaisdale was fleeced of no less a sum than £17,000. This gave the young earl pause, as Shakespeare would say, and, although he never for a moment suspected his trusted tutor of any share in the swindle, he was convinced that Warren was a card-sharper. Knowing that Sexton Blake was in Brussels at the time, the young earl decided to consult him, in the hope that the detective might be able to expose Warren and force him to disgorge his ill-gotten gains. Without telling Monsal of his intention, he telephoned to the Hotel Leopold in the morning, and arranged to call on Sexton Blake at seven that evening. Afterwards he told Monsal of what he had done, with the result that the latter immediately interviewed Warren and rigged up the plot already described— the idea being that Warren should personate Sexton Blake at the interview and should assure Lord Glaisdale that his suspicions were entirely groundless. As Monsal and Lord Glaisdale were leaving Brussels that night, Warren and Monsal concluded that, if they could only tide matters over until midnight, they would have nothing more to fear; for they knew the young earl would implicitly follow any advice which the supposed Sexton Blake gave him.

PUNCTUALLY on the stroke of seven, Lord Glaisdale and Monsal were ushered into Sexton Blake's private sitting-room at the Hotel Leopold. The detective, keeping his face averted as far as possible from Monsal's view, signed to them to be seated. Then he turned to the young earl.

"From what you said over the telephone this morning," he began, "I gather that your Lordship suspects that you were robbed at cards last might. What is the name of the man you suspect?"

"Warren," said Lord Glaisdale. "He was introduced to me by Mr. Monsal; but, of course, I'm not suggesting that Mr. Monsal knew the fellow was a card-sharper."

"Quite so!" said the detective suavely. "Mr. Monsal, of course, wouldn't dream, of introducing you to anybody who—"

He had no time to say more, for at that moment Monsal, who had meanwhile, donned his glasses, rose hurriedly to his feet. He had discovered the fact that the detective was the real Sexton Blake!

"I— I think I'll leave your lordship to discuss this matter alone with Mr. Blake," he stammered.

"Just as you like," said Sexton Blake, as Monsal moved towards the door. "Allow me to open the door for you."

He opened the door, and Monsal found himself confronted by two Belgian gendarmes, who had been mounting guard outside.

"This is the man," said the detective quietly. "Arrest him."

The handcuffs clicked, and Monsal was a prisoner. Lord Glaisdale sprang to his feet, furious with indignation.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" echoed Monsal weakly.

The detective smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm afraid it means that the game is up," he said to Monsal. "It means that Warren is now on custody, and you are going to join him!"

Then he turned to Lord Glaisdale, and briefly told him all that had happened. It was some time before the young earl could believe that his beloved tutor was the scoundrel his actions had proved him to be. After the trial, however, he was not only convinced of the truth, but he profited so well by the lesson that at the present day there is no steadier or more respected member of the British peerage than Lord Glaisdale. The credit for which, as he freely admits, is entirely due to Sexton Blake.

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4: The Voyager

Roy Bridges

Royal Tasman Bridges, 1885-1952

Sydney Mail (NSW), 26 Jan 1921

Roy Bridges was a prolific Australian novelist, mostly of historical novels set in and around Tasmania.

MR. WILLIAM HEDGES, usher at Mr. Ezra Brodie's school for young gentlemen, gathered up the skirts of his coat and fled down the lane. A shower of pebbles followed him; one struck his hat from his head. He did not stay to pick it up, but in abject panic sped on between the hedgerows. The jeers of Mr. Brodie's young gentlemen sounded after him. The young gentlemen, no doubt, would have given chase save for a lively dread of Mr. Brodie's cane, and tardy realisation that, having put the usher to ignominious flight, they had stored up already a sufficient measure of retribution.

Young Mr. Hedges ran on and on. His breath came sobbing; sweat trickled down his nose; his hair blew wildly about his shoulders. Dust in the keen wind flew all about him and powdered his head and dress. He believed that the boys were in hot pursuit and where at his heels. He was spent with exertion new to him; he ran on gasping.

At last, almost tumbling in the dust for weariness, he took a flying leap up the bank and struggled through the hedgerow. Brambles rent his breeches and stockings, thorns tore at the skirts of his coat. In his panic he believed that the young gentlemen had overtaken him, and that they purposed new indignity. Mr. Hedges plunged forward, tripped, and fell; the skirts of his coat were ripped to tatters. Down the bank into the meadow if he rolled, and lay flat on his back staring up at the gold-flecked sky. But for the lowing of cattle down the meadow all was silent about him. He realised that he was safe for the time.

Now, as he surveyed his fortunes, his cheeks burned as much with shame as with the heat of his flight. Mr. Brodie had left the school to his care for the afternoon. Young Mr. Hedges was a scholar, and Mr. Brodie was not, but Mr. Brodie could ply a cane, and Mr. Hedges dared not. So Mr. Hedges, left in sole charge, had failed to. keep order.

His neckcloth was stained with the ink splashed upon him. The young gentlemen had jeered at and defied him. When he had dared appear in the playing-field they had pelted him with mud and pebbles. Mr. Hedges had lost his head, and had fled before them. Now, how could he ever return and face Mr. Brodie? Only that morning the schoolmaster, regarding him through the big horn spectacles, which, lent an owl-like air of wisdom to him, had said that five guineas a year should have engaged him a gentleman as his assistant.

'You are a fortunate young man, Mr. Hedges,' Mr. Brodie had said gloomily, 'a fortunate young man! Five golden guineas, Mr. Hedges!— all for what?'

For what, indeed?

Mr. Hedges stared hopelessly up at the sky. So he remained Bemoaning his misfortunes and his prospects till the sun dipped. Forks of gold light poked through the hedgerow. The cawing of rooks suggested Mr. Brodie's harsh tones. A bull in a distant field bellowed like Mr. Brodie in anger. Mr. Hedges sat up and sought his hat. Not finding it, he rose stiffly and searched for it in the hedgerow. Only a shred of coat-tail was waving dismally from the thorns. The loss added the last jot to the usher's realisation of his disaster. He could not return and face Mr. Brodie!

Desperately he struggled back through the hedgerow into the lane, and stared up towards the school. The clangour of the bell resolved him. He turned his back for ever on Mr. Brodie and his young gentlemen.

AT dusk Mr, Hedges limped up to the front of the Three Lions. The breeze came cold, with the tang of salt in it and the reek of fish. A ship was anchored out in the bay; he caught the golden gleam of its lanterns on the waters. He was tired out and hungry; he had a few pence in his pocket, and he should not be known at the inn. He thought greedily of bread and cheese, and thirstily of ale. The recollection that he was hatless, and that his hair was blowing about his neck, and that his clothes were all in tatters, almost dissuaded him from entering the inn before he took the road to London.

The red gleam of firelight through the windows and the savoury smell of a roast prevailed. He pulled up his coat about his ink-stained neckcloth, and, putting on the boldest face he might, he sneaked into the ordinary of the inn. Mr. Hedges was relieved to find the room clouded with tobacco-smoke. He could make out only dimly the company about the fire. He was conscious of a tall man straddling across the hearth, and of his booming voice.

Mr. Hedges crept modestly to an unoccupied settle with an oaken bench before it. But at that moment the landlord lit the candles from the shelf, advanced to the bench, and set down the brass sticks upon it. Mr. Hedges, ragged, stained, and dishevelled, was revealed to the company, and a loud voice called him by name.

'Mr. Hedges! Why, here, Captain, here's the school master's young man. He can answer you.'

Mr. Hedges knew the fellow for old James Board, farmer and neighbour of Mr. Brodie's. Colouring:, he sat still, and did not answer.

'Mr. Hedges, sir,' cried Board, persistent, 'come up to the fire, do, and taste a sup with us. And hear the' captain of the ship White Swan, as is in the bay, and tell us whether he's not lying.'

'Who's lying?' protested the Captain. 'I tell you I've sailed to the Great South Land— I tell you I've sailed! But come up here, young man.'

Mr. Hedges regarded the Captain, and obeyed. For the voyager was huge of body and thick of neck; his; look was masterful. He wore a great black hat; the gold rings in his ears gleamed from a tangle of coal-black hair. He had on a fine sea-green coat silver-buttoned and silver slashed; his breeches were blue, and his waistcoat buff. Torn lace, slipped aside from a jewelled brooch, showed his breast, muscular and hairy. His shoe-buckles were of red copper; he had gold rings with green gems on his fingers.

He beckoned to the schoolmaster with the stem of his pipe, and Mr. Hedges, stumbling up from the settle, approached the fire. Mr. Board made room for him; Mr Hedges became one of the voyager's audience of a half-dozen.

'What's the question, gentlemen?' Mr. Hedges stammered.

'The question is whether there's a great land south of the Indies,' Board began. 'And I say there's no such land. I've never heard tell of it till the Captain spun his tale.'

'Nay, the question,' cried the Captain, 'is, first, what will the gentleman taste?'

'Thank you — a mug of ale.'

'Ale's for babes. Why not a dram of Jamaica? Wine, if you will?'

'Wine, then,' Mr. Hedges faltered.

'Wine for the schoolmaster. Jamaica for all else,' the Captain ordered. 'Whatever you say, or whatever you think, gentlemen, I have sailed to the Great South Land, and I have tarried there for careening. I tell you it is a land red with gold, and full of precious stones. And the folk of the land are white-skinned as me— nay, I'm blacker, being full-blooded and burned with the sun— white as the schoolmaster there. White— and rich, as none of you gentlemen. D'ye see these rings— gold rings— and the emeralds in them like bits of the sea? Mark the lire of them! These rings were a gift to me from the Sultan of this south land,' slipping the rings from his fingers and holding them in his palm. 'This ruby on my chest red as a man's blood— is a gift also. Would you have other proofs? Ah, your rum, gentlemen, and your wine schoolmaster.'

'Let us hear the schoolmaster,' Board struck in; but Mr. Hedges, stretching out his hand for his glass, shook his head. The voyager, swallowing down his drink, fell again to his tale of the wondrous folk and the treasure of the Great South Land; he filled Mr, Hedges' mind with fancies; he filled and refilled his glass. If ever the voyager paused for breath, Board clamoured, 'What's school-master to say to all this? Let's hear schoolmaster!'

Mr. Hedges shook his head feebly and more feebly. Once he stammered, 'It is written by the learned Manilius,' and broke off. And 'The Lytil Java and again Java la Grande,' he began, and once more was silent.

The voyager wove still the glittering fabric of his fancy.

'The treasures of the Americas and of the Indies are all as nothing to the treasures of this South Land. Would ye be rich, schoolmaster? Would ye have diamonds big as pigeon's eggs burnin' in your pockets? Would ye have pearls like hazel-nuts for size, and like moons for shining? More gold than a man could spend? Sail with me, schoolmaster! You're a brave fellow— I see it by your eye. Sail with the White Swan at dawn! More rum, land lord! Brandy for the schoolmaster! Nay, my lad, be a schoolmaster no more: it's no task for brave fellows— the likes of you. Sail with me! Ye've heard of me, surely ye've heard tell of me— John Winch, of the White Swan, at your service.' And, bowing, he nigh lurched backwards into the fire.

MR. HEDGES was growing drunk. Eyes glowing and cheeks flushed, he gazed at the voyager. He saw him through a golden haze of tobacco smoke, flame from the hearth, and pale light of the tallow candles. He saw the flash of his eyes like gems in his copper-red face; he saw the emeralds on his fingers as he lifted pipe and glass. Mr. Hedges' spirit soared as wine and brandy fumes mounted to his head. He sailed as adventurer with the Captain. He saw himself tricked out with silver lace and gold rings. He grew bold, he grew insolent; resentment flamed up against Brodie, the boys— against anyone.

'Now let's hear schoolmaster,' Board persisted.

'And in the Great South Land,' cried the Captain, 'the very trees are not as the trees in England. In winter they shed no leaves; their bark they shed—'

'Schoolmaster!' urged Board.

Mr. Hedges was on his feet. Mr. Hedges dropped his glass on the floor. 'Gentlm'n,' said the schoolmaster thickly, 'thish is a lie! There's no such tree. Neither is there Terra Australis— a Great South Land.'

WAKING in darkness, Mr. Hedges lay striving to realise what had happened to him. From the hardness of his bed he believed himself to be lying at Mr. Brodie's school. He wondered that no glimmer of light showed through uncurtained panes, and that no sound of breathing from the young gentlemen about him reached his ears. He wondered next to find himself pitching to and fro, and then at dull sounds above him— creaking and groaning, as of straining timbers, tumbling and wash of waters. He thought himself then in a dream, from which presently he would awaken. But suddenly a fearful apprehension seized him lest this should be no dream, but lest in truth and in fact he should have been pressed upon a ship of his Majesty King William.

He raised his hand to his aching head, and found his hair plastered as with congealed blood. His head was broken, and throbbed to every roll; he felt deathly sick as he pitched to and fro.

He was aboard a ship! Surely Winch's ship, White Swan! Mr. Hedges recalled with terror the buccaneer's rage when he gave him the lie. Winch had rushed at him; Board and the land lord had flung themselves on the voyager. Mr. Hedges had run to the door; he remembered the ill-looking fellows in seamen's rig— the glow of light from the house had shown them to him plainly. He had fled down the road. Winch had roared from the inn.

'After him! Take the hound!'

Mr. Hedges could recall nothing else; he had fallen surely, or they had struck him down. He lay in a sweat of terror and sea-sickness. He attempted to rise and grope about him, but he found that his legs were chained. He was convinced from the turmoil of waters and the groaning of timbers that, he was aboard the White Swan. He remained cowering in darkness, misery, and terror; he could not sleep.

He heard at last someone descending through the dark; the flash of a lantern dazzled him. He held his hands to his eyes and muttered feebly,

'Where am I? Why am I in irons?'

He heard Winch's bellowing laughter and shuddered.

'Where else, schoolmaster, than aboard my ship? Bound on a new course, now that the Americas be none too profitable for gentlemen of fortune. Nay, no new course for me, for we sail to the Great South Land. What d'ye say now. schoolmaster? Is there not such a land? Is there not?'

'Why am I held aboard?' Hedges demanded desperately. 'By what right?'

'Right! You're a lucky dog, schoolmaster, to be alive and aboard. Having given me the lie! I'm in need of hands, or I'd not have burdened my ship with you.'

'What would do you with me?' wailed Mr. Hedges.

'Make a man of you, if you've the heart for it. Put Spanish gold into your pockets, if ever I set you ashore in England. Mayhap, maroon you in the Great South Land. Pah! The life of a schoolmaster is the life of a dog, and to be a gentleman of fortune is to live.'

Mr. Hedges, miserably sick, longed for death.

So Mr. Hedges came abroad the ship White Swan, manned by a company of rogues— old hands from the crews of Davis, Swan, and Townley, buccaneers: logwood cutters, a few men pressed aboard, as Mr. Hedges him self. Mr. Hedges, thrust violently among, them, suffered no worse from them than at the hands of Mr. Brodie's young gentlemen. So overseas Mr. Hedges sailed with the White Swan, as Dampier sailed with the Cygnet. And Mr. Hedges learned that there are more wonders in the world than ever are written in books. And Mr. Hedges, adventurer, liked his lot no worse with Winch than as schoolmaster with Brodie.

MR. HEDGES, sitting up at the wash of waters about his bare feet, understood that he was alive, and wondered rather than rejoiced. The gale in which the White Swan had come to her end had blown itself out in the night. Mr. Hedges, castaway, rubbing his eyes clear of salt, stared about him. He lay high upon a drying beach of silver sand, littered with wreckage, and gold-coloured and green and scarlet weeds, with shapes that had not come ashore alive as he. The wind had passed, the seas were going down; over the reefs where the White Swan had died roller tumbling upon roller broke in foam, yet moving sluggishly, as gorged with feeding. Gold sun in sapphire sky, dazzling white sands extending mile beyond mile to dark cliffs topped with dull green1 timber.

Rising, miserable and bruised, Mr. Hedges stared out to the skeleton of the White Swan, black ribbed through foam. None could be stirring aboard the wreck; he could see no one stirring all along the beach, or any sign of living thing save the seafowl— only the shapes in the torn weed from the sea and the litter from the wreck.

He became conscious of intense thirst, as of infinite loneliness and utter disaster. Above him the beach rolled up into sand dunes— silver sands topped with pale green rushes. He limped wearily up over the hot sands to look inland. Mr. Hedges, coming out on a bank of sand; saw that the dunes were backed by marshes clamorous with birds. He could make out dark forests beyond the marshes, and wooded hills rolling up; beyond the hills he believed he could see a blue line of mountains. He had been cast up in a great land— in the south.

The thought came bitterly to him that for his pedantry and his assurance that what he had not seen or read in books could not be, he was in this plight— a shipwrecked sailor on an unknown shore, alone, his shipmates lying in the depths or cast up in the weeds. His thirst consumed him.

He limped along the dunes, purposing to reach the marshes, but was deterred by the heat of the sands and his dread of savages. The dead shell glistening white on the sands cut his bare feet. He went down to the beach and walked on among weed and wreckage. He avoided the shapes; he walked among chaos of weed, wreckage, death, spars and ropes, broken barrels. And a little beaker. He dropped down beside it and smashed in the head with a stone. He rejoiced to find that it was half-filled with water still sweet; he cupped it in a shell and drank and drank. Life flowed back with the draughts of sweet water, hope.

He found brine-soaked fragments of bread cast up in the weed and scum; he swallowed this down, and again drank. But suddenly, crying out, he started to his feet as a shadow fell upon him, to realise that he was staring into the copper-red face of Winch, whose ship was piled up on the reef. Winch, stripped to his shirt and breeches, his hair stiff from salt, a red-stained clout about his head; but Winch still, masterful, bold, laughing.

'Why, it's the schoolmaster,' croaked Winch, 'alive and gay— that's brave! Have ye water there?' leaning down and swinging the beaker up in his huge hands, and drinking great gulps ere he set it down.

Mr. Hedges stared at him in silence.

'To think of it!' cried Winch, laughing still. 'The schoolmaster ashore and alive, when so many good men are drowned! Schoolmaster, for you and me there's the merest shell of a boat wherein to strike north for the track of Dutch ships. Along the beach, sound and seaworthy. We may yet live and go sailing home, if I've made a seaman of you. Schoolmaster, d'ye call to mind a night at the tavern, when I told of the Great South Land and spun a yarn of gems— green gems I'd pulled from Spanish fingers— gems and gold?'

Mr. Hedges nodded. 'But you lied,' he said.

'Ay, of the folk and the gold and the gems, and maybe the fellow Dampier who sailed hither these years since lied to me of trees that shed their bark. But not of the Great South Land, schoolmaster. You've come ashore in it, surely; you've come ashore!'

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5: The Oak

Roy Bridges

Australasian (Melbourne) 2 Aug 1930

THE sheoak stands lonely beside the sliprails of the top paddock. The sheoaks of the slope are beyond the southern boundary of the farm. The sheoaks of the hollow encircle the deserted garden and the ruins of the cottage— the lime-splashed, crumbling bricks of the last chimney, and the roof and the walls which would have fallen long ago but for the interlacing rose.

They say that the lovers met under this very tree over a century back-this was the trysting-place of Ensign Lade and Emily Theyme.

A grey log offers a seat in sunlight, or in shadow from the deep blue-green and bronze-smeared sheoak. The sheoak whispers in the lightest stir of air, and in the breeze it mourns despite the joyous blue of sky and drifting play of clouds-despite the sunshine pale or splendid; in a high wind its threnody sounds through the lament of branches of white box and wattle down the briar-grown fence; it seems a solitary mourner in the glad mornings of the Tasmanian spring, the garish days of summer, and the gilded days of autumn. To the mind the natural is affected by the supernatural-the present by the past, and the reality of the moment by this tale of lovers long ago.

Perhaps the oak of their day has died, and this tree is only its successor; yet, if Ensign Lade rode from the little military post, he would pass by this road— if the lovers thought to meet out of view of the farmhouse, they would meet here— as the tale tells. Listen only to the whispering of the sheoak, the murmuring of the sheoak, and its sad sweetness under gaiety of sunlight. Or in the scented summer dusk heed the tones that are no part of the response of trees to the breeze from the sea. Or on the March eve, fateful to Ensign Lade and Emily Theyme, explain that cry— sense of a piteous and long-drawn cry, and then the sobbing. Sobbing, faint yet definite, through the whimpering of the leaves.

They met here, then. Lade was quartered at the military positive miles away. Robert Theyme farmed this land: the ruin among the sheoaks to-day was his cottage, and the girl kept house for him. Her mother had died soon after the arrival of the family in Van Diemen's Land. The lovers met first at the cottage. Young Lade was riding from farm to farm, seeking the active co-operation of the settlers with the Lieutenant-Governor and the Military Establishment against the gangs of outlaws led by Brady, McCabe, Jeffries, and Dunne.

The handsome lad had as direct appeal to the eyes of any lass as the girl, with her charm, and her grace, and her colour— mayhap as these very roses all about the cottage— to the eyes of lad. Grim Robert Theyme received the Lieutenant-Governor's message sourly; he made no promise to an appeal which was a command. He muttered that he had no grudge against the poor devils from Macquarie Harbour— what hurt had Brady and his men done to him or to any other poor man among the colonists? He would do his duty and no more; his first duty was to farm his land; he wanted no trouble with Brady.

The girl's shy courtesy to the young soldier, as to any visitor to the farm, in creased the lad's admiration for her. The colonist's storm of rage burst on Lade's departure; his orders that she have nothing to say to any "redcoat," his threats against her if she did not obey him, and his fierce and instant hate of young Lade, did not prevent the two from meeting.

They met often through the following months. Lade thought to marry her— in England, this young man of good family, of high prospects, could not have thought to marry a farmer's daughter, as now he planned, being so far removed from paternal influence, and so lonely in Van Diemen's Land. The girl had inherited beauty and refinement from her mother. So, doubtless, here beneath the sheoak he told his love boyishly and gallantly; doubtless, the melancholy— sighing or the shadow— if lowering shadow then were associated with this scene— was all unheeded by them. This murmur as of voices through the dusk takes its sadness and its terror only from the influence of knowledge— of grim and tragical event, on the evening of 13th March.

Brady and his men were credited with the death of Ensign Lade at this point of the road. The lad, awaiting his sweetheart at the trysting-place, was taken alone and unaware; he was left with a bullet through his heart. The gang had raided a colonist's house in the neighbourhood that day, and was escaping to the ranges by one of those wild rides which so long defeated the efforts of the military for their capture. Lade, then, was lying dead beneath the oak, they say, when his sweetheart, having evaded Theyme, at last kept tryst.

It was Brady's crime, surely not Theyme's, though the farmer was examined closely and suspiciously by the police magistrate and the chief constable of the district. His assertion that he had not left the cottage that evening was supported by his daughter— the wan wraith of the fair girl whom Lade had loved.

They said in the district, after Theyme was dead, and his daughter was married to a young colonist, that Theyme had induced her perjury through his insistence on his innocence equally with the justice of his hate of Lade. Lade was the only son and heir of the Kentish squire on whose land, while Emily was a child, her brother had been taken as a poacher. The squire's malignant influence had pressed the prosecution, which had meant transportation. Young Theyme had died before his parents, following him into exile, reached the island as free settlers. Always Theyme persisted that he had not killed Lade.

Yet the decaying butt of the pistol found, in the eighteen-fifties, thrust deeply into the hollow of a blue-gum log near the sheoak, bore Theyme's initial letters on its little inset plate of brass. And at this March sunset the sheoak whispers furtively; a grey shadow seems to crawl along the fence toward the shadow beneath the tree. The last red sun ray is like a flash of flame.

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6: The Desk

Roy Bridges

Sydney Mail (NSW) 26 Sep 1928

SOPHIA had hated and avoided the room since the night of her parting with Boyd. Now, drawing aside the curtain, she had a vivid memory of coming thus silently, of the pale light of candles and the low burning of coals on the hearth that night, and of the shadowy figures of her sister Helen and Laurence Boyd, his arms about Helen and his lips upon her lips.

She remembered the reflection in the mirror of her own pale face, red coral drops at her ears, Indian red knot of ribbon above ivory whiteness of shoulder, silver whiteness of gown. The oblong mirror hung low still against the wall, dully reflecting her as she stood in the doorway, hair streaked with grey, pallor of face, dark burning of eyes. She had been moved by impulse to dress with sombre richness of black silk, and to wear jewels. She had not worn mourning; she had made no display of grief before Hobarton since the coming of the letter from Lieutenant Varney telling of Helen's death at Cawnpore, and of Major Boyd's death in Havelock's vengeful march against Nana Sahib and his mutineers. With it the shred of a letter from Helen....

She had found need in no way to amend her mode of life to conform with the conventions of mourning. She had not moved in society since Boyd's marriage with Helen and the departure for England of sister and lover who had destroyed her happiness and inflicted cruel humiliation on her. She had driven out daily in her closed carriage, heavily veiled, as was her custom. She had made formal responses to messages of sympathy from girlhood friends of Helen and herself; masking to her servants her grief, her terror, her resentment of a destiny that had robbed her even of the solace of her hatred for Boyd and Helen— cold hatred, ruthless, become the obsession of mind, and associated with, rather than dominated by or dominant over, will, and strengthening her to live— in loveless, joyless house.

The colour and the laughter and the delight of the house through the brief happiness of her rule of it had passed with Boyd and Helen; the windows were shuttered, or darkened by heavy curtains, against prying eyes through rusting iron gates. She had lived all the years without companionship, and without other consolation than her hate, or diversion of her mind other than her books; receiving at the house only her lawyers and trustees, and heedless of charitable appeals. Hate— she had told herself that her hate endured beyond the death-tragedy of Cawnpore, that, through no weakening, no stirring of natural affection, and no remorse, she had instructed her lawyers to respond to the appeal of Varney for the boy and the girl in England; that she should concern herself with their future, upbringing, education; the children were left destitute.

She had undertaken to adopt the children, sent from India to England immediately before the outbreak. She had directed payment for the voyage to the colony. She had the thought, from her obsession— even now, she told herself— to rear the children rigorously, harshly, and without love; from the children of her dead enemies to exact her toll.

She moved forward now to the hearth. She took a candlestick from the chimney shelf and stood before the mirror to observe herself and her expression. She formed contemptuous estimate of the change in her through these twelve years— the dead, colourless skin; the hard, bloodless lips lined cruelly about; the sombre eyes; the hair once raven black now streaked with grey; the dignity of figure, slimness of waist preserved still, and emphasised by the richness of her gown, contrast of crinoline; the beauty of jewelled hands.

Jewels! She realised vulgarity in herself so to display jewels— the blue of sapphires and the light of diamonds on her hands and at her ears, the heavy bracelets of gold. She had aimed, though without direct thought, to impress  by display of richness, elegance, colour, even on the children her lack of concern, feeling, for the deaths of their parents. She should have dressed Simply and in heavy black, and have made no display in dress— as in bearing, expression— of hate or love, effects of tragedy upon her.

She returned to the hearth and sat down, facing the mirror. She stirred the fire, feeling the chill of the breeze, arisen at sunset. The breeze, after this day of baffling calm, should bring the ship into port. She had directed her housekeeper to go aboard and conduct the children to the house. She had wondered at, and had defeated, the impulse herself to go down to the ship and welcome them, and had repeated to herself, forced cruelly before her mind, the wrong to her, the baseness which had tricked her on the eve of her wedding of promised happiness with Boyd. And she had compelled memory to restrain stirring of heart, sentiment, prompting of natural interest in and excitement at the arrival at her house of the young children of man and woman who had been very dear to her, though who by their betrayal of her love and trust had brought the structure of her life to ruin.

SO to the memories of Helen and Laurence, images of them recurrent to her mind in all the splendour of their youth and looks, and to the sadness of them, the appeal, she opposed the obsession of her hate. She sought to sear, torment them, brand them with her words of long ago:

'I have loved you both, and you have lied to me. I shall hate you so long as I live. I pray that my hate may be your curse after I am dead: You thought to have my money and her kisses, Boyd, lying to me, making a fool and mock of me. You have lived in my house, Helen, taken of my charity, and stolen from me. You might have had anything of mine save this— only this— a love I thought more precious than all else in life to me. Only this— worthless, worthless— yet seeming to me real, and very dear to me.

She stood shuddering by the desk, her eyes blind with her tears.'

'This fellow's love! My roof shall shelter you no more— from now. This night! Go with your lover— now! My hate will follow you through life. I pray I may live longer than the two of you, so that I may rejoice hearing that you are dead. No, I'll not listen. I have seen. I'll hear no lies from you. After to-night I shall not look upon your face or his. I'd spit upon your graves, hating you both. Liar! Thief!'

The memories of them— fair girl, white as death, blue eyes wet with tears; Boyd dark with passion— faded, passed from, her mind, as she had watched them pass together from the room, hand-in-hand from the room. She had seen from the mirror Helen look back and stretch out her hand in appeal. She had heard Helen whisper: 'Sister! Sister!'

Sophia had sat in flexible as marble in this very chair; Helen had gone sobbing from the room. Boyd had returned, and had sought to insist that Sophia should listen to his version of the affair. She had defeated him by ringing for her servant to show him to the door. Helen had left her home that night without word to Sophia, and had found refuge at a friend's house. She had written thence to Sophia; Boyd had written. Sophia had returned the letters unopened, and had ordered that neither should be admitted to the house, and that their names should not be mentioned to her. She had lived secluded in the darkened, guarded house through the weeks of gossip and scandal about the broken match, the abandoned preparations, the invitations cancelled, and the cause; estimated the injury to Boyd with the Governor and Commandant and brother-officers, the cruel hurt to Helen.

They had married a month thence; they had spent a few weeks together in Hobarton, under the cloud of official displeasure and scandal; they had set sail for India without word of farewell or forgiveness from Sophia— though she had weakened; though on the eve of their sailing she had barely refrained from going to them; though, had they  come to her, she might have....

She told herself, resolutely still, that she would not have weakened— would not have received them; that they had passed wholly from her life, as she from theirs. All the years to the Mutiny she had received no letter from them. But that torn shred of letter, pencilled and unfinished— Helen's words pencilled in the prison of Cawnpore— the House of Blood— sent on by Varney, Boyd's friend and Helen's, knowing the story, the relationship— that pitiful sheet, torn from the Bible, or prayer-book, and not complete; the message interrupted... by the coming of the murderers from Nana Sahib?

Despite herself, the horror of the thought was insistent. Shapes dreadful and unavoidable as phantoms of a dream floated before her— indefinite whirl of figures, panic of figures, of women and children before dark figures, malignant, figures, with only Helen clear. Sophia had the thought of her— the slim body of her— interposed between the assassins and the children in the House of Blood; arms out stretched against the dark, a white cross against the dark.... Sophia strove desperately with all her force of will to exclude the thought, the vision, and the horror. She sat shuddering, murmuring to herself:

'I will not see. I must not— must not, or I'll go mad! I will not!' and by her will even now regained balance, control of reason that trembled on the verge of the abyss of madness; and even now repelled surging remorse; and even now conjured up the memories of her devotion to Boyd, passion for Boyd, love  of Helen, and their betrayal of her; and the first agony of loss, and the tormented years, loneliness, ruin of her life.

And so sat marble-white, inexorable, by the hearth, conscious of ill material form and of sound about her— the mirror and the writing-desk, the wan light of the candles, and the low moaning, sighing of the wind about the house.

THE letter from Cawnpore— the shred of paper:

Sophia, sister, dear sister— I think— I know— we shall not see another day. For our men are all near, and we have heard the guns and prayed to Heaven we may be spared; yet know, by whisperings that have come to us, and threatening of our guards, we shall not live to see. Sister, in the hope that this may reach you, write on the threshold of eternity that

No other word on the red-spotted sheet. No suggestion of assurance which in that, hour must have been truth, or of mere appeal for forgiveness— appeal not offered through the years of life with Boyd, ere the tragedy of mutiny and Cawnpore! Sophia measured still against the horror the years of Helen's happiness with Boyd, her own dark years, alone, eccentric, withering in the gloom of the house; her wealth nothing to her; the wrong, yet the cruel endurance of her love for Boyd; the wasting of youth, good looks, power and will for richness of life, devotion, charity. And ever, as new torment, since the receipt of this sheet of pencilled writing, the doubt— the doubt!

She had not doubted all the years the treachery of Boyd and Helen, the righteousness of her rejection of them, the ruin of her life through falseness to her, and by no folly of her own. The moaning of the wind; the sighing; the fluttering from thin draughts leaking into the room; the waving of the candle flame; the pallid phantoms of their light about the room! Rustling, as of a gown; stirring, as of paper at the desk. Sophia sat motionless, staring at the desk, convinced of the rustling of paper on the desk and the creaking of the chair before it. The waving candle-flame played white upon chair and desk, suggesting....

Or was her mind playing false— from memories of Helen many a time writing at the desk, gay little letters on scented sheets, invitations to friends for tea-drinking, card party, dinner, dance, acceptances! She remembered Helen clearly on a far eve, the light of the fluttering candles playing faintly upon her auburn hair, lilac ribbon in hair, lilac ribbons and little festoons of lilac on white muslin dress. She could conjure her image so, if she would— if she dared— even as she could conjure, yet dared not, her image in the writing of that last letter, pencilled, incomplete.... Sophia stared still at the desk, daring to conjure up the form of Helen, once beloved, and for years detested, and, even with the knowledge of the tragedy of Cawnpore, hatred...

Hatred? No! She was unable to endure longer the thought of hate, the sin of hate, as to bear the tragic irony of the thought: this letter, which should have told the truth, unfinished. Never to know! She whispered to herself: 'Had I but known! Could I but know! The children...'

And, staring still, she conjured, or saw, the figure at the desk, the gracious head bent, the white neck, the glint of little jewels in the ears, the paleness of gown; and heard the rustling of paper and the scratching of a pen. Rigid, mute she sat, her senses— spirit— attuned, thinking to read the very thought of the writer, the words of the unfinished letter—

We had no thought, Laurence and I, to be disloyal to you. Indeed, indeed, we loved; and love seemed stronger than ourselves, yet never was stronger than our sense of duty to you or our love for you. We had vowed that night, though loving— loving despite ourselves— never to wrong you in thought or action, but honourably to fulfil our obligations to you. You would never have known. He would have made you happy, and in time have loved you more than ever he loved me. It must have been...

Sophia, as waking from a dream, uttered a harsh, gasping cry, started to her feet, and with arms outstretched stumbled toward the desk... No one at the desk! No sheet of paper on the desk! Only a grey quill pen, dry inkpots, a shrivelled rose, a faded ribbon of long ago among the dust of the desk.

She stood shuddering by the desk, her eyes blind with her tears. She heard the sounds of carriage-wheels, the opening of the iron gates, the voices of children. She had the thought to dry her tears, to conceal signs of emotion. She must not frighten them, repel them, coming so into her house, her life. She took the jewels from her fingers and her ears.

________________

7: Once An Outlaw—

Edwin Truett Long

1904-1945

This story was published in two different magazines under two different pseudonyms. Romantic Western, Jan 1938, as by Charles Daw; and Spicy Adventure Stories, July 1940, as by Jose Vaca.

THE FAT and resplendent policia del trafico who directed traffic every day at the corners of Avenida Cinco de Mayo and Paseo del Simon Bolivar, as a usual thing had an easy job of it. True, the town of Ciudad Morales could boast of several hundred cars, but as these two resplendently named streets were little wider— and almost as dirty— as metropolitan alleys, his work consisted mainly of diverting wood laden burros and produce laden carretas at what he deemed the proper intervals. A block away, due south was the Plaza del Mercado, where the produce growers brought their fruits and vegetable, their eggs, their hand woven sombreros, and huaraches made from discarded automobile tires.

Once, this district had been the show part of Ciudad Morales. Then the plaza had been named after a saint, as was only fitting, and each evening at six was filled with promenading girls, who walked arm in arm, coyly observing similarly promenading males, who walked always in the opposite direction. But that was long ago, before the big brewery and the distillery had brought added population to the town, and it had turned up its nose and moved away from the more squalid section that once had been its glory.

All that remained of the plaza’s past glory was that part that was indestructible. True, the fountain still squirted a turgid stream of water in the center, where polados and burros alike quenched their thirst. And the Church of Guadalupe raised its greyness on the east side, and the Banco Nacional del Morales, secure behind its ramparts of gold, was still to be found on the west edge. It was out of the way, now that the town had grown away, but why should it move? Customers came to the bank, the bank hardly needed to go after customers!

On this morning, shortly after ten o’clock, the traffic policeman a block from the plaza, literally pricked up his hairy ears. For sounds were floating to him, sounds were emerging from the squalidness of the Paseo del Simon Bolivar. Music? At this hour of the morning? Guitars, and a violin, and a harsh voice singing Pancho Villa’s old and famous marching song, La Cucaracha! Now the procession turned into his street, from a block down, and he could see them plainly. His eyes bulged! Unbelievable! Three guitarists, a violinist and a player of the harp! And behind them, a man on a black horse, clad as a caballero should be clad, with a silver decorated sombrero, velvet charro jacket, tightly fitting britches ornamented with a wide silver stripe and flaring correctly at the ankle.

The director of traffic could see these things, because as the procession came to his corner, he blew his whistle and held up his hand, although at the time there was absolutely no traffic coming from the other direction! Thus he was also able to see that the rider lolled in a richly carved saddle resplendent with silver conchos, with carved tapaderos to match. And when he pushed back the sombrero the policeman gasped, certain then that it was an illusion. For the smiling lips were jovial beneath a waxed mustache, the nose above the mustache was aquiline, like the bill of a hawk, and the eyes that danced so merrily on either side of that thin bridged nose were jet black, like basalt!

QUICKLY the traffic policeman crossed himself. Perspiration stood out on his forehead. He wanted most of all to run, to run anywhere at all, only away from here! For already his horrified eyes had caught sight of the gold mounted revolver hanging in its holster on the rider’s right hip! With terror he noted that the gloved hand rested also on the rider’s right hip, so very near the revolver butt! And so easily he observed that the smile of amusement was fading from the rider’s face as the music came to a close.

A musician, evidently the leader, turned to the rider, said, “Otro, señor?”

The rider, never taking his black eyes from the trembling policeman, answered, “Por supuesto! La misma! Certainly, the same!” And to the quailing policeman, “Pues, que paso, gordo?”

Gordo! This one had called him Fatty! But at that the policeman deemed himself lucky. For the life of him all he could think to do was to blow his whistle vigorously and turn his fleshy body, gesturing for the procession to come on. The musicians lifted up their voices, and sang of snatching the whiskers of Carranza to make a hatband for Pancho Villa. The broad velvet back of the rider presented a tempting target, but the policeman only groaned. There, he told himself, rides one hundred thousand pesos and I am afraid to collect!

He hurried a half block down the Paseo del Simon Bolivar into a botica and rang his superior on the phone. “With Jesus as my witness, on the head and beard of my father, I swear it, mi capitan! With these eyes I saw him, Jose Maria Gardinia Guedea, the Sabinas Kid!” He listened for a moment, growing a pale yellow color. Twice he protested. At last, with the look of a doomed man, he said, “Si, mi capitan, even if I go to my death! I will watch the front of the banco until he emerges! But help you will rush to me at once, much help?”

He went out into the sunshine. Walking slowly down the street, he felt like a man ascending the steps to the gallows. From the far side of the plaza he could see the black horse the Sabinas Kid had ridden, standing at ease before the bank itself! That one! To ride into Ciudad Morales in broad daylight, to go into the bank! Doubtlessly he was in there even now, cutting the ears from the cashiers, and the book keepers, dropping gold and paper pesos into his great morrals! That, decided the policeman, called for a drink. Anyway he could go into the nearby cantina and reinforce his courage with a copita or two of tequila! Perhaps he might even be able to keep watch from the cantina! After all, he was a family man, and he valued his ears greatly.

THE Banco Nacional, in spite of its out of the way location was modern, from its great time-locked vaults to the president’s secretary. She was as pert, as rouged, and as shapely as any president’s secretary to be found north of the Rio Bravo! Except, perhaps, that she was old fashioned and romantic enough, as Mexicano señoritas sometimes are, to thrill at mention of the name tossed at her by the caballero who strode so magnificently into her severe anteroom. She returned from her employer’s office with flashing eyes and provocative lips. She touched her shiny black hair with her polished nails, knowing the upward movement of her arm threw her peaked and pointed breasts into silhouette. She even sighed a bit deeply as she said to the Sabinas Kid, who sat nonchalantly on the edge of her desk, that Senor Valdez awaited him.

“Señorita,” said the Kid gallantly, “I can see a banker any time. You— you are rare! Like a gem. Your name I do not know, for me, Jose Maria Gardinia Guedea, the Sabinas Kid,— I shall always call you Diamantita, a little diamond!”

It was more than the girl could stand, more than she had hoped for. The most sung about man since the great Pancho complimenting her thus! She swayed toward him— and evidently he was expecting it. His hands swept her closer to him, flattened her body so tightly against his that she could scarcely breathe. Before closing her own eyes she saw the white gleam of his teeth, the flash of his black eyes. Then there was only the aching pain of his lips on hers, the sweet pressure of his mighty arms and the hot surge of blood in her veins....

SEÑOR VALDEZ was a banker who believed in promptness. The Sabinas Kid had been expected promptly at ten. He was fifteen minutes late. He had been announcd, had been told that Valdez and Coronel Roque Reyno, of the government, awaited him. And still he did not enter the office. Famous man or not, who was this outlaw, this bandido, to keep honest men of business and government officials waiting? Senor Valdez bustled to the door and opened it.

The Sabinas Kid was doing a very thorough job of kissing the Valdez secretary. Somehow, in the struggle, the secretary’s blouse had slipped from a shapely shoulder, the upper slope of one satin skinned breast was partly exposed! The short skirt had crept stealthily upward until a halo of similar satin shone resplendently above the silk of her stocking. Señor Valdez, being a Latin, had often imagined himself doing this same thing, but with the shoe on the other foot, cold anger flooded his fat being.

At his oath of surprise, little Diamantita, startled, managed to pull away. Valdez glared at her, he glared at the Kid. He said, "Señor Gardinia, we await, and we are busy.”

The Sabinas Kid laughed. He said, “I too am busy, little man of the tremendous paunch! Vamos, pronto! I come when my business is ended!” And before Valdez’ horrified eyes he drew Diamantita back into his arms and proceeded with the pleasant business of kissing her thoroughly and well!

TWENTY minutes later, in the private office, observed by two pair of inquiring eyes, the Sabinas Kid finished reading the letter. The letter was signed by a great man of Mexico, and it bore not only an official signature but an official seal. He said, "Let me see if I have this straight. For the past three months a gang of counterfeiters have been gypping the Loteria Nacional, the national lottery. I do not understand how this could be done.”

The slim man with the cadaverous features, who had been introduced to him as Coronel Roque Reyno, gestured impatiently. ‘‘Through the use of clever plates, hombre, and clever timing, and clever distribution! A man of infinite talent has made the plates, has collected similar papers and inks as those used by the government. Suppose, let us say, these tickets are run off, leaving the number itself blank. Suppose— and this is the only way we can figure it— that through the use of radio, perhaps one of what the gringoes call 'ham operators' that winning numbers are flashed on the air as soon as they are drawn.”

The Sabinas Kid nodded, his eyes shining.

“Already,” went on Roque Reyno, “these blank tickets have been distributed to many parts of Mexico. Evidently the holders, those in this so terrible band of thieves, have been provided with numbering machines which print a similar number, that is a similar type and size, used by the government. The number is inserted quickly! When the winning numbers are officially announced, the member of the counterfeiting gang goes to the bank and collects!”

The Sabinas Kid nodded. “And there are a hundred ways he could find if that number had been paid at the particular bank where he called! Why, if the plates and printing and numbering were good, the scheme is wonderful— providing of course they were content with the smaller prizes!”

“And that,” put in Señor Vadez, "is what they have been doing. Smaller, yes, some ten thousand pesos being the largest counterfeit ticket as yet turned in. But, my friend, when you consider how many banks in the Republic of Mexico pay off on lottery tickets!” He made a gesture with his fat hands, made a resounding poof with his fat lips.

The Kid took the letter in his hands again. He read aloud. “—and because we know your knowledge of the Mexicano underworld cannot be rivaled, we are willing to grant you complete amnesty for your past misdeeds if you will help us bring these miscreants to justice. On the day that you give our representative, Coronel Roque Reyno the plates themselves— as well as some proof that this gang is broken up— we are prepared to hand to you, your full and complete pardon for all crimes against the government. During the interim, you are not to be bothered by police or Federates. Coronel Reyno has your permit to come and to go as you please. He also has your pardon—to be handed to you when the thing is broken.”

He folded the letter and laid it carefully on the desk. He leaned back and closed his eyes, murmured, “To be unhunted! To enter a city as I please, to stay as long as I please, drink where I would, sing where I please— and as many señoritas as I please!”

Valdez curled his lip. “You agree, then, Señor Gardinia?”

The eyes snapped open. “Of a certainty, no! Why should I? I do those thing now! Go and come when I please! Do as I please! Who touches me?” He glared at the coronel, as if challenging him, his gloves now in his left hand, his right hand close to the butt of his gold mounted gun.

ROQUE REYNO smiled. It was like the grin of a death’s head. He said softly, “Señor Kid, I think I understand. You are a lone wolf, you have no more use for criminals than I have. But,” the thin shoulders shrugged, “Official freedom means nothing to the wolf who evades traps derisively.” The Kid grinned. Like a wolf. “So, knowing that, unofficially, I am prepared to do this.” He extracted an immense wallet. “Here,” he said, laying a folded paper on the desk, “is the pardon you disdain. Here is something you may better understand.” Slowly, one at a time, he laid a pile of bills atop the pardon. “Fifty thousand pesos, senor. Suppose we leave these with Señor Valdez, to be turned over to you when you give satisfactory proof that your job is finished.”

The Kid leaned across the desk and extracted a cigarette from the banker’s humidor. He lit it, trickled smoke through his nostrils.

“And my safe conduct, señor, for the next few days.”

Reyno tossed a paper across the desk. Without reading it, the Kid thrust it into his pocket. Reyno said, “We have reason to believe that somewhere in this very town the printing is being done. You will have no trouble—”

“And your credentials, Señor El Coronel?” There was a cold menace in the Kid’s voice, but Reyno did not lose his smile. The wallet came out.

“You will understand, amigo, that my value as an undercover man is lost once my identity is positively known? Here are my papers, let them be between you and me and Señor Valdez.”

The Sabinas Kid glanced through the commission, the appointment as a government agent. He said, as if unwillingly, “Enough, I suppose, Coronel Reyno, yet there is no description. There is not even mention of your earl”

Reyno flushed, his skinny fingers flew to his right ear. The ear was lobeless, seemed to be whittled down, disappearing into a broad white scar that ran as far as the corner of his thin mouth. “An honorable wound of battle, señor!” His eyes blazed.

The Kid grinned. He shrugged. “No importa,” he said carelessly. “Perhaps it is only that I am a connoisseur of ears that I noticed.”

The light on the annunciator flashed on Valdez’ desk. He flipped the button, said, “Yes, yes?”

An excited voice came back, “Señor Valdez, there is one here with the ticket on yesterday’s drawing numbered 174390! And already we have paid the ticket, or a similar one, not fifteen minutes before. What do I do?”

The Sabinas Kid rocked with laughter. He said, “And the forgeries are so good that you cannot be positive whether this is the real or the false!”

Valdez glared at him. “Twenty thousand pesos,” he said grimly.

The Kid snapped, “Tell your cashier to stall the ticket holder. I want to have a look." He was out the door before the fat banker could turn to the annunciator! Diamantita leaped to her feet, her eyes suddenly hot. He blew her a kiss as he swept by her, went into the marble corridor, opened the door and peered out. The clerk was explaining volubly to a woman that due to certain formalities it would be a few, oh a very few moments before the ticket would be honored. If the señorita would but be patient?

The senorita evidently did not like to be patient, but she shrugged philosophically. As she turned and sauntered away from the window, the Kid’s brows knit. There was something—? He opened the door wider. She neared the window. The bright sun shown through that window with the power of many candles. The senorita wore a simple white dress that proved no obstacle to the rays of the sun whatsoever. It might well have been cellophone. The Kid smiled; he appreciated femininity, when represented by a small waist, lyre like lips, tapering thighs and breathlessly shaped legs ending in spike heels. Even if the heels were a bit shabby and the dress that covered the figure a bit shoddy. She turned in semi-profile, so that the Sabinas Kid caught the honey color of her hair, the determined chin, the full lower lip. He knew her!

A MOMENT later he was at the check table that stood in the center of the room, writing rapidly on a deposit slip. When she turned from the window and neared the table, he looked up, looked her directly in the face. For a moment he thought she was going to speak. Then she read aright the look of warning on his face, and though it could not stop the flush that spread over her own features, she did not speak. She paused, looked impatiently at the teller’s window, then glanced down at the deposit slip.

It said, “Have you forgotten me? Please, corazon, do not give me away. Meet me two hours hence, wherever you say, wherever it is safe for me.”

He turned his back deliberately. Abstractedly she fumbled with a pen, did a few eurleyeues, as a waiting and impatient person might, then rapidly scrawled an address. She whirled, casting the pen aside, hurried to the window. The Sabinas Kid folded the paper and thrust it into a pocket, moved out of the lobby, barely hearing the clerk’s obsequious apologies for the delay in cashing the ticket and his equally obsequious promise that the money would soon be forthcoming.

In the office Valdez snapped, “Well, you have seen this counterfeiter? You have advice, yes?”

The Kid did not even answer him. Instead he looked at Reyno.

“My pardon, señor?” The cadaverous one indicated the paper and the pile of pesos. “And you have given Valdez the instructions, that I am to have the pesos and the pardon the moment I deliver proof to him that I have broken up these miscreants, the moment I bring to him the so clever plates?” Reyno nodded.

Señor Valdez snapped, “Enough! Now about the one who waits?” But the Sabinas Kid would not be interrupted.

“I am to be in complete charge?” he insisted.

Again Coronet Reyno nodded.

“But,” said the Sabinas Kid regretfully, “how do I know that Señor Valdez is to be trusted?” The fat man swelled like an angry toad. The Kid raised his hand, beamed. “That is sufficient! You will burst your paunch, little fat man. And even bankers have ears, so you will be honest!” The banker blanched. Few in northern Mexico but knew the dreaded mark of the Sabinas Kid! The earless corpse!

“You will pay the lady now at your window,” instructed the Kid. “And you will send a mozo to care well for my horse. It is likely that I shall take a cab, which you must call at once! Now wait five minutes, then pay the ticket, and watch for me to report shortly.”

“But how do we know we are paying a counterfeit or a genuine ticket?" wailed Valdez. " The first of this number might be the genuine! It might be the—”

But the Kid, with a grin and a wave of his hand, was gone. He paused in the ante-room. Diaman tita eyed him with flashing eyes and pouting lips. “I saw, perfido! That blonde one in there! You, pretending, yet you make the note for her, no doubt you make the assignation! The colorless, skinny bag of flour! I claw out her false and fickle eyes!”

The Kid laughed. He liked the tiger in woman. She stood facing him with her fingers curved like talons, her eyes flashing, her pointed breasts rising and falling deeply, her skirt clinging to the fullness of her hips. “Diamantita,” he sighed, “I go! Duty calls. But tonight, little gem of I hope not too much purity, you will meet me at nine o’clock, at the Club Retiro!” His fingers slid beneath her arms, he lifted her from her feet, brought her close to him. She closed her eyes, her red lips parted. And he set her down again, waved a hand and went through the door, leaving her staring angrily after him.

THROUGH the lobby of the Banco Nacional went the Sabinas Kid, paying no attention to the nervous blonde in the revealing white dress. He stood on the steps of the bank, a magnificent figure, twirling his pointed mustaches. Across in the plaza, the director of traffic— still unreinforced— was cooling his hotness— resulting from five quick shots of tequila— in the fountain. He swung back behind the stone, the liquor giving him a false courage. His fat fingers fumbled at his gun.

The Kid twisted and lighted a cigarette, waited impatiently. A taxi whirled around the corner on two wheels, the door flung open. Still the Kid waited. The door opened behind him. Coronel Reyno stood there, smiling. He did not speak, he did not look at the Kid. Suddenly, “Ten cuidado! Look out!” Reyno’s left hand almost pushed the Kid down the steps, his right hand appeared miraculously with a gun. At the same instant a shot rang out, from the plaza fountain, the lead ricocheted off a pillar and screamed its way up the street. The director of traffic, misguided one, had tried to earn himself one hundred thousand pesos.

Now like a frightened rabbit he scurried across that crowded plaza. The Sabinas Kid and Coronel Reyno watched him go, each helpless in spite of the gun each held. For the plaza was too crowded to risk a shot.

The Sabinas Kid’s eyes glowed. He said, "I thank you, señor. The Kid does not forget.”

“Es nada,” said Reyno shortly. At that moment the blonde, who had collected 20,000 pesos on ticket 174390 hurried out of the bank. Glancing neither to right nor left she turned up the Avenida Cinco De Mayo, her trim hips swaying as her heels hit hard on the cobblestone pavement.

The Sabinas Kid got into the cab. “Slowly, amigo," he grinned at the driver. “We follow the gringo senorita, and at a safe distance. From time to time we will circle a block. No?”

“Si,” growled the driver, and wheeled his cab.

The American señorita seemed to have much shopping to do. She stopped at a food store, at a clothing store, at a meat shop, emerging from each with packages. By now the Kid seemed to have lost much interest in her. Instead he watched the driver. “Hombre,” he said at last, “how is it that your face is not that of the picture on the driver’s license?”

The man grinned. His face was round and dark, deeply pockmarked with blue, as if a gun had exploded too near to it. “I drive for my friend, señor,” he explained, “my friend who is ill.” The Kid was leaning far forward. Suddenly the cab came to an abrupt halt, stopped by a pompous traffic policeman. The Kid seemed to shoot forward in his seat, throwing out his hand to restrain himself. The hand missed the back of the partition, shot through the opening, grazed the driver’s head, knocking off his cap. By the time he had picked up the cap and turned to curse the Sabinas Kid, the Kid was back in his seat, offering a thousand apologies. As the traffic director signaled to come on the Kid drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand. The blue powder marks on the driver’s face were grease paint!

The senorita eventually turned into the rattle trap Hotel Lavaca. The Kid gave her time to disappear, went into the desk, hurriedly wrote, “Janice Blue” on an empty envelope and waited while the oily clerk thrust it into the proper box. Janice Blue was in Room 204.

THE next stop was a haberdasher’s, for the Kid realized he looked much too conspicuous in his charro costume. He went into the store, and there in the shadowy interior, whirled to watch his driver. Now the Kid had explained that he would be inside perhaps all of twenty minutes. So hardly had he entered when the driver left his seat and hurried to the corner cigar store. Moments later he emerged from a phone booth to find the Kid leaning nonchalantly against the counter smoking. The driver’s face blanched.

The Kid smiled. “Amigo,” he said softly, “you know who I am, no?”

The driver nodded. “Come,” said the Kid. “There is a cantina on the corner that has a rear room. We shall go there and reason, you and I. Spies I do not like!”

The driver’s face blanched. He saw the long brown fingers hovering close to the gun butt. “No, no,” he whispered. “I will tell you! It was the man at the bank, Reyno! He have me come in the cab to take you where you would go!”

Anger swelled in the Kid’s breast. Reyno! After he had given him a safe conduct! After he had promised him cooperation, every means! But there was no need to vent his resentment on this poor underpaid spy of a fellow. He dismissed him with a curt nod.

He spent the intervening hour and a half busily. He bought a complete outfit of clothing, being sure that the coat was amply big to conceal the gold mounted revolver beneath his arm. He walked to the center of the town, where the towering Federal Building overlooked the central plaza. There he spoke boldly to the lieutenant at the gate. He even invited him across the street for a little aguardiente— which turned out to be quite a lot, rather than a little.

“Roque Reyno?” laughed the lieutenant. “Of course! He and I have been like this!” He crossed his forefinger and second finger, lifted his refilled glass. “So you know him, too! Let us then, amigo, drink to Roque!”

The Kid laughed, lifted his glass. Afterward he said musingly, “I have not seen him for years, old Roque. I suppose he has lost weight by now! And for the head of a cow I cannot remember his nickname!”

Again the glasses were filled. The jovial lieutenant said, “Lost weight? That fat boar? Never will he lose weight! And as for his nickname, how could you forget? Zurdo! He of the left hand!”

WHEN the Sabinas Kid walked into the designated meeting place, a barman polished the bar before him, said, without looking at him, “The señorita waits, sehor. The third door on the left.”

The Kid left a five pesos note on the bar, walked warily down the smelly hall to the third door on the right. His hand was on his gun as he noiselessly twisted the knob, stepped out of line and flung the door wide. Years of being sought sharpened his senses, he took no chances.

Nor was the room empty. The shutters were closed, a candle flickered on the table. And in that dim light he saw Janice Blue. She arose to meet him, her eyes shining, her hands outstretched. She whispered, “Pepe! Pepe! To see you again!”

Now, once, not so long ago, the Sabinas Kid had run away from this woman, not so much for his own sake as for hers. That was in Mazatlan, on the west coast. He had been able to do a service for her and for her father, a dissolute English remittance man, Jeffrey Blue. And intimacy had grown, not alone from the gratitude she felt, but because both were magnificent specimens of their own races. The Kid, a hunted man, with a price on his head, knew a marriage with this English girl would be a hell on earth for her, though she was willing to follow him wherever he might go. Except for one thing. Her father.

Jeffrey Blue at one time had been an artist of promise. An unfortunate love affair, after the death of his wife, combined with other serious blows, had turned him into an incurable dipsomaniac. When sober, Jeffrey Blue was the exiled Englishman, kind to his daughter, thoughtful, polite, repentant. When drunken, he was literally a conscienceless fiend. He had been known to sell the shirt off his back for a litre of tequila! And knowing this, Janice Blue, even though she loved the Sabinas Kid, could not go with him when he fled from Mazatlan with the federales at his heels.

“Pepe! Pepe!” she whispered again. He met her in the middle of the room, met her with arms that swept about the soft eontours of her lush body, flattened those same contours against his own muscles. Her arms were about him, she strained to him until she felt the mad pounding of her heart echoing against his, beat for beat. His lips on hers... his hands....

She pulled away. “We mustn’t,” she said. He shrugged, rang the bell that summoned the waiter and ordered habanera.

They sat together on the divan speaking of old times in Mazatlan, careful not to touch on their once flaming love.

“And your father?” he eventually asked in a casual tone. He felt her soft body tense beside him, sensed the lie before it was uttered.

“My father,” she whispered, “is in the states. I join him there presently.”

They talked on. Presently he said, “Janice, this is very difficult for me, but you know at times a man is forced to do such things. I am in great difficulties. I see at the bank this morning that you were winner on the Loteria National. Would it be too much to ask the loan of five thousand pesos for a few days?”

She looked at him in astonishment. The Sabinas Kid borrowing money? The Sabinas Kid, who used that gold mounted gun to obtain what he would have? His face, however, was innocent.

She said, “Why, Pepe, I am sorry! I owed that money, truly I did. I have paid it out, already!”

He knew that for a lie, too. Her eyes would not meet his. He gathered her into his arms, and she forgot everything else....

LATER, he drank, and looked down at her. He reached for her bare white arm, his forefinger touched the angry black and blue bruises. In spite of her resistance he turned her, touched similar bruises on her velvety shoulder blades.

“Your father,” he challenged. “You claim he is in the states. These are his marks— or the marks of another man!”

She began to sob, to weep so convulsively that her breasts trembled and rode and fell spasmodically. “There is no other man,” she said softly. But he could not touch her again. When she stood at the door, she was again Janice Blue, proud and defiant. “All right, Pepe,” she said, “you caught me in a lie. Perhaps I had reason to lie. I love my father.”

“And your father,” he said softly, “is in great trouble. Is it not so? You are afraid for him!”

“So afraid,” she answered, “that I will not even let you see him!”

Then she was gone.

At the bar, where he paused for another drink, a small hand whirled him about. “Cabron!” said Diamantita, her eyes flashing. “I should cut your throat, you unfaithful dog!”

The Sabinas Kid laughed, picked her up bodily and carried her into the same room he had vacated. “I suppose,” he laughed, looking down at her, arms akimbo, “that El Coronel sent you too?”

She looked puzzled, reached into her blouse and extracted the deposit slip he had written his note upon at the Banco Nacional. “This,” she said, “I took from your pocket at the banco when you bade me goodbye! Unfaithful one!”

He stopped her indignant words with a kiss. Presently she said, “Oh, I made it my business to find out about that one, that sack of flour. She has a man! She lives at the Hotel Lavaca, and she is seen in the cafes with Ramon Torres, that aviator who was thrown from the army for gambling! She is his woman, I tell you!”

The thought ran through his mind— had Janice been lying about those bruises? Was her father really in the states? Could another man—?

“But you, little gem, you are no other man’s girl,” he breathed. Tenderly he slid the blouse from her shoulder, leaned and kissed it. He sank down on the same divan, pulled Diamantita down beside him. To hell with Janice! She drew away from him long enough to murmur, “Señor Valdez, he has given me the afternoon off, corazon!” Then nothing else mattered.

AROUND three that afternoon Janice Blue alit from a car before the same cantina. Pausing not at the bar, except to note that the man she sought was not there, she hurried down the squalid hall, threw open the door and paused on the threshold, her body stiffening.

The Sabinas Kid lolled at ease on the divan, the girl he called Diamantita on his lap. Her dress was well up in her lap, revealing silken knees and jewelled garters. It was hot in the room and her discarded blouse hung over the back of a chair. Seeing Janice, the Kid sprang to his feet. Diamantita lit on the floor with a resounding thud. Janice, scorn and nausea on her face, started back down the corridor. The Kid seized his hat and coat, sprang through the door in pursuit.

It took him a full five minutes of firm argument to get her troubles. “It is my father,” she finally wept. "They have him! They must have him! Ramon and I have searched every cantina in town for him! He took the money from me, the lottery money, and now he is gone! I tell you they have him and you must help me, for they will torture him to death!”

Ramon, she had said. Ramon Torres? And when they reached the Hotel Lavaca, he knew it was so. The aviator awaited them in Room 204! Scarcely did he glance at the Kid. Instead he seized her hands, drew her to him and tried to comfort her. “Do not fear, little one, do not fear,” he soothed her. “We’ll find him! I tell you we should have flown away days ago, when we first arrived, but we were moneyless, I know. But do not worry. We will find these men and make a deal!”

The Sabinas Kid felt out of place. True, this man had been dishonorably discharged from the army, but who is there without fault? The girl was the daughter of a notorious man; she, too, had lived hard. And somehow the Kid knew that what she felt for him was something entirely different from that emotion that flooded her being when young Ramon Torres held her in his arms! He shrugged. There were always, he told himself philosophically, the Diamantitas!

“And now,” he told them finally, “if you can break off enough to tell me how I may be of use—?”

IT TOOK, perhaps, ten minutes to get the story. Jeffrey Blue, had been an etcher and engraver of marvelous ability before drink threw him. Jeffrey Blue had made the plates for the counterfeit lottery tickets! He had kept that knowledge from his daughter as long as possible, but at last she had become suspicious of his source of money. And in a drunken moment he had told her what he had done.

She knew then that she must somehow get him out of Mexico. She knew the gang, once they were through with him, once the big cleanup was made, would assassinate him. Young Ramon Torres, the flier, had been flying the counterfeits all over Mexico for the gang. The girl, casting scruples aside, had deliberately set out to make the susceptible young Latin her slave. And had succeeded beyond her furtherest hopes.

“For Pepe,” she said, putting her arm about the aviator, “we are honestly in love, Ramon and I! For me he has sacrificed everything, his future with this gang! For— he stole the plates and gave them to me! We flew here from Torreon, bringing my father, hoping to trade those plates for our safe conduct across the border! This we could not do, the government would not compromise! Now the gang has located us. They have gotten my poor father, they will torture him, and he does not even know where the plates are!”

“And the ticket you cashed this morning at the bank?”

“We needed money,” she said, her head high, her breasts rising and falling proudly. “We meant to make a run for it tonight. With a letter press we made the one ticket, we tuned in a radio to the proper station and got the coded winners. That gave us time to prepare the ticket, Pepe. Will you help us get my father?”

“You know where to go?”

Ramon Torres answered stiffly, “The gang has a headquarters here. We can only go there and offer to make a deal. To trade the plates back to them for the safety of Jeffrey Blue.”

Now the Sabinas Kid knew this was like to sticking their heads in the mouth of the lion. He also knew that he could not get his pardon— which, in spite of his scorn he really wanted— without possessing those plates himself! He shrugged, and to shrug in such a manner meant yes, with the Sabinas Kid.

THE house sat well back on the mountain towering to the east of Ciudad Morales. Boldly the three, the Kid, Janice Bine and Ramon Torres wheeled their shabby roadster into the patio. From the time they alit they knew they were covered by guns, knew that watchful eyes were upon them. Nevertheless they rang the bell, were admitted by an evil faced mozo, who escorted them into an inner room and left them.

Impatiently they awaited. Presently a bland Oriental voice said, “Señorita Blue, Señores Torres and Sardinia, or should I say the Sabinas Kid? It is well that you have come. We expected you, as a matter of fact. Now you will lay any weapons you might possess on the table, then stand ‘ against the wall. You are covered by a machine gun.”

The Kid grinned, followed Torres to the table, carefully laid his gold-mounted gun beside the automatic of the aviator.

"Senorita,” commanded the voice that seemed to issue from nowhere at all?

Unwillingly, she too advanced. Her fingers plucked at the hem of her skirt, the skirt lifted higher, over her silken knee, high up on her thigh. A small .25 was strapped there. This joined the others on the table.

The silent mozo came in and removed the weapons. As he left, an opposite door opened to admit a small, weazened Chinaman, clad in western clothing. He bowed ceremoniously.

Torres said, sullenly, “Chin Lee!”

“Chin Lee,” agreed the Oriental. “And you, of course, are the traitor Ramon Torres.” Torres flushed angrily. Chin Lee went on, unperturbed. “We were fortunate enough to chance upon your father in a cantina not long ago, señorita. Evidently he eluded your watch. We thought you would come willingly to trade for his safety."

“Is he all right?” she asked breathlessly. “What have you done to him? Believe me, he doesn’t know where those plates are.”

“He is quite all right— and quite happy. If you will follow me?”

They followed him, the three of them, down a stone corridor, where he threw open a barred door. The Sabinas Kid was startled at the gaunt appearance of Jeffrey Blue, who lay as a dead man on the bed. Except that it is not the usual thing for dead men to snore.

“He is quite happy,” said the Chinaman, “quite drunk. Now we go into the next room. He will not be disturbed, for his last drink was deeply doped.”

In the next room he faced the three of them. “And now we deal, no? Your father for those plates.”

Torres said, “What guarantee do we have that we will be allowed to leave? Maybe you’ll take the plates and somehow kill us all anyway.”

“A chance you must assume,” the Oriental assured them.

The Sabinas Kid snapped his fingers. He sneered openly at the Chinaman. “Chin Lee, or whatever you call yourself, I do not like the Chinese at all. To me they are store keepers, runners of opium houses. These people know nothing. And I, who know all, refuse to deal with a yellow man.”

CHIN LEE’S eyes were venomous. Before he could answer, the Kid went on, “What do I care for Bine’s life? You know very well life means nothing to me. But I know where those plates are. These people do not even know that already I have stolen them. Now will you summon the man who calls himself Coronel Roque Reyno. With him only will I deal."

Chin Lee simply stared at him. The Kid laughed in his face. “This hoax has gone far enough,” he snapped. “No doubt the real Reyno started from Mexico City on this mission. But you and your gang intercepted him. Reyno was a zurdo, a left handed man. Your faked Coronel is right handed, for I saw him shoot. Also the real Reyno was immensely fat and jovial! You killed him, this man of the bad ear took his place. You enlisted my aid to find the Blues and Torres, and even while your man was propositioning me at the Banco Nacional, the luck of the Sabinas Kid held good! Janice walked in to cash a ticket.” He rocked with laughter. “I wonder what your men thought of it.”

The man with the carved ear stepped into the room, bearing a heavy automatic in his hand. He smiled, like a death’s head. “You are astute, Señor Kid,” he smiled. “You,must remember, however, that I was in the Valdez office, I did not see the sweet Janice enter so boldly to cash her ticket. We stood, you and I, on the banco steps, together, and I fired at the policeman who desired your life. It was only afterward that I saw her, and realized that we did not have need of your talents in locating the Blue family. Now, of course we realize that we do not need you, as I said before. Yes, you are astute. I killed Roque Rey no and took his papers. You know that. Which means, you know too much!”

“I know too much about your plates,” said the Kid bluntly, still bluffing. “I—”

“Look out,” screamed Janice. The Kid whirled, saw the contorted face of the man who had driven him in a taxi, yet in spite of dodging, the heavy blow from the loaded quirt butt caught him. He fought for consciousness and found it was no use. Blackness descended upon him.

HIS head was a raging cauldron of pain when he awakened. Hands, shaking hands, were rubbing his wrists, a quivering voice was saying, “Awake, Kid, awake! You must!” He opened his eyes to peer into the bleary blue eyes of Jeffrey Blue. He sat up.

Blue said, “Damn them! They thought they had me doped. Drunken, yes, but I didn’t take the dope! For the love of God, tell them where those damnable plates are hidden. Listen, and have mercy!”

A scream, undeniably issuing from the lips of Janice Blue filled the room. They heard her scream, “No! No! I tell you I don’t know where they are!”

And Torres’ frantic voice, “Tell them, my dear! You took them from me! It isn’t worth it! Tell them!”

"I don’t know!” It faded again into a scream of agony.

Jeffrey Blue drew himself up.

He muttered, “For me, a drunken, no good father she suffers that!” He straightened his bent body, his body warped by vice. “You, Kid, you feel all right?”

The Kid nodded.

“You are afraid to battle three men, providing you have a gun?”

"Certainly not. Nor thirty!"

Straight to the door walked Jeffrey Blue. He hammered upon it. He called, “This farce has gone far enough. I alone know where those plates are. Open the door and let me out, I’ll talk.”

The Sabinas Kid moved to the side of the door, out of sight. Slowly it swung open. The man of the crippled ear stood there, gun in hand. “Come out, Blue, with your hands raised. God help you if you don’t k—!”

Blue launched himself through the air. The gun boomed. You could actually hear the impact of the bullet on flesh, yet he kept going. Both his hands gripped the gun. It boomed again, knocked him to his knees, and still he clung.

The Sabinas Kid leaped forward. His right fist staggered the man who called himself Reyno. His hands grasped the gun, wrenched it away from the fighters, he fired across the room at his ex-taxi driver. The man went down. He leaned to clip the false Reyno across the pate and keep him on the floor. Something flew through the air from the hand of the Oriental. A knife buried itself in the flesh of the Kid’s left arm. Very calmly, paying no attention to the wound, he raised the gun. While it was not his own gold mounted weapon, he had no trouble at all in placing a slug directly between those brown almond eyes.

He drew the knife from his arm, cut Torres loose from the chair where he was bound. Janice Blue was spreadeagled on a cot, most of her clothes torn from her, and circling her breasts, as if drawn by a pen dipped in red ink, were the marks of the Chinaman’s knife.

As he cut her loose and she flew to her father, Torres by her side, a great clattering was heard in the hallway. The Kid raised the gun. A voice called, “It is the law! We enter!”

And with the law was Diamantita! Eyes ablaze she walked to the Kid. “You! You great lout, to leave me for that passionless bag of flour! But I follow you, and it is well for you that I did! This is a bad house, and this I knew! It was I, Diamantita who save your life! I call the guardias!”

A hand plucked at the Kid’s sleeve. He left a blazing eyed Diamantita where she was, withdrew to listen to Janice’s sobbing talk. “Madre de Dios,” he said, “and if you knew all the time where these plates were, why did you suffer torture?”

She seemed amazed at the question. "Why," she faltered, "I had brought you along for emergencies. You always get out of difficulties, do you not? You are Jose Maria Gardinia Guedea, the Sabinas Kid!”

“The greatest fool in the world,” he said bitterly.

SEÑOR VALDEZ of the Banco Nacional hated to pay over fifty thousand pesos. True enough the agreement was fulfilled, the plates ay on the desk before him. The police had verified the fact that one Pablo Gonzales, alias Coronel Roque Reyno had talked, and implicated the entire ring. Grudgingly he said, “Here is your money, señor, here is your pardon. I have the plates, and what is this?”

“A souvenir,” said the Kid, unwrapping the package.

Never had the Banker Valdez received such a package. For it contained an ear, a human ear! And the lobe was completely sliced off. The ear of the false Reyno!

“To remember me by,” said the Kid softly. “And now, as for this!” He took the pardon and threw it in the wastepaper basket. “Señor, you are a banker, safe and secure. But me, the Sabinas Kid, I cannot visualize life with no spice, life with no one after me! Tell the government I disdain their pardon. Tell them tonight I meet Diamantita, Diamantita and life!”

Through the open window came the roar of an airplane, dipping down in farewell toward the bank. That, the Kid knew, was Janice Blue and Ramon Torres headed for the Estados Unidos.

The banker said coldly, “A fine gesture, amigo. But useless. You know that I merely have to notify Mexico City and the pardon goes on record, whether you keep your copy or not!”

The Kid threw back his head and laughed. “Tonight, life and Diamantita! And something else, Señor Banker!” The gold mounted gun flashed from the holster. “I do not think I have enough money, so from you, I shall take, let us say, 100,000 pesos for your fat life!”

In five short minutes he had it. Señor Banker Valdez sat bound and gagged in an easy chair placed in a closet. “Tomorrow,” said the Kid mockingly, “I will be back in my beloved hills, richer by far, and with another adventure behind me. Tomorrow, your employees will find you. If you care to recommend my complete pardon after this—!” He kissed his fingers, tossed the kiss into the air.

The door closed on the fearful Valdez. But through it he heard the Kid singing, something about life being a big and passionate woman named Diamantita, who should be taken regularly, but not too regularly to make her lose her savor.

Valdez was angry. But Valdez was resigned.

_________________

8: Rain in Dahomey

Edwin Truett Long (as by "Carl Moore")

Spicy Mystery Stories, July 1937

A second dose of Edwin Truett Long under yet another pseudonym.

RAIN beat against the tin roof rhythmically, incessantly. Something inside Dutton seemed to respond to it, echo it. His blood throbbed in unison with the dripping downpour. He sat in the shadow on the screened porch, a glass of whiskey at his elbow. Harmatten, that three-month period of intense drought on the Dahomey Guinea Coast was over, The big rains were here again.

Dutton tried to arouse himself from his lethargy. He knew Lieutenant St. Clair was in the living room, no doubt making love to Lorna, Dutton's wife. And he knew Lorna was doing her share, that she responded to the dapper little Frenchman who had come up the river from Whydah three days before with a detachment of ten Senegalese soldiers. They had been headed originally for the Lama Swamp, where Guinea Coast rumor had placed the last survivors and newest converts of the Serpent Cult.

But St. Clair, after one look at Lorna Dutton, had decided the rains were too great to proceed at once. So he had lodged his Senegalese in a storage house outside Dutton's plantation and had stayed on to see more of Lorna.

Dutton didn't care. He was as sick of Lorna as he was of everything else! Even the thought of her white body in another man's arms didn't bother him. He felt no love for her, wanted nothing of her. Instead, stirring within him in a manner he could not fathom, was a yearning for Egba, the half-caste Portuguese girl from down the river, who worked about the plantation house.

He could close his eyes and see the tawny litheness of her legs, the flaring enticement of full hips, tightly covered with her solitary garment whose top hardly obscured the pear-shaped beauty of breasts that trembled with her slightest movement.

But Dutton was afraid. If he let himself go— and from the way her slumbrous eyes had looked on him he knew the woman only waited on his first advance— if he let himself go, he was a lost man. Already Africa was stirring within him. He couldn't resist much longer.

He caught Egba's subtle, remembered fragrance before he heard the soft swish of her single garment about slim legs.

Startled, he turned. Her teeth flashed whitely in the dusky oval of her face. He knew her mouth was a taunting red slash, knew her breasts were heaving beneath the thin material of her dress. And that every tempting line of her figure was a challenge.

He didn't speak. She refilled his glass, leaned closer to him, so that one soft breast curved its warm mould against his shoulder. For a moment he pulled - away, but her low laughter made a beating red flame of the blood racing through him. His arm slid about her waist. The svelte curve of her flesh was silky and warm.

He was on his feet in a second, knocking over the table that held the whiskey bottle. It crashed to the floor in a shatter of broken glass. Then he was staring down into that triumphant smile, crushing her until that lissom, supple form was shaped against his own. Her lips parted to receive his kiss, when suddenly he pushed her aside, muttering, "No, damn it, I can't let myself go!" Then, coldly, "Clean up the mess, please."

As he walked away unsteadily, he heard her taunting laughter and flushed.

AT THE window he paused, looked inside the house. His flush deepened. Just as he had suspected, Lorna was in the Frenchman's arms. Dutton glared at the mad scene for a moment, his hands clenched into fists.

The two were seated on the rattan divan oblivious of all but each other. Round white arms pulled St. Clair's head down to Lorna's, a hot mouth was pressed passionately against the Lieu- tenant's. The straps of her gown had slipped down her shoulders, completely forgotten. The cleft between her crushed breasts was deep and shadowy. Her dress had crawled up about sleek thighs that gleamed whitely above her stocking tops. Even as he watched, Lorna's hand shot out to turn the light completely off.

Dutton's anger faded to hopelessness. What did he care? To hell with her! He didn't care about Lorna now, damn it; it was that wench Egba!

Egba was walking demurely away with downcast eyes and her hips quivered a sinuous taunt. Once she looked over her shoulder. Dutton caught his breath as the light in the doorway illuminated the perfect contours of her body.

To hell with Lorna! Two could play at this game. Grimly, purposefully he set out after Egba. Straight down the hallway she went toward the wing of the house which sheltered her own room, Dutton stayed at her heels and his blood was a feverish flood.

Once Glegle, the Dahomeyan house-boy, stepped from a crossing corridor but he drew back quickly. Dutton didn't even see him; if Egba noticed him, she gave no sign. She raised the curtain that overed the doorway of her room, entered. Dutton, breathing deeply, followed. The curtain fell behind him.

Steadily from black skies came the beat of the incessant rain on the tin roof, And steadily within Dutton the beat of his heart kept rhythm with that rain.

She lighted a lamp and turned to him. Her mouth was tremulous, her eyes half veiled. He groaned a little as he swept her against his chest, felt her breasts crush against him, felt the savage response in her undulant form, in the arms wound tightly about his neck.

She whispered triumphantly, "Egba has waited long for this minute!"

DINNER was a silent meal, only the little Lieutenant talking with any persistence. Lorna watched her husband's burning face and fevered eyes in silence. As for Dutton, after all the indecision and pent-up emotion of the last few months, he was now happy. He watched his wife eat, remembered what he had seen through the porch window, and didn't care! He knew that beneath the table her knee was against that of the voluble little officer. And still he didn't care. He compared the half-revealed, milk-white breasts of the woman he had married with those of the bronze-skinned Egba.

Egba represented Africa, Lorna was the personification of England. And Dutton knew who had won.

His eyes kept following Egba about the room as she served the meal. Avidly, he watched the swinging of her hips, the quivering of partially exposed breasts. Let Lorna see the passion in his eyes! He had chosen! From now on it was Egba! If Africa was in his blood, so be it!

St. Clair said, "These damnable rains this damnable jungle! Thank God, I am about through with them. Three more months and I go back to France."

Lorna said dreamily, "We have another year. It will seem good to see London again, to be among civilized people."

Dutton's eyes were feverish, bright.

Again he heard the beat of the rain, thought of the baobab trees and the coconut palms, the rank undergrowth of the swamp country, the pungent smells! And Egba!

He said, "There's something about Dahomey and the jungle that gets into a man's blood. I think I will stay here the rest of my life."

Lorna gasped, the Lieutenant's mouth gaped open.

Behind Dutton's chair, he could sense Egba's presence. He could still smell her hair, could still feel the touch of bronze flesh. Africa! Of course he'd stay in Africa.

"Don't be absurd," gasped Lorna.

"I was never more serious in my life. You may return to your damned England any time you like. I shall stay here forever!" He gulped the liquor at his elbow.

SILENCE, then the startled Lieutenant quickly changed the subject. "I wish my present mission were finished," he said. "These ancient cults that revive every few years are often bloody messes to handle. I have it on good information that the latest, led by a man who calls himself King Takudonu, is very strong in numbers. He has revived the old custom of the Amazon warriors and the Serpent is being worshiped—"

At first Dutton scarcely heard the droning voice of the French soldier. He lay back in his chair with his eyes closed,  conscious of only two things. The steady beat of the rain on the tin roof of the porch like a million tiny drums. That and the presence of Egba in the room.

He heard the soft sound of her feet behind him, felt her nearness when she removed dishes, even trembled at the touch of her thinly covered breast against his shoulder when she poured his drink. Then he became aware again of the reedy droning voice of the Frenchman.

"—rites three times a year in worship of the Python Danh-ghi. Often, even now, there are human sacrifices and sometimes cannibalism is practised. The Fons believe the python to be a symbol of fecundity, in fact the father and symbol of all life. These cults must hold their orgies in the swamps and hidden places, of course, and we take every means to break them up once we know they are under way."

The serpent, the symbol of life. Dutton stirred in his chair. The thought flashed through his mind that the serpent in the Garden had been the symbol of wisdom. Why, the serpent was Africa itself, ages old in knowledge! Egba was a serpent! He remembered the sinuous movement of her lush hips, the undulations of rounded arms, the sleekness of full thighs. Even her hair was serpentine, a million curling, crawling little snakes.

He opened his eyes, found himself staring directly into those of the half- caste girl. Her eyes were so black as to seem almost without pupils— like those of a snake. Little reflections of light from the lamp leaped and flickered in them. He said only one phrase, "The serpent!" and reached for Egba, who smilingly eluded his grip and left the room sinuously.

Across the room Lorna gasped, leaped to her feet, upsetting the wine before her. Her face was livid with rage. She said, "Charles, are you drunk? Have you gone insane?"

"Not insane! I am merely getting sane again. I would like to go back to the root of all things, to the Serpent!"

Lieutenant St. Clair arose quickly, "Pardon me, please, madame. I must see about my men." His boot heels clicked across the floor.

Slowly Dutton arose. walked toward his wife, eyes like those of a sleep walker. She read madness there and— tried to get away from him. But his hand gripped her shoulder.

"A long while ago I loved you, now I do not." His voice was almost mocking, except for the dreamy note. "It is not that I care about the other men. That does not matter. It is I who have changed. Watch!"

He swept her voluptuous body into his arms, held her so tightly that she gasped for breath. In spite of herself her blood grew hotter in the fierce embrace, her own white arms slid around his neck as he bent to kiss her. Her eyes flew wide open at once, for his kiss was cool and chaste. When he released her she drew back; he merely smiled.

"Do you see? That does not mean a thing to me! I am through with that part of my life!"

His hand seized the front of her gown, ripped it from her shoulders. "Once,  seeing you like this would have driven me mad...mad with love for you! Now—"

The dress was torn the rest of the way from her body with one great jerk, which pulled her stumbling to her knees. He gazed down at the soft white contours of her body, the generous breasts, the flaring hips, the flat abdomen.

Slowly he shook his head, his eyes hot, angry. "Bah! You are merely a white, fat pig! And once I loved you! The Serpent, the Serpent, that is the thing! Sinuous, twisting, undulating. The Serpent, the symbol of life!"

HE WALKED slowly down the hallway to his own room, threw himself down on the bed. The woman he had left cowered in a corner and wept for the beast that had once been her husband.

Outside, the rain continued, millions of heavy fingers beating a tattoo on the tin roof. The whole world had a wet damp smell, the smell of decaying vegetation, the smell of the Guinea Coast jungles during the big rains.

Dutton peered straight upward at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. The rain was forgotten, It was merely the booming of a gigantic drum in his brain now. His blood was at fever heat, his heart pumped madly. Presently he slept.

Dutton dreamed.

He dreamed that the curtain of his room was slowly pulled aside, that a pair of slotted black eyes without pupils peered in at him. A beautiful red tongue flashed out from between black lips. A spade-shaped head seemed to weave rhythmically in greeting, while coil after coil of glistening snake undulated into the room. It slithered close to the bed, but Dutton was not afraid. It was beautiful.

The snake's unadorned body gleamed and glistened in the lamp light as if anointed with oil. It was a sleek, slender, rippling wave of loveliness. Even when it coiled intimately beside him, he found its flesh warm and pleasant. When a gleaming coil spanned his body he was comforted. His fingers patted the sleek skin, caressed smooth flesh.

When the serpent wound its way from his embrace and slithered noiselessly from the room, Dutton too staggered after it, followed it down the hallway, out the back door into the relentlessly beating rain.

IT was the same cool fingers of rain that finally brought him back to his senses. He was flat on his back in something that rocked and swayed from side to side like a suspended hammock. Overhead great fronds of jungle ferns waved fantastic fingers. The interlaced branches of swamp trees at times made an arc that shut off the rain. Over all was the smell of mud and decayed vegetation, the miasmic odor of swamp. Then he was conscious of movement, as if his body were being propelled forward. Where was he? Name of God, what was he doing?

He sat up with a suddenness that nearly overturned the native boat. The water was ink, the darkness of the atmosphere impenetrable, yet he knew someone was in the stern of the boat propelling the thing along. He heard the suck of the pole as the mud beneath the shallow water released it, heard the eerie cry of swamp animals off to either side. Why was he here? He remembered— dreaming of the python, remembered dreaming he had followed it from the house.

But what then? What now?

A tender voice said, "Sleep, Dutton, sleep and rest. I read in your eyes that you would seek the Serpent so I am taking you to him. You, a white, are to see the Father of all Wisdom, the— Symbol of all Life."

Egba! With a groan he held his throbbing head in his hands. What was wrong with him? How could he be in the middle of a swamp with Egba, in a boat headed toward an unknown place?

Something was thrust into his hands. Her voice said, 'Drink, Dutton, it will ease your aching head. Soon we shall arrive."

He gulped greedily at the liquor in the bottle. It was like fire but it eased his aching head as she had said it would. Presently he lay back down in the bottom of the boat and let the rain beat down on his unprotected face. And again he dreamed of the Serpent.

How long afterward it was that Egba aroused him, he did not know. He was only conscious of her arms about his neck, her red lips close to his, as she whispered, "Come, Dutton, it is time. We go, you and I."

Somehow he got to his feet, stepped on solid ground and went with the girl, hand in hand down a long roofed passageway. His eyes were burning, his  tongue was thick, but he went willingly. He was remembering his dream.

A black curtain at the end of the passageway was pulled aside; together they entered. Overcome with amazement Dutton paused, though Egba tried to pull him forward. He tried to shake the cobwebs from his head, but the scene was too fantastic. Lined up directly before them, barring their progress, were eight women, each with a rifle leveled at the newcomers.

They were clad only in loin cloths of white that contrasted startlingly with the blackness of their skins. Eight pairs of black breasts were motionless mounds of ebony as the women stood like so many statutes, guns ready for use.

To Dutton's addled mind came the droning words of the Frenchman at the dinner table. The Swamp King, the head of the Serpent Cult, who had revived the old Amazonian warriors for his bodyguard! But Egba was speaking quickly in the Ewe dialect. A guttural voice answered from across the room. The rank of Amazons dropped their guns, moved quickly aside and Egba pulled Dutton forward.

The room was tremendous in size, lighted by flickering torches that cast weird reflections on the walls. Something was set in the walls at intervals, something white and grinning with great holes where eyes had been, great black slashes where once had been mouths.

Skulls! A palace room decorated with skulls! Fascinated, Dutton stared at them. It was only then that he became aware of a group against the opposite walls, a group of proudly defiant black men who held themselves apart from a similar group of black women. All stared at the bedraggled white man with curious eyes but no other expression on  their wooden faces.

Then he hear Egba's voice.

"Oh, Takudonu, Friend of the Fat of Wisdom, this is the man. I have done as you commanded in the past. This is the man I want, the man you promised— me. Speak."

Dutton's bleary eyes stared directly into those of a towering Dahomeyan who sat cross-legged on a carven stone altar. Across his knees he held a gleaming knife. Now he peered from Dutton to the woman Egba and his eyes were those of an eagle. His voice rumbled in his thick black chest, seemed to come from far distances.

"Egba, Priestess of Python Danh-ghi, you have been promised the man you desire. If you have been worthy you shall have him— forever, You have done  as I advised?"

"Yes, Father. I have given the potions."

"Then we shall see what Danh-ghi himself shall say." He clapped his hands, spoke in dialect to an attending Amazon, who promptly disappeared. When she returned, she bore a bowl of steaming liquid which she extended toward Dutton,

"Drink," commanded Takudonu, but Dutton drew back. Egba's soft arm was again about his shoulder, her satin skinned breast burned against his arm,  her lips were close to his ear.

With a little moan he seized the bowl, drank deeply of the bitter-tasting stuff. Only Egba's rounded arm kept him from falling. For a moment he stood there limply, then it was as if he turned into a man of stone. He felt his muscles stiffen, grow rigid, felt his whole body harden. He saw Takudonu lay aside the sword, saw two Amazons approach with a huge reed case.

The Dahomeyan leader opened the case, reached inside. The tremendous   muscles of his back and shoulders rippled like black silk beneath his skin. Slowly, a little at a time, he lifted a tremendous python from the case. A sigh went up from the assemblage. Takudonu, wordlessly, lay the snake on the stone floor.

For a moment it lay inert, then slowly its great head lifted, it stared about for a single moment than began a slow undulation across the floor. Straight toward Dutton it came, and he was not afraid. Strangely enough he thought the glistening coils of its body were beautiful, wanted it to touch him. He was glad when a coil of the thick body shot out, the tail wound itself about Dutton's leg.

A roar went up from those against the far wall. Takudonu smiled, reached down and unwound the serpent with reverent hands. Slowly the rigidness passed from Dutton's legs and body. A wave of warmth took its place. He was conscious of the applauding crowd, conscious of the smiling King, and all too conscious of Egba in his arms, Egba, whose touch was an exotic flame devouring him.

THE rest was a spot of madness in Dutton's mind. There was the soft beat of tom-toms that finally worked its way into his veins. There were many more drinks of potent brew that fired him. And always there was Egba.

He saw a mad dance of whirling figures of half covered men and women who twisted and gyrated in the center of the huge hall. He saw each dancer lean into a basket and produce a snake. The snake was twisted and twirled, tossed about while the mad dance went on.

Egba leapt into the circle, her hips swaying, her breasts quivering, and presently he too convoluted and whirled beside the woman of his choice with a living snake in his hand. A snake whose body was warm to touch, smooth as satin, soft as putty.

There were Amazons who entered with great baskets. From the first was produced a cat that yowled fearfully when its throat was cut at the altar. From another was produced a baby alligator, whose tail continued to lash long after its life's blood dripped from its severed neck. Fascinated Dutton watched, and it came to him that the spurting blood was like twisting, undulating snakes,

After each sacrifice the crowd grew wilder. The tom-toms beat more quickly, the dance whirled faster. Men and women disappeared and at last Dutton picked Egba up in his arms and bore her into a dark corner. Her hair was a thousand writhing living serpents when he buried— his face in it. Her kiss was the quick darting kiss of a serpent. Even her body was serpentine as it pressed against him and he remembered his dream, the langorous python that coiled its length about him.

Two Amazons appeared with a larger basket which was opened near the altar. A trembling negro boy stepped out, dressed in a white calico shirt with red bindings, a splotch of red over his left breast. He seemed unable to control his body and was carried to the altar. The King's long knife flicked out. Again those red snakes of blood.

Again Dutton buried his face in Egba's hair and shuddered. Her lips were hot on his, her breasts crushed to him, her body restless. The coiling python...

TT WAS the sudden silence that brought him from Egba's arms. He was suddenly aware that all sound had died in the room, that the tom-toms had ceased their monotonous pounding, that the dancers had paused in their evolutions. He raised on an elbow, gazed toward the altar where Takudonu sat with his great knife.

Before him on the floor whimpered the cowering figure of Glegle, Dutton's own house boy. And grasped firmly by a pair of the ebony Amazons, Lorna Dutton, glared defiantly at the black king.

Somehow Dutton staggered to his feet, regardless of Egba's restraining hands. Somehow he staggered toward his wife, and she recoiled from his mad figure.

"How did you get here?" he panted.

Her lips curled with scorn. "Glegle saw you steal away with that woman. Did you think I would give you up to a half-caste wench without a struggle?"

Egba leaped into the circle of light like an enraged tigress. Her hands were like claws as she snatched at the defiant Lorna, who barely stepped to safety. "Give him up! You fool, you can never get him back! He belongs to the Python, the Father of Wisdom. Only I, Egba, the High Priestess of the cult, can ever have him again!" She called wildly to the tom-tom players. The drums broke into a majestic measure whose speed gradually increased. With hanging head Dutton felt the music throbbing again in his blood, felt the pulse-beat of Africa pounding in his veins. The bronze body of Egba began to undulate sinuously,

"Choose," she screamed at Dutton, "choose between this woman of paste and Egba, High Priestess of the Serpent-cult,"

She whirled toward the altar, snatched the knife from Takudonu's hand. Thrust the hilt into Dutton's grasp.

"See if you can kill me!" Her eyes were demented, her lips contorted. "See whose flesh receives the knife, mine or this woman's."

She jerked the single garment from her own breasts, swayed dramatically before Dutton. His eyes were heavy, his breath came fast at sight of those palpitant mounds. He looked from the hypnotically weaving Egba to the agonized eyes of Lorna. Slowly the knife came up, poised, the point between the swaying, quivering breasts of Egba. And suddenly it was as  if the breasts were no longer there. Nothing but smooth flesh, sleek and oily— black and spotched, gleaming in the light.

She was the glistening snake with glittering beady eyes and a body that undulated in serpentine folds. The python of his dreams, whose glittering coils had encircled him, whose soft flesh he had caressed, whose warm body had held him close. Kill her? Give her up? Never!

With a hoarse cry he turned from her, advanced a step at a time toward the cowering figure of Lorna Dutton, the poised knife gleaming.

The sudden clatter of shots outside, an Amazon of ebony running breathlessly into the sacrificial hall. The clatter of a machine gun and the sudden surging and seething of many figures.

Something hit Dutton's shoulder, spun him about, toppled him over against the reed case that held the Python God. For a moment he lay there, then with a scream of horror saw a spade-shaped head peer over the top of the case, tongue lashing venomously, black beady eyes gleaming with hate. He slashed at it again and again, saw red blood spurt in rivulets, felt the lashing of tremendous coils as the wounded thing literally curled itself about him. He buried the knife again and again in yielding flesh. Then amidst gun shots, clatter and shouting his world went black.

IT WAS two months before Charles Dutton could even talk about the thing to his wife. They were safely in England in the sea-side cottage when he asked— and she explained.

"It was mad, utterly mad of both of us to do the things we did. It must have been Africa, the loneliness, the heat, the rains."

He nodded soberly. She went on. "Egba wanted you. She joined the Serpent Cult to gain wisdom from the Serpent God. The King or High Priest was a master of poisons. She served you these cult poisons in your drinks until you lost your head. When you slipped away with her into the night, Glegle saw you and told me. I didn't want to tell Lieutenant St. Clair of our trouble; so I took Glegle and followed, hoping to catch up. We were captured. You know the rest, dear. The Lieutenant followed me, in turn, with his soldiers, and it is well that he did, You would have killed me with that knife. You were utterly mad."

He hid his face against the warm hollow of her shoulder while she put her arms about him. Paroxysms shook him he trembled like a leaf.

"I'm afraid, I'm afraid," he shuddered. "There's something about those ancient cults that is binding. After all, I joined, I was initiated! Sometime in my life that woman Egba will leap up again to confront me!"

She held him a moment longer before answering gently, "I haven't told you before, dear, because you weren't strong enough to hear. But it wasn't a python you killed on the floor of that sacrificial chamber. It was... Egba!"

_________________

9: A Golden Grave

Allan Stephens

Stephen Allen Reynolds, (1875-?)

The Cavalier, July 1911.

The author seems to have debuted in around 1910-11, and produced a great many stories in the teens and 20s of the 20th century; the ouput diminished by 1930 and his last known story was published in 1933.

Chapter 1

The Green Package

IT was a warm evening in June, and some New Yorkers who had turned a deaf ear to the siren call of Coney Island and Rockaway sat upon their doorsteps, shirt-sleeved. Others gathered at the corner cafés and listened gladly to the hiss of the siphon; while wives and daughters filtered through the avenues and fringed the soda-fountains.

In an Eighth Avenue drug-store not far from Columbus Circle, and known as Devine's, the proprietor seemed far from being pleased by the crowd before his soda- fountain. His clerk had been dismissed for the night, and as the owner himself scowlingly mixed phosphates and flavors of all descriptions, an observant onlooker might have wondered why the rush of business seemed to displease the druggist.

As the hands of the clock, which hung over a show-case filled with toilet articles, crept closer to the hour of eleven, the man in the alpaca coat glanced impatiently at the time; and as the hour hand fairly covered the mark, he hastened to close and lock the front doors of the establishment.

A boy rattled the door and waved a prescription at the druggist, but he paid no heed to the youth and turned down the lights in the front of the store.

Retiring behind the opaque glass shielding the prescription-counter, he took a seat upon a stool, and producing a long black cigar, felt aimlessly in his vest-pocket for a match. Not finding what he sought, he laid the cigar upon the desk before him; and taking an envelope from an inner pocket he withdrew its contents, and unmindful of the fact that he wanted to smoke, studied the closely written sheet for fully a half hour.

Its contents thoroughly mastered, he tore the envelope and paper into shreds, and after placing them into an earthen mortar at his elbow, set fire to them by means of a paper spill ignited at the gas-jet over his head.

Grinding the resulting ashes beneath his heel, he mechanically placed the unlighted cigar in his mouth, and then stared at the rows of jars and bottles before him.

Taking down a wide-mouthed, closely stoppered bottle from the shelf, he was on the point of emptying a portion of its contents onto a sheet of paper, when he hesitated. The perspiration gathered upon his temples and wrists. His hands trembled at his thoughts, and then slowly— very slowly— replaced the bottle upon the shelf.

Glancing nervously around the store, as if afraid of being overseen, the druggist then pondered a while, and finally took down another bottle, much smaller than the first. Pouring several ounces of its powdered contents into a pasteboard box, he wrapped the latter up in a sheet of heavy green paper, and tied and sealed it securely.

After addressing and stamping the green package, he boarded a trolley-car and rode fully two miles before descending; and after dropping the package into a letter-box on an unfrequented corner, he walked rapidly away from the vicinity until he reached a saloon.

Entering the saloon, he called for brandy and helped himself liberally with fingers that shook in spite of his efforts at self-control. He tossed a coin to the man and then, somewhat steadied by the stimulant, walked to his lodgings, where he lay awake until the clattering milk and bread wagons warned him that another day was at hand.

That day saw Devine's drug-store closed to the public; but behind the locked doors the proprietor and another man busied themselves until far into the night, taking account of stock and adjusting other matters.

The following day, a dray drew up at the door of the Eighth Avenue establishment, and the stock was loaded into it. Another dray followed, and the fixtures were carted off. While the real-estate agent was placing a placard in the window, which read "To Let," Devine was at his bank, withdrawing his entire balance, and an hour later was speeding west with funds amounting to nearly fifteen thousand dollars upon his person.

His ticket read from New York to Seattle, but before paying for it, he had been assured by the agent that he was entitled to stop over at Detroit and Chicago for any period of time less than five days. Devine had urgent business to transact in both cities, and long before Detroit was reached had familiarized himself with certain train schedules, and had noted the proposed sailings of several steamships from Seattle and Vancouver.

The wheels of the express had hardly ceased turning at Detroit before Devine sprang from the steps of the sleeper and entered a cab. Driving to the offices of a well-known firm of boat-builders, he dismissed the cab and entered the salesroom.

"I want to see a good motor-boat," he said to a salesman who approached him. "Something that is fast; that don't draw too much water; and has a cabin in her that two or three people can cook and sleep in."

The salesman scratched his head with the end of a lead pencil, and then led the way down an aisle between rows of sample boats of every description. Pausing before a twenty-footer with a miniature cabin in her forward end nearly flush with the deck, he informed Devine that the boat had berths for two, that there was ample space to install a locker and kerosene-stove, and that she was guaranteed to cover a measured mile in a little better than four minutes. The price, he added, was nine hundred and fifty dollars, f.o.b.

"Show me something about twice as big, that can go twice as fast," was Devine's reply as he turned away from the little craft.

"Of course we have larger and faster ones, sir," said the salesman, "but—" he hesitated as he surveyed the prospective customer. Devine's appearance was far from that of a wealthy purchaser of fast pleasure craft. He finally continued, "You see, every foot in length, and every mile per hour of additional speed, nearly doubles the cost."

"Show me what I want and then we'll talk about the cost," directed Devine, as he tapped his breast-pocket significantly.

The salesman took the hint, and led the way to the front of the room. Propped up upon chocks, in front of one of the large plate-glass show windows, Devine saw a long, shallow boat. She had fine lines, and had evidently been built with an eye for speed rather than for seaworthiness.

"How fast can this boat go?" asked Devine, as he touched the polished sides of the racer.

"She ought to do nearly thirty, sir," answered the salesman. "Her mate, with the same hull and engines, beat everything on the lakes last fall. Shell sleep four people in that hunting cabin of hers, and there's hardly anything afloat that can pass you. She'd not be on the floor now: at this time of the year but for a Milwaukee party that put up a deposit on her. We've held her for him nearly ninety days, and I've been instructed to sell her."

"Can one man run the engine and steer her if needs be?" inquired Devine, who had climbed aboard, and was peering into the cabin.

"That's the beauty of her," declared the clerk, as he followed Devine. "The engine's a forty-horse, four-cycle; but we've got these marine engines down so fine nowadays that they're practically fool-proof. All she needs is gasoline and lubricating oil. Keep the tanks full and the spark plugs clean and she'll run until the engine wears out."

"How many miles will she cover in smooth salt water with one filling of the gasoline tank?" asked Devine.

"She ought to cover about three hundred miles, figuring her consumption at a little less than a pint per horse-power per hour," was the reply, after a moment's calculating.

"Could you put two extra tanks in her, one along each side of her keel, so that I could get at least a thousand miles out of her without having to stop for want of gasoline?" was the next query.

"We'll have to see one of the designers about that; I dare say that it can be arranged. Step this way, and I'll make inquiry."

Devine followed the man to an inner office, and after waiting a few minutes was informed that the tanks could be put in and connected if he would pay extra for their installation.

"How much will the whole shooting match amount to?" asked the ex-druggist.

"The launch will cost you seven thousand five hundred dollars net, and the extra tanks will come to about a hundred apiece," the salesman replied, after a brief conference with the designer.

Devine glanced around the inner office, and then produced a bill-book from his breast-pocket. Taking from it a packet of bank-notes of large denomination, he counted out a sum of money and replaced the balance in his pocket.

"There's eight thousand dollars." said he as he passed the money to the salesman. "I want you to get that boat into the lake here by two o'clock this afternoon. If you start now, you can do it. Send one of your best demonstrators to me to explain the working of the boat, and he'll spend the afternoon with me on the water at my expense. After we return to the dock, I want you to haul out the boat and put a gang of men at work on the tanks. Let 'em work day and night until she's ready, and then crate her up on a flat car and ship her to me at Seattle by fast freight. Put a case under her flooring containing some extras and duplicate parts. I have the demonstrator prepare a list after I've had a talk with him. If the eight thousand dollars don't cover the entire expense, wire me at the Rainier-Grand in Seattle and I'll wire you the difference."

"What's the name, sir?" asked the salesman when he had verified the amount and taken out an order pad.

"Wilson— James T. Wilson," answered Devine, without hesitation.

The salesman prepared a receipt for the money, and after Devine received some instructions in detail relating to the draft of the launch, and the exact capacity of the proposed tanks, he left the office and inquired for the nearest branch of the public library.

After an hour spent in poring over an atlas and doing some figuring, he proceeded to a telegraph office and sent a despatch as follows:

FRANK Moore, Dawson City, Y. T.

Mailed you package. Am on way. Make it last trip just below Nulato. Will see you at Mission about September first as per your schedule.

JIMMIE.

That afternoon Devine received his lesson on the waters of Lake St. Clair, and the following day found him in an outfitting house in Chicago, where he made extensive purchases before continuing on his way to Seattle. He seemed to be well contented with affairs as far as they had gone, and as he paid for a pair of the latest model of magazine revolvers, and added two dozen of large chamois-skins to his bill, he muttered to himself:

"Moore's scheme is a winner. I'll back it with my last cent, for there's a million in it at least!"

Chapter 2

The Pilot Is Silenced

ONE of the most popular passengers on board the steamship Yosemite was the man known as James T. Wilson. He was always ready to fill a chair at one of the card- tables in the smoking-room, and none of the men spent half as much money with the wine steward as he. His speed boat, Skimmer I, lashed snugly to the port rail forward of the main hatch, was admired by all hands, although old-timers who had wintered on the Yukon were outspoken in disapproval of its owner's plans.

A gasoline-boat was useless on the river, they declared, since for the entire distance of one thousand five hundred and forty miles between Dawson City and St. Michaels, at the mouth of the river, it would be impossible to obtain gasoline. Others asserted that no craft drawing more than thirty-six inches of water could cross the bar at Fort Yukon, one thousand one hundred and forty miles above the delta, and Wilson had been heard to say that the Skimmer drew exactly thirty-nine inches with her tanks full.

The Yosemite was barely twenty-four hours out from Seattle before the curious ones among the passengers had learned from Wilson that he was a capitalist, bound for the Klondike district on a flying trip. When it had been intimated to him that he could have made the trip much more quickly and economically by going in by way of the railroad to White Horse, and down the Lewes River by boat, the capitalist smilingly stated that time and money were no object to him, and that he expected to combine business with pleasure.

It was his purpose to tarry a while at St. Michaels, and to ship gasoline to various points on the Yukon by the stern-wheeler Alice, which was advertised to connect with the Yosemite at St. Michaels. Furthermore, he added that he had heard that gunning was good along the river, and that if he found it impossible to get over the bar at Fort Yukon, he would turn around and have a bit of shooting on his way out of the country before the freeze-up.

He asked many questions about the mission stations along the river, and seemed to be particularly interested in Nulato, a settlement and mission about half-way between Dawson City and the salt water. Those familiar with the country were only too willing to give him the information he desired, as they found him to be liberally inclined, free with his cigars and a very companionable person indeed.

On the 5th of August, twelve days after leaving Seattle, the Yosemite dropped anchor off the harbor of St. Michaels and the passengers hastened ashore to stretch their legs. Lighters were towed alongside, 'and for two busy days the work of shifting a great part of the cargo to the stern-wheeler went on.

Wilson's launch was picked up by the powerful steam crane as if it were but a toy, and after its owner had seen his barrels of gasoline safely aboard the river steamer, and had given the purser directions for leaving it at certain points along the river, he took up his quarters aboard the Skimmer and made some brief trial spins around Norton Sound, guided by a half-breed pilot named Ishmak.

The storekeeper at St. Michaels warned Wilson that the season was getting late, and that if he intended trying to cross the bar at Fort Yukon he had better be on his way. The capitalist laughed, and declared that it was immaterial to him whether or not the freeze-up caught him below Dawson.

He wanted to give the Alice a good start ahead of him so that he would be sure of a supply of gasoline. He continued his trial spins around St. Michaels with his half-breed pilot, studying his engine and biding his time. He had an appointment below Nulato on the first of September, and had no desire to reach that point much be- fore the appointed time.

The Alice was the last boat of the season to leave for Dawson City, and ten days after she whistled farewell to the little settlement at St. Michaels Wilson headed the sharp prow of the Skimmer for the delta of the Yukon, fifty miles distant.

Wilson was at the wheel. The half-breed perched himself upon the roof of the cabin, and from time to time indicated the course. As the buildings of St. Michaels faded from view, Wilson opened the throttle wider and wider until the Skimmer fairly flew over the green seas, and Ishmak gazed in amazement.

Soon the color of the water changed to a muddy yellow; then the low outlines of the coast loomed up ahead of them, and within an hour and a half after leaving St. Michaels they were slowly threading their way into the Apoon Passage, one of the several mouths of the mighty Yukon.

Ahead of them, as far as their eyes could see, stretched the monotonous flats of yellow mud and sand. Not a tree, not even a bush or a shrub was in sight. They were in the barren Delta, and no sound broke the silence save the rush of waters under the cutwater of the Skimmer and the hum of her engine.

Beside the helmsman lay an open book and a compass, and from time to time, as the course changed, he made entries in the book, consisting of the time, the direction, and the rate of speed they were traveling. There was a fair volume of water in the river-bed, therefore all Wilson had to do was to keep in the middle of the stream, with an eye peeled for snags.

The engine ran sweetly, and he had long since determined the exact amount of cylinder oil to feed it. He somewhat regretted having hired Ishmak to accompany him, since there seemed to be very little need for his services.

As the Skimmer drew out of the Delta and entered the main channel, the river grew wider and its banks higher. Occasional clumps of dwarfed willow and gnarled hemlock appeared upon either shore. As the brass marine clock in the cabin companionway indicated the hour of one by chiming two bells, Wilson throttled the engine down until the launch barely held its own against the five-mile current, and then headed for the bank.

Ishmak sprang out with a line and made her fast to a stunted willow. Wilson shut off the engine, and a few minutes later the savory smell of frying ham and eggs, which issued from the hunting cabin, indicated that the noon-day meal was well under way.

Good progress was made during the afternoon, and as the sun disappeared below the southwestern horizon the Skimmer was tied up for the night. Wilson prepared another meal, and after it had been eaten in silence, retired to the cabin to read and smoked before turning in. He closed the sliding door behind him and left Ishmak to make up his bed of furs on the floor of the open cockpit. The nights, as yet, were not excessively cold, and they could reasonably expect to have from three to four weeks more of fine weather.

Wilson lit the swinging lamp over the little table and tried to interest himself in a book. The effort was useless, as from time to time he caught himself turning page upon page with no idea of the printed contents. He shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigar. Before the weed had been fairly ignited, he permitted it to go out, and cast it from him with an oath. Examining his revolvers, he placed them beneath a pillow at the head of his berth. He then turned down the lamp a little and partly undressed himself.

Troubled by his thoughts, and fearing that some slight accident might interfere with his plans, he found it impossible to sleep. The presence on board of Ishmak disturbed him. The river was easy to navigate. He had no real need of the-half- breed, and it was out of the question to have him on board when he kept his appointment below Nulato.

As yet, Ishmak knew nothing of his plans, save that they were bound up the river with no definite destination in view. He could manage to leave him ashore at one of the lower Esquimo settlements, or he could get rid of him by running away with the Skimmer while Ishmak was on the river's bank attending to some fictitious errand.

These schemes would hardly do, reflected Wilson. The half-breed would probably be able to make his way to one of the settlements if he was abandoned. If he was left openly at one of the fishing stations, it would excite curiosity. Either plan was sure to start talk, and that was the last thing that Wilson wanted at that particular time. Another way must be devised.

Several times during the night Wilson arose from his berth and opened the door giving access to the cockpit. The night was a fairly bright one. The Skimmer was tied up to the right bank of the river, and Wilson could see the dim outlines of the moss-covered tundra as it swept away northward toward the Arctic Ocean.

Looking in the other direction, he saw the faint shadow of the far shore, nearly a mile distant. The five-knot current lapped monotonously the bows of the launch; no other sound could be heard except the snore of the pilot, buried in his robes of deer and muskrat skins.

Upon his last visit to the deck, Wilson gazed for several minutes at the unconscious form of the pilot. Returning to the cabin, he turned up the lamp and looked at himself in a mirror which hung beside his berth. He shivered slightly; then opening a locker, he took out a leather- covered flask. Without troubling to get himself a glass, he took a long pull at the neat brandy, and then turned down the lamp and threw himself upon his berth.

When he awoke in the morning, the sun was shining brightly, and the pilot was brushing the hoar-frost from the seats and flooring of the cockpit. Breakfast was prepared, and then the engine oiled and groomed for another day's run. Wilson turned his motor over as Ishmak cast off the line to the bank, and as the half-breed gained the deck, the engine was purring smoothly. Switching over his ignition from the storage batteries to the magneto, Wilson opened the throttle and the Skimmer forged ahead.

The wretched huts of Andreafski appeared an hour later, but as Wilson had no business to transact there, he continued up-stream at full speed, merely waving his hand to a group of half-starved Tinnehs who gazed open-mouthed at the Skimmer as it raced by. Such a wonderful craft had never before been seen on the river.

Ikogmut was reached about four o'clock, and as Wilson learned that the Holy Cross Mission was but fifty miles farther on, he decided to continue, as there was both gasoline and a taste of civilization awaiting him at the mission. He was not disappointed either, for as he tied up at the little dock at Holy Cross, a kindly priest bade him welcome, and informed him that the Alice had left two barrels of gasoline there for him some days since.

Wilson had time to visit the wonderful garden and chapel of logs before dark, and after a hearty supper, he had a long chat with the priest, who had many questions to ask about affairs of the world outside. Refusing a bunk in the guest cabin, Wilson returned to the Skimmer and passed the night.

Early the next morning he roused Ishmak, and with the assistance of two of the native converts, rolled the barrels of gasoline to the head of the dock, and filled his tanks. He had figured well, for after filling both of the auxiliary tanks which he had drawn upon alternately in order to preserve an even keel, barely a gallon of fuel was left in the second barrel.

Waving a farewell to the priest, he ordered Ishmak to cast off, and a few minutes later a bend in the river hid the station from view. He meant to reach Nulato, two hundred and twenty miles above, by nightfall; and as the land grew higher and the river narrower, the current became stronger, and it became necessary for him to press the engine almost to its limit.

A brief halt was made at midday for coffee and food; and as the afternoon wore on and the sun sank lower and lower, Wilson watched the pilot narrowly, and finally ordered him to stand up on the roof of the cabin to see whether he could make out any of the buildings at Nulato.

The fishing station of Kaltag had been passed an hour since, and Wilson felt that Nulato could not be many miles away. The Indian took up his station on the prow of the launch. Steadying himself by placing one hand upon the gilt ball at the top of the burgee staff, he shaded his eves with his other hand and gazed to the north.

"Can't see Nulato," said the half-breed, after a moment. "I think about ten miles more. 'Round next bend she come."

"You stay up there till I tell you to come down," ordered Wilson sharply.

Something in the tone caused Ishmak to look behind him. Wilson was sweeping the horizon with his field glasses, pausing every few moments to see that the Skimmer was keeping to her course. Not a living thing was in sight. Wondering why his employer had spoken sharply to him, and why he had not handed him the field- glasses, Ishmak continued his lookout to the northward.

Wilson laid the glasses aside, and felt in the side-pocket of his leather shooting-jacket. Slowly withdrawing his hand from the pocket, it disclosed the wicked-looking automatic. Another hasty glance behind and around him, and then Wilson leveled the repeater at the half-breed. Glancing along its blued steel sights, he selected a spot midway between the shoulders of the pilot, and then pressed the trigger hard.

A series of sharp reports split the air, as Wilson kept the trigger pressed back, and ten steel-jacketed bullets tore their way through the body of the pilot quicker than the telling of it. Ishmak straightened to his full height without relaxing his grasp upon the staff.

For a fraction of a second he stiffened; then his body, still erect and unyielding, toppled into the Yukon, as a tree falls under the woodman's ax, carrying with it a piece of the staff, which had broken off at the socket, when the guide's hand still held it fast. His body came toxthe surface in a short time at least a hundred feet astern of the Skimmer.

As Wilson looked behind him, wide-eyed and ghastly white, he saw an arm and hand appear above the yellow flood. The gilt ball at the end of the broken staff, still clutched by the gripped hand of the pilot, glinted an instant in the rays of the setting sun, and then slowly sank from view.

Ishmak had been silenced forever.

Chapter 3

The Stowaway

"ANY mail for Frank Moore?" inquired an ill-favored individual, as he entered the two-storied edifice of logs which served Dawson City as a post-office. A mail had arrived that morning by way of Skagway, and he had impatiently taken his place near the foot of the long line which formed.

The clerk reached into one of the pigeon-holes behind him, and after fumbling over a bunch of letters, shook his head and looked at the man behind him.

"Maybe you've got a package for me, then," insisted the man at the window, without budging from his position.

The clerk looked upon a bench at his elbow. It was cluttered up with a heap of packages of various sizes. Pawing them over, he looked at their superscriptions until he came across a small parcel wrapped in green paper. Sliding it across the window-ledge, he then gave his attention to the next man in line.

Moore grasped the green package, and after a glance at the postmark, placed it in his pocket and left the building. Climbing the stairs to his lodgings in First Avenue, he placed the parcel, without opening it, at the bottom of a telescope valise. He then returned to the kitchen of the Aurora in Front Street, an establishment given over to eating, drinking, dancing, and gambling.

It ranked third in point of size to the Dawson City devotees of the three latter amusements, but in so far as its restaurant was concerned, Dawson could not boast of anything better. Moore was the chef, and no appetizing dish was too difficult for him to prepare. The bon-vivants of the Klondike were proud of him, and with good reason.

Doffing his street garb, Moore donned a white apron and cap, and went about his duties. With his thoughts on other matters, it was not surprising that the patrons of the restaurant had reason to complain of the dinner that evening. The bouillon was not up to the mark, and the patés of chicken. were scorched. The proprietor forbore to complain, however, as good cooks were still scarce in Dawson, and Moore was possessed of a sullen temper.

The river steamer Bella was due at Dawson in the latter part of August, and its chef was to take Moore's place for the winter. Arrangements had been made for Moore to act as cook on the Bella's last trip down the river as far as St. Michaels, where she was to winter. He would then proceed to San Francisco or Seattle by ocean steamer, and come in the following spring by the way of Skagway. Moore's employer reflected that there was no use in finding fault. August was only a few weeks ahead.

As the long days of the brief summer wore away, Moore began to concern himself less and less with the culinary doings in the Aurora. He left the cooking mostly to his assistants, and absent-mindedly superintended the preparations of dishes especially ordered. His thoughts were far away. At last he saw himself on the "outside" with a large sum of money to spend.

His scheme, the fruit of a year of thought, was a good one. He would soon be through forever with unventilated kitchens and. scorching ranges. He would be a gentleman. A score of servants would wait upon him. He pictured the white lights of New York; the theaters and the race-track.

He scanned the columns of Dawson's daily paper closely, on the lookout for news from down the river; and one evening in early August, as the days were growing shorter, he noted a telegraphic despatch from St. Michaels via the military telegraph line, announcing the departure of the Bella.

A day or two later, he read of the arrival at St. Michaels of the Yosemite, and the subsequent sailing of the Alice. In due time he read of an adventurous American capitalist who had started to ascend the Yukon in a forty-foot motor-boat.

Thereafter, until the Alice had arrived and departed, and the whistle of the Bella notified the residents of Dawson that the last "down-boat" of the season had arrived, Moore became a changed man. He began to frequent the gaming tables of the Aurora. Roulette and faro made a hole in his savings, and what was left of them found its way into the till of the dance-room, where dances and drinks were "four bits" each.

The evening of August 27 found him on board the Bella. He had scarcely a hundred dollars to show for his two winters at Dawson, but he had his telescope valise with him, was assured of a passage down the river in the capacity of cook, and knew that if his plans went smoothly he would soon be rich. All that night, men were busily employed in unloading the river steamer. The following forenoon, some freight for Fort Yukon and Rampart City was trundled aboard, followed by a bare half-dozen passengers, who preferred the all-water route. Promptly at noon on the 28th, a day later than her schedule called for, Captain Dunn pulled the whistle-cord of the Bella, lines were cast off, the gang- plank hauled in, and the Bella steamed rapidly down the river. With the aid of the current, the stern-wheeler was able to travel about sixteen miles an hour. Four hours later, the international line was passed, and a short stop made at Eagle, where two disgusted "cheechakas," with barely enough money left to pay their passage, were taken aboard.

As the forests of birch and fir below Seventy Mile swept by, Moore had supper ready, and after a stop for wood, the Bella continued on her way until the sun sank behind the granite cliffs, and it grew too dark to proceed with safety. Making for the bank, Captain Dunn tied up for the night, while Moore changed his clothing and entered the smoking-room for a chat with the passengers.

A game of poker was in progress at one of the round tables. At another, with a bottle of Scotch between them, two old "sour-doughs" were talking of the famine of 1897. The two tenderfoots listened respectfully, and thanked their stars that an opportunity of getting out of that awful country beford the freeze-up had been offered. Then the conversation took a turn along technical lines; and after listening for an hour to an animated discussion as to the proper pitch for setting sluice- boxes and the right depth for flour-gold riffles, Moore left them.

Before retiring, he stopped at the galley to look after two salmon-berry pies which he had baked for himself. He had removed them from the oven about an hour before and placed them on a table before the large potato-bin opening into the galley. The door had a spring-lock, and Moore carried the only key. The pies were gone— plates and all. Blaming the theft upon some member of the crew, who had managed to fish them out through the window, Moore sought his berth

Circle City was reached the following forenoon, and an undesirable former resident of Dawson was invited to step ashore The commandant of the Northwest mounted police had given him his choice between the wood-pile and deportation.

A small quantity of freight was borne ashore, and the Bella was off again. Below Circle City, the Yukon broadened out in the flat country. The water grew shallower, and the current decreased, but in spite of the disadvantage, Captain Dunn made Fort Yukon by dark, having passed the Alice on her way up.

The next night was spent at a wood station above Rampart City. The mouth of the Tanana was passed on the day following, and Moore, unable to sleep, smoked nearly all night. Late in the afternoon Captain Dunn stopped at Nulato.

A few barrels of fish-oil were rolled aboard the Bella, followed by a priest with some mail. Moore noted the graceful outlines of a motor-boat tied up at the little dock close at hand, and a few moments later its owner boarded the Bella and bought a pound of cotton waste from the engineer.

"I had a pretty tough trip up," Moore heard him say to the captain. " My pilot fell overboard just below here, and since my arrival at Nulato, my engine hasn't been working right. It's all right now, though; but it's too late for me to think of getting any farther up the river. Guess I'll leave for St. Michaels this afternoon or in the morning and get out of the country before the ice catches me."

Looking out of the galley doorway as the owner of the motor-boat started for the gangway, Moore looked the man straight in the face. The visitor glanced carelessly at the man in the white cap, but if they had ever met before no one was the wiser. An observant onlooker might, however, have detected the right eyelid of the cook droop slightly as the other passed.

A few minutes later the Bella had dropped down stream, and was out of sight around the bend. Captain Dunn was anxious to reach the next wood-pile before dark, and the passengers were given to understand that it was situated a few miles below Kaltag, forty miles distant.

Moore was preparing supper by the time the wood-piles hove in view. Several pans of corned-beef hash were browning in the oven of the galley range, while large pots of tea and coffee were steaming on its top.

Glancing nervously around the galley, Moore took a package wrapped in green paper from a pocket beneath his apron. Hastily unwrapping it, he sprinkled a liberal portion of its contents over the pans of hash, and divided the remainder between the pots of tea and coffee. Then casting the empty box and paper into the fire, he awaited the entrance of the steward. It still lacked ten minutes of the regular hour for supper.

The native deck- hands made the Bella fast to the bank, and obedient to the sharp command of the captain, began their task of getting the cord-wood aboard, so that an early start could be made at daybreak.

The supper-bell rang, and the passengers filed into the deck-house, their appetites whetted by a stroll ashore in the nipping air. Platters of steaming hash were passed around the table, followed by pitchers of tea. and coffee. Captain Dunn explained that the wood had been cut some distance away from the river, and hauled to the bank by dogs. The woodcutters' camp several miles distant, and the men seldom came to the river except with wood, or when in need of supplies. He helped himself to coffee, and the meal went on.

First to feel the effects of the contents of the green package was one of the "cheechakas," a young man just out from Indiana. He was in the act of conveying a spoonful of canned peaches to his mouth when he collapsed. The spoon rattled to the floor; his nerveless arms dropped to his sides; and in another instant he had fallen over on the table, face down.

The steward sprang to his side, and with the aid of two of the passengers, bore the tenderfoot to his stateroom and laid him in his berth. By the time they returned to the supper-table, Captain Dunn, who had had his third cup of coffee, lay stretched out upon the floor, while the engineer and one of the old-timers busied themselves loosening the clothing around his neck.

In the meantime, the deck-hands and two half-breed firemen appeared at the galley door with their tin pans and cups. The cook heaped up their pans with hash, and filled their pint cups with coffee. From his post in the galley, Moore could see them as they squatted around the warm boiler in the half-open engine-room, and attacked the food. He watched and waited.

One of the crew devoured his bread and hash long before the others had finished.

He swallowed his scalding coffee, and drew out his pipe and tobacco. Moore watched him closely. The man had filled his pipe, and had opened the door of the fire-box for a light when he toppled over awkwardly and fell to the iron-sheathed deck.

At the same instant Moore heard a commotion in the deck-house, and the steward rushed forth, a pitcher in his hand. He reached the galley, and was about to address Moore, when he fell writhing to the deck, for he also had sampled the coffee during his trips to and from the galley.

The crash of the pitcher seemed to arouse Moore to action. Stepping over the unconscious body of the steward, he rushed to the deck-house, and entered. A terrible sight met his gaze. Strewn around the table, lying just as they had fallen, he saw the insensible forms of his victims. But one passenger was missing. Surmising that he had been carried to his stateroom, Moore pushed open the door, and saw that he had been placed in his berth.

Making his way back to the galley, Moore perceived that his plans had been successful as far as the crew was concerned, for he could see the motionless shapes upon the floor of the engine-room. The door of the fire- box was open, and the dying flames lit up the compartment, causing ghastly  shadows.

"Hope they all sleep till Jimmie gets here," said Moore to himself. Opening a locker, he was about to help himself to whisky, when something bumped the Bella gently and a voice cried, "Wake up and "take a line here!"

A few moments later the Skimmer was tied securely to the low rail of the larger craft. Wilson then sprang aboard, and the two conspirators silently clasped hands.

"Everything all right?" asked Wilson.

"Every soul on board's doped except me," replied the cook.

"I've been following you with the Skimmer ever since you left Nulato," explained Wilson. "She ran so fast that I had to choke her down to quarter speed to keep from catching up. Tied up to the bank about two miles above here, so as to give you a chance to get in your fine work. Here— take this." Wilson slipped one of his automatics into the hand of the cook.

"You know how to work it," he went on. "It's loaded, and you may need it in case any wood-choppers butt in on us. Let's get to work now. It ain't so dark to-night but what we can load up and slip down the river a few miles. This part of the river is free from snags. Where's the stuff?"

They had been talking in front of the galley. Moore put the revolver in his side- pocket, and led the way to the deck-house. Taking a fire-ax from its socket on the wall, he paused before a closed door adjoining the captain's stateroom.

With a well-directed blow of the ax, he shattered the lock, and the door swung ajar. Pushing the door wide open, he pointed to a row of wooden boxes, each one about two feet square and strapped at the ends with iron bands.

"There's the stuff," said Moore. "Every ounce on board is in those boxes, except a few nuggets a couple of those sour-doughs layin' back there was carryin' in their pockets. There ain't as much as I thought there was going to be, but I guess it'll be about all your boat'll carry."

Wilson counted fifteen of the boxes, and raised one on end.

"Must weigh about two hundred apiece," said he. "Figuring the gold at eighteen dollars an ounce, that won't be far off a million. Maybe it'll be a little more."

"This is most all Fannie MacDonald's shipment," said Moore. "She brought in a hydraulic machine last year, and cleaned up all this stuff from the tailin's of the old Bonanza claims. She worked on a percentage, and made good. She was to have come out with it herself, as I understand it, but decided to work until the freeze-up and then go out with dogs, over the Pass."

"Come on!" suddenly exclaimed Wilson. "We'll have to get busy with this stuff and get it aboard the Skimmer. We'll put it aboard just as it is, and to-morrow, while we're slipping down the river, you can shift it into some chamois-skins I've got."

Six or seven trips had been made between the gold-room and the Skimmer when Moore became nervous.

"Suppose some of them people wake up?" he inquired. They were standing directly in front of the galley again, and the light from the large lamp shone full in Wilson's face.

"Don't let that worry you," he replied with a laugh that disclosed a gold tooth under his close-cropped black mustache. "They'll never wake up," he went on in a cold-blooded tone that made Moore shiver, hardened as he was.

"You see, after I mailed you that green package, I discovered that, instead of sending you chloral-hydrate, I had sent you quite a different article. Two grains of the powder I mailed you will put the strongest man out of business inside of five minutes. It's just as well that I made the mistake, because chloral is uncertain, anyway. I didn't grub-stake you two years ago for nothing, and it's just as well if we don't take any chances of doing another ten-stretch with a two-spot off for good behavior. Those fellows will never dig any more gold."

"Jimmie, you're a hound of Hades!" declared Moore excitedly. "It's wholesale murder, and nothing else."

"Never mind what it is," said Wilson with tightening lips. "We've got work ahead of us now. Let's get at it."

The last box had been slid down an inclined plank into the cockpit of the Skimmer. Wilson, with an eye to the shore for the possible coming of woodcutters, had trimmed the additional load of the motor-boat so that an even keel would be preserved. He then mounted to the deck of the Bella and, knocking in the heads of several barrels of fish-oil, kicked them over on their sides. A five-gallon can of kerosene was then slashed with the fire-ax, and the petroleum emptied along the wooden deck at the base of the deck-house on the shore side.

Wilson crumpled up a newspaper. Igniting it at the open door of the fire-box, he tossed it into the nearest puddle of kerosene. As the oil blazed up, he sprang to the rail on the opposite side and dropped lightly into the cockpit of the Skimmer.

"All right! Let go!" he called to Moore, who had cast off the line from the rail of the Bella, and was holding the launch in place by means of a single turn.

Moore let go the free end of the line. The Skimmer dropped silently down the river, with her bow pointed up-stream. Wilson threw on his switch, and fumbled at the starting-crank. The next instant the hum of the motor drowned the sound of the crackling flames, and as Wilson took the wheel and partly opened the throttle the Skimmer gradually acquired steerage-way and was headed in the direction of St. Michaels, more than six hundred miles below.

The motor-boat had scarcely disappeared around the first bend below the wood-piles, when the slight form of a boy crept from the galley. The Bella was on fire in several different places. Even as he looked into the interior of the deck-house, a tongue of flame shivered the window-glass across from him, and showed in detail the horrible sight within.

Rushing back to the galley, the youth crawled into the potato-bin for an instant. Emerging with a roll of blankets, he found that the flames had not yet worked forward far enough to cut off his escape to the shore. With pale face and trembling limbs, he crossed the narrow plank leading to the bank, sickened by the awful things he had heard and seen.

He had escaped just in time, for even as he sat upon his blanket-roll and buried his face in his hands, the flames ate through one of the hawsers holding the Bella to the bank. The ill-fated stern-wheeler swung to the current, snapping the other hawser, and the next instant the flaming hulk, with its ghastly freight, was drifting down the Yukon, stern first.

Chapter 4

The Flight

"I HAVEN'T the honor of being personally acquainted with this Fannie MacDonald, but I'm much obliged to her for washing out this gold for us." Wilson hit the cold-chisel a heavy blow as he spoke, and the chilled steel bit through one of the iron bands around the box before him.

The Skimmer was tied up to the bank, nearly a hundred miles below the scene of the desertion of the Bella. With Moore on the lookout for snags, and Wilson at the helm, the launch had made fair progress in spite of the reduced speed necessitated by the darkness. Promptly at sunrise Wilson had headed for the shore, and the work of transferring the gold began.

Each box was stenciled with the name of its owner, the number of ounces of gold contained; and on one corner of each lid the gold-commissioner's rubber stamp had been impressed, which indicated that the govern- ment royalty had been paid.

As fast as Wilson knocked off the lids and slashed the inner linings of zinc, Moore poured the heavy dust into the chamois- skins and tied them up securely with hempen twine, pouch-fashion. The empty packages were then cast into the river after Wilson had punched a hole in each bottom, and at a safe distance from the launch a fire was made out of the telltale lids.

"There's another little job to attend to before we go on," said Wilson, as he got out a pair of heavy wire-cutting pliers.

"What's that?" asked Moore, threw the last box-lid on the fire.

"I m going to cut a piece out of that military telegraph line," replied Wilson.

A few yards back from the river's bank stretched the pair of insulated wires which connected St. Michaels with the metropolis of the Klondike. Making his way over the soggy tundra, stepping from one frosty clump of moss to another, Wilson arrived at the foot of a sickly birch.

Just above his head, and within easy reach of his pliers, the wires were strung. Smashing the glass insulators, he then clipped both wires, and cut off a substantial piece from each of them.

"There's nothing like making sure," he observed as he rejoined Moore. "We'll stop again to-morrow below Holy Cross, and cut out another section."

Coiling up the pieces of wire, he threw them into the Yukon. He then started the motor, and, as Moore gained the deck of the Skimmer after shoving her off, Wilson opened wide the throttle, and the Skimmer darted down the river like a live thing.

Faster and faster flew the launch, until Moore trembled for their safety, and besought Wilson to slow down. Knowing that speed was the chief factor in the desperate game he was playing, and realizing that every pound of gasoline consumed made the boat a degree lighter, Wilson turned a deaf ear to his companion's entreaties and pressed the engine to its limit.

Anvik flashed by about nine o'clock, and soon after the buildings of the Holy Cross Mission came abreast. Moore glanced at Wilson, but the latter shook his head.

"We've no time for visiting," he muttered through set teeth, without taking his eyes off the water ahead.

Dusk found them well below Ikogmut, where the river makes a great bend toward the northwest. They had made but one stop, which was in order to permit a hot bearing to cool, and Wilson had occupied the time by cutting another piece out of the telegraph line.

Several snags had been seen and passed. Warned by these, Wilson slowed down as the darkness increased, finally permitting the launch to drift with the current. He sounded his gasoline-tanks and ascertained that he had abundant fuel to last to St. Michaels.

Calculating that he could reach the deep-water port by the next afternoon, he headed for the bank at last; and, though no convenient tree could be found, the Skimmer was secured for the night by sinking her mushroom anchor into the frost-encrusted moss.

"What'll we connect with at St. Michaels?" asked Moore as he lit his after- dinner pipe.

"Steamers are scheduled to leave Nome every day or two for the next two weeks," replied Wilson. "They all touch at St. Michaels, and almost any of them are big enough to pick up the Skimmer with their cranes. We won't need to unload the stuff until. we reach Seattle or Frisco. There's an assay office at both places where we can turn it into bills; and then for a divvy and a quick getaway to the East."

"I suppose it'll be share and share alike?" ventured Moore, as he glanced at his companion furtively.

"Well— hardly," said Wilson, after a moment's reflection. "You see, this trip stands me pretty near fifteen thousand dollars. That sum ought to be deducted before we divide."

"But I did all the dirty work," insisted Moore. "It ought to be half and half."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Wilson. "Didn't I grub-stake you two years ago to come up here? Haven't I put up every dollar I've got? And I'd let you know that I had to croak a man myself on the way up the river."

"I thought he fell overboard when the staff broke," returned Moore.

"So he did," chuckled his companion. "But he had a row of holes in him when he went to the bottom. I forgot that it was an automatic, and held the trigger back instead of pulling it once."

"It's murder just the same, whether it took ten balls or one. And look here, Jimmie— there's no use in my cryin' about it now; but I want to say that if I'd known I was poisonin' those people on the Bella instead of puttin' 'em to sleep, I'd have croaked myself before doin' it."

Wilson laughed harshly as he. set an alarm-clock so that an early start could be made, and Moore sought in the locker for consolation in the shape of brandy. Several drinks of the liquor served to help him into a frame of mind which permitted to sleep; as the sun rose, however, and Wilson busied himself with the engine, Moore's thoughts went back to the awful scene on board the Bella.

Glancing up the companionway to see that he was unobserved, he searched the locker for an unopened bottle of brandy. Finding what he sought, he stealthily drew the cork and took a stiff drink.

Rapid progress was made during the forenoon. Wilson referred to his note-book from time to time as they approached the mouth of the river, as the channels leading to the different mouths were numerous and bewildering. Remembering Ishmak's instructions, he kept to the right, and at noon they were well into the Apoon Passage.

Moore went below to prepare coffee and sandwiches. He had made several trips to the cabin during the forenoon, ostensibly for drinking water. As he staggered when he approached Wilson with a cup of coffee, the latter noticed it and spoke sharply to him.

"Moore, you've been drinking."

"I did have a nip this morning. What of it?"

"You want to cut it out until we're out of the woods; that's all. We've got plenty of work ahead of us to-day, and we need clear heads and steady hands."

Moore shrugged his shoulders and perched himself upon the roof of the cabin. Wilson reduced speed as the mouth drew near, for the water had grown shallower and the channel narrower. As the Skimmer neared the sea, and the helmsman headed northeast toward St. Michaels, the launch shivered several times as her keel touched bars of silt and mud.

As the color of the water gradually changed from a dirty yellow to a muddy green, the Skimmer commenced to roll slightly.

"Better come down off your perch!" shouted Wilson to Moore. "We don't need a double lookout now; and you're liable to fall overboard."

Moore, half stupefied by liquor, rose to his feet and was about to step onto the coaming that ran fore and aft along the sides of the cockpit, when the Skimmer rolled slightly to port and the reeling man fell into the sea with a splash.

Wilson was on the point of spinning his wheel hard over and circling around to the cook's assistance, when a thought stayed his hands. He did not really need Moore now. St. Michaels was less than fifty miles away, and the water was fairly smooth. No one knew Moore was on board the Skimmer. Besides, Moore was the only person who could testify against him in case of any trouble. With Moore out of the way, he would be absolutely safe; and not only that— but he would have the gold all to himself.

Opening the throttle wider, Wilson left Moore to his fate. The nearest point of the shore was nearly a mile distant, and he knew that Moore could not swim. The wind was from the northeast, cool and penetrating; and, after the first startled cry for help, Wilson heard no more. Without casting a glance behind, he kept on his course. Another possible witness had been silenced.

On over the shallow waters of Norton Sound sped the Skimmer, until at last the island of St. Michaels appeared on the horizon. Flocks of wild duck and geese on their annual migration south flew over the launch, going in an opposite direction. Finally Wilson was able to make out the outlines of the buildings on the island; a look through his binoculars disclosed two steam- ships at anchor some distance offshore.

Two hours or so yet remained before sunset. Wilson was confident of obtaining a passage upon one of them. Even if he had to wait over a few days at St. Michaels, he was in no danger, as it would be a matter of weeks before the news of the disappearance of the Bella could reach the outside world. Winter was already setting in along the upper part of the Yukon. In all probability the telegraph line would not be repaired until the following spring.

The blackened hulk of the Bella would remain fast in the ice until summer, when fools would come to the spot and dredge the bed of the river for the boxes of gold. The breaks in the telegraph line would be attributed to wire-thieving natives, and the burning of the Bella, with all hands on board, would remain a mystery. Maybe, if the gold was found to be missing, the wood- choppers below Nulato would be blamed for it.

Wilson laughed at his thoughts, and looked through his binoculars again. He could now make out the color of the vessels ahead of him. One was painted white, and had trim lines. A flat-bottomed  stern-wheeler of small size was made fast to her. The other steamer was larger, and her black sides, high out of the water, indicated that she was carrying very little cargo, if any. From her single funnel a column of black smoke rose a few feet, until the wind dispersed it in Wilson's direction.

As the launch ate up the distance between them, Wilson laid aside his glasses, and headed for the larger vessel. As he drew closer to her he could see that she was riding on a short cable, and that the blue peter was displayed at her truck. Evidently, she was on the point of sailing.

Even as Wilson perceived the blue flag with its white square, a spurt of white vapor shot up alongside the funnel of the steamship, and a few seconds later the wail of her siren was borne to his ears.

Opening up the throttle to the last notch, Wilson covered the last half-mile, and then shut off his power as he shot up under the quarter of the steamship. A red-faced man in a uniform cap stood at the end of the bridge, directing operations.

"Where are you bound, captain?" hailed Wilson, making a speaking trumpet out of his hands, so that his voice might be heard above the clatter of the steam-windlass.

"Victoria," came the reply in a sturdy voice.

"Can you take us with you?" shouted Wilson, pointing first at himself and then at the Skimmer.

"Vast heavin'!" roared the commander to the man at the windlass. The noise ceased as the Skimmer rubbed sides with the larger vessel.

"I'll pay you whatever it's worth," urged Wilson, craning his neck to speak to the man above him.

"Can take you all right, but couldn't say about your boat. It's quite a job to sling her aboard, and I oughter've sailed this mornin'. What are those ring-bolts for and aft bolted to?"

"They're welded into inch and a half wrought-iron bolts that run through to the keel. All you've got to do is to hook on and hoist her aboard without slings. I'll pay you for waiting."

The captain meditated a few moments, and then spat into the sea. Here was a chance for him to add to his commissions.

"Take you both down for five hundred!" he finally roared, fully expecting to be beaten down a hundred dollars or so.

"That goes!" called Wilson, as he shut off his engine and threw up a line.

A pair of seamen clambered down the side of the steamship and took charge. The ponderous cargo crane was swung outboard. Cables of hemp were lowered and attached to the ring-bolts, and inside of ten minutes the Skimmer was hoisted over the rail of the steamship, lowered to the deck, and the work of lashing her in position commenced.

At the request of the captain, Wilson emptied the gasoline-tanks of the launch, and then removed some of his personal effects to the stateroom which he was to occupy. He would have preferred to sleep aboard the Skimmer during the voyage, so that he could keep guard over the gold; but as he reflected that such a course would arouse suspicion, he contented himself by locking the cabin door.

Proceeding to the deck, after stowing away his belongings, Wilson was surrounded by a group of refugees from Nome, who were eager for news from the upper Yukon.

"Did you see anything of the Bella?" asked the purser. "The operator ashore says he hasn't been able to work the wire for three days."

"Passed her at Nulato on the evening of the 1st," said Wilson. "Everybody on board was well, as far as I know, and she ought to be down in another week. My boat is about three times at speedy as the Bella."

After learning that Wilson had gone no farther up than Nulato, and knew little or nothing about affairs at Dawson, the crowd melted away from him, and he was able to ask a question or two himself.

He soon learned that he was on board the tramp steamship Wanderer, and that he could reasonably expect to be set down at Victoria within ten days. The white steamer a mile distant was the United States revenue cutter Bear, he was informed, and the stern-wheeler at her side had been constructed for a party of government scientists who were to leave for the Yukon the following morning. They expected to reach Nulato before the river froze; and were to explore and chart the Koyukuk River the following summer.

An hour later the outlines of St. Michaels faded in the distance, and the sun sank below the smoky waters of the Bering Sea. Wilson was elated at his success; and to celebrate the accomplishment of the greater part of the task opened several bottles of wine at the supper-table. He was voted to be a good fellow by all on board. He tipped the crew liberally, and suggested that an extra lashing be fixed around his launch.

A stop for mail at Unalaska, in the Aleutians; a halt or two at canning stations along one of the inside passages, where the slab huts of the Siwashes are backed by enormous pines shooting up hundreds of feet into the air, and fronted by grotesque totem poles; and then the Wanderer entered the quiet waters of Queen Charlotte Sound.

Victoria was reached at daybreak one morning; and after being warped into her dock, Wilson held a brief parley with the Dominion customs officials. Agreeing to leave for Seattle at once he was given to understand that the Skimmer would not be searched nor subjected to any duty. Thereupon Wilson swallowed a hasty breakfast at the Queen's Hotel and engaged a pilot for the trip across Puget Sound. The Skimmer was lowered into the water, and a supply of gasoline put into her tanks.

As the whistles of Seattle were notifying its residents that the hour of noon was at hand, Wilson was making the Skimmer fast to a stanchion of a pier at the waterside. No customs officers appeared; nor did he fear them in the event that they should show up, for the Skimmer was built at Detroit, he was a citizen of the United States, and if he had gold aboard the launch, that was his own affair.

Despatching the pilot to the office of the Wells, Fargo Express Company for a covered wagon and two armed guards, he awaited their arrival. The mammoth, pouches of chamois were then loaded into the wagon and conveyed to the government assay office.

Taking his receipt, after offering the official in charge a bonus for a quick assay, he paid and discharged the pilot. He then hunted up a ship broker, and made a quick cash deal for the launch. These matters attended to, Wilson sought a hotel, and, after scarcely tasting his dinner, passed a sleepless night.

The next day he haunted the vicinity of the assay office, making hourly inquiries regarding his gold. Shortly after one o'clock he received his vouchers, and, accompanied by one of the officials, proceeded to the Sub-Treasury, where a large package of notes of large denomination, aggregating over eight hundred thousand dollars, was finally handed him.

Placing the bank-notes in his traveling bag, he then made his way to the Southern Pacific ticket-office, followed by two reporters who had learned of the consignment of gold and wanted the particulars for their papers.

Wilson purchased a ticket for Los Angeles, and after promising to. meet the reporters at the depot fifteen minufts before train-time, summoned an automobile, and asked to be driven to the Great Northern Hotel. The chauffeur had no sooner turned the first corner than Wilson tapped him on the back and called a halt.

"I've changed my mind," said he. "Take me to the pier where the Sound steamer leaves. I believe I've got time to catch the afternoon boat to Victoria."

Arriving at the pier, he handed the chauffeur a ten-dollar bank-note. The man glanced at his watch, and then felt in his pocket.

"Never mind the change," chuckled Wilson. "But I'm going to ask you one thing. When those newspaper boys ask you where you took me, tell 'em that I changed my mind, and had you drive me to the Rainier Grand Hotel."

The chauffeur nodded and winked. Wilson boarded the Puget Sound packet, and late that night connected with the east-bound Canadian Pacific express at Vancouver. Tearing into small bits his Los Angeles ticket, he tossed them out of the window of his stateroom.

He placed his bag beneath the head of the mattress of the comfortable berth, and then retired. He smiled as he thought of his successful coup; and as he fell asleep the click of the wheels over the rails seemed to say:

"Got it all! Got it all! Got it all!"

Chapter 5

Jane Martin's Dinner-Party

"JANE, you're the most curious woman I've ever met," observed a dark, smooth-faced man in evening clothes, addressing his companion across the dinner-table.

"What do you mean, John?" returned his vis-à-vis, smiling at him with frank pleasantry.

"Why, one never knows what to make of you. I've proposed marriage to you at least a dozen times since I met you last January, and you laugh at me. Yet you always seem anxious to be with me, and admit that you are very fond of me. Why not say yes?"

The gray eyes of the woman fell under the steady gaze of his brown ones. She fumbled with her olive fork, and bit off a piece from a stalk of celery before replying.

"I am very fond of you, John," she breathed at last. "But just think of it— we've known each other scarcely two months. It's not fair to press a girl so. You've dined me, wined me, and almost theatered me. and, really, you've been very kind; but I con't want you to think just because you have money I've got to say yes. I have means of my own. I'd like to make up my mind. Suppose I give you an answer next week?"

"I suppose I'll have to wait," agreed the other.

"Father's been dead about two years," went on his companion. "The estate was somewhat mixed up, and I'm expecting my agents to reach New York almost any day now with a report. Then Ill know just how I stand, and can give you an answer."

Dinner over, the couple donned their wraps and were driven to the opera. A light supper followed; then they separated, after agreeing to see each other on the morrow.

The next morning, as Beardsley was sitting in the lobby of his hotel, gazing moodily out of the window at the slippery asphalt of the avenue, a page approached him.

"Miss Martin is in her apartment, and wishes to speak to Mr. Beardsley over the phone, sir."

Entering the booth, he learned that her agents had reached town, and that she had arranged to give a little dinner-party in her apartment in their honor. A few friends were to be present. It was possible that she might be in a position to answer his ques- tion definitely after dinner. It had been arranged for that evening at eight o'clock. Would he come?

Thanking her, and assuring her that he would be on hand, Beardsley hung up the receiver and left the booth, his spirits high with hope. It was a chilly day in early March; still too raw to ride in the park with any degree of comfort. Entering the tap-room, he was served with Scotch and soda; after which he gave his attention to billiards until late in the afternoon, meanwhile his mind running riot over his coming happiness.

As the hands of the silver-mounted traveling clock on his dressing-table indicated the hour of eight, Beardsley looked at himself in a pier-glass near the entrance to his suite. Satisfied with his reflection, he closed the door behind him and took the elevator to Miss Martin's floor.

A colored maid took his hat and stick, and presently he found himself seated opposite Jane Martin, and between two persons who were introduced as her trusted agents. The gentleman at her right was introduced as an old friend from Montana; while at her left a bashful youth kept his eyes on his plate while she introduced him to Beardsley as her little friend and protégé.

"You're rather late, John," smiled his hostess, looking at the clock behind her, which indicated half past eight.

"I fancy your clock is fast," said he.

Beardsley noticed that covers were laid for ten persons. He forebore to ask questions, for the serving of dinner had commenced, and no one seemed to have anything to say. Wondering who the four absent guests could be, he addressed himself to the food before him.

Course followed course, until the coffee period arrived, and all through the dinner a feeling of restraint seemed to possess the guests. Beardsley spoke to the man on his right once or twice between courses, but was answered in monosyllables. He fancied that he caught Jane looking at him several times with an unusual expression in her eyes; but as coffee was served, some color  appeared in her cheeks, her eyes sparkled, and she declared that it had been a very stupid party.

"T order every one of you to either sing a song, tell a story, or do a step-dance," she commanded brightly. Tapping the man on her right on the shoulder with a dainty forefinger, she bade him commence.

"I'm very poor at story-telling," he began. "I've traveled quite a bit in my life, and ought to be able to tell a good story; but I can't. It might interest you all, however, if I told you something about a flying trip that I made last fall and winter to Alaska and return. I took some very interesting pictures that I happen to have with me; and while I'm telling my little story, you all might like to look at them."

He ceased speaking. Reaching into his breast-pocket, he produced a small portfolio of prints, which he handed to the man on Beardsley's left. The speaker then went on:

"I'm a surveyor by profession, and accompanied a government party to the Yukon country last fall for the purpose of mapping some of the unexplored territory. I fully expected to be gone for a year or two, when a series of events occurred which hastened my return. We took our provi- sions from a revenue cutter at the mouth of the Yukon, and started on our journey up the river on a small stern-wheel steamer, in- tending to get as far up as possible before the water should freeze.

"Our first stop was at a little fishing village named Kutlik, just across the Sound from the island of St. Michaels. There we took on board a native pilot and a sick man suffering from pneumonia. We proceeded up the river a short distance until darkness came on, and then tied up to the bank for the night. When the sun rose the next morning, one of the men aboard our steamer noticed a human body stranded on a sand-bar just ahead of us. One of our members photographed it just as it lay. We carried it to the bank of the river, and scooped out a grave under the moss.

"The right hand of the corpse clutched a stick or staff of some kind, to the small end of which was attached a gilt ball of wood. The body was frozen, and death had probably been caused by a number of shots from either a pistol or rifle of small caliber."

The speaker paused, and drank some water from the glass at his elbow. The portfolio was handed to Beardsley at this juncture, and as he opened it at the first picture, he gazed stolidly at the gruesome photograph.

"We had learned, just before leaving St. Michaels, that there was something wrong with the telegraph line," went on the surveyor. "The operator requested us to keep the line in view on our way up, and repair the break if possible. Some distance above the point where we buried the unfortunate— man— who, it appears, was a native— we discovered a break in the line. It had been purposely cut, and about twenty yards of each wire removed. We repaired the line, but were unable to communicate with either Dawson or St. Michaels.

"Two or three days passed without any adventure. We made good progress against the current, as we had a very powerful engine, and the hull had been constructed especially for the shallow waters of the Yukon.

"We made a brief stop at the Holy Cross Mission; then went on our way, and finally discovered another break in the line similar to the first. After splicing in two pieces of insulated wire, and cutting in our field instrument, we found ourselves in communication with both Dawson City and St. Michaels. Our telegraphic chat was a brief one, as time was flying and winter was upon us. Dawson asked us where we had passed the river steamer Bella, and seemed surprised when we replied that no steam craft had been passed, but that we had encountered several skiffs and flat-bottomed boats drifting with the current down to the sea. Their occupants always hailed us, but usually passed by at too great a distance for conversation.

"The day following we found the Bella— or, at least, what was left of her. In rounding a bend in the river, we saw a part of a hull aground in the elbow. We were prevented from getting very close to it, as the new ice was making in the slack water around it, and the water was very shallow; but, although she had been burned almost to the water's edge, we could still make out the name on her bow. We photographed her, and went on up the river."

"What became of her passengers?" asked Beardsley, looking up from a photograph of the hulk.

"I couldn't say, personally," replied the surveyor. "But two days later, when we put in for wood about forty or fifty miles south of Nulato, we had some light thrown on the mystery. Camped alongside of the wood-piles, we found three wood-choppers with a boy in their care. He told us a story —a horrible story, almost unbelievable. We tapped the wire, and repeated it to Dawson. The authorities at that place, believing that a crime had been committed, communicated with the nearest United States marshal at Circle City. Winter caught us at Nulato, and the Yukon froze from bank to bank, making further progress by boat impossible. Under the circumstances, it was thought advisable to take the boy and the sick man to Dawson. Some one had to accompany them, and it devolved upon me.

"We waited until the snow was deep enough for travel by sled, then left Nulato with an Indian guide and the best team of dogs that the Mission could provide. We took advantage of the smooth river-ice when we were not making short-cuts across country, and after an exhausting journey, full of hardship and exposure, we reached Daw- son City, having stopped at Circle City to pick up the marshal.

"We made a mid-winter journey over the Pass in record time, having wired ahead for relays of fresh dogs. In due time we reached Seattle. Believing that the man we wanted was not very far from New York, we came on here. This finishes my story, as there are others present who can speak for themselves."

Beardsley looked over the photographs representing the murdered native, the hulk of the Bella, a boy standing beside a wood-pile in the midst of a group of rough-looking men; and others of Malamute dogs, and winter travel in the Northland. He shrugged his shoulders and handed the portfolio to the man on his right.

"Some of them are horribly realistic— all of them are interesting,' he commented in a low tone.

Miss Martin turned to the youth on her left. He was picking nervously at the table-cloth, and seemed to be afraid of something.

"Go ahead with vour story, Frederic," she gently urged him. " There's nothing to be afraid of."

The boy began his story in a low tone of voice, scarcely audible. He kept his eyes on his plate as he proceeded, glancing from time to time at his benefactress, who nodded her approval.

"My father's name was William Stone," he began. "Mine is Fred. We went up to Dawson two years ago after mother died. Father got sick and died too. I wasn't strong enough to work on the creeks, and often got hungry in Dawson. I had no friends after father was buried from the Jesuit Hospital, and wanted to get back to the States. It was too far to walk. I asked some of the captains to take me down the river as far as St. Michaels, but they had all the help they wanted and wouldn't take me unless I paid my fare.

"The Bella was the last boat for St. Michaels. I watched my chance to sneak on board with my blankets. I hid myself in the potato-bin at the side of the cook's galley. I ate raw potatoes and stole pies and other things when the cook locked the galley door for the night.

"A few nights after leaving Dawson I saw the cook open a package wrapped in green paper. There was some kind of powder inside of it. He put it in the hash, and in some pots on the stove. I knew it couldn't have been salt or sugar by the way he acted. Then I heard some noise a little while later outside of the gallery. The cook rushed in and was going to drink something out of a bottle, when somebody called to him.

"The cook went out on deck. Some time later he came along the deck and stopped in front of the galley-door. There was another man with him. They talked terribly. It was about poison and shooting and gold. After that they went away in a boat. I heard the flames sputtering and got my blankets after seeing that the Bella was on fire. I saw a lot of dead people through the window of her cabin.

"Tran ashore. The boat drifted down the river, all afire. About an hour afterward the wood-choppers came to the bank and found me. They had seen the fire. Then came the government boat, and the trip to Dawson and Seattle."

Miss Martin placed her hand on the boy's shoulder and smiled at him encouragingly.

"Did you get a good look at the man who spoke to the cook?" she asked.

He nooded.

"What did he look like?"

"He had a little black mustache like that man," declared the youth as he pointed across the table at the guest on Beardsley's left. "But that ain't him," he added, "cause the man I saw had a gold tooth that showed when he laughed."

Beardsley was smiling broadly. His teeth were all white and even, and his face devoid of beard or mustache.

"This is getting interesting,' said he. "Is it possible that we have this criminal in our midst?"

"It's your turn now for a story," said the hostess, nodding to the man on Beardsley's right. "Maybe you'd rather dance or sing," she added laughingly.

"Well— if I must, I will," he began. "My story will deal with the life of an unscrupulous man up to date. I'll make it brief, because we still have two more stories to hear.

"About fifteen years ago there was a man by the name of James Classon in the employ of the United States Marine Hospital Service. He was an expert chemist, and worked his way up from compounder to the superintendency of the government hospital at Baltimore, Maryland. He began to lead a fast life, and devised a scheme for defrauding the government by means of false vouchers for food and drug supplies. :

"The head cook of the institution, a man by the name of Frank Moore, found out that something wrong was going on. He went to Classon and boldly demanded a share of the spoils. Classon consented under a threat of exposure, and thereafter the frauds were perpetrated on a much larger scale. Moore spent his money as fast as he received it, but the other man, realizing that the scheme could not last forever, 'planted' a sum estimated at about

_MacDonald.

ten thousand dollars. They were detected, arrested, convicted, and sentenced to ten years imprisonment at Fort Leavenworth.

"At the end of eight years, having earned a commutation of two years for good bebehavior, they were released. Classon went to New York City and opened up a drug- store on Eighth Avenue, using the name of Devine. Moore hung around the city for a while, living on Classon's bounty, until the latter made him swear off drinking, and sent him to the Klondike with a small sum of money.

"Moore was under instructions to keep his eyes open for a chance to make a big haul, either honestly or dishonestly. He obtained a position in a Dawson City restaurant, and after his second year on the Yukon, conceived a bold scheme for drugging the passengers of a river steamer and getting away with one of the gold shipments. He wrote to Classon about it, and asked that the latter furnish him with a supply of sleeping powders of some kind, and meet him at some point along the Yukon with a speedy, light-draft launch.

"Classon mailed the drug, but not the drug that Moore expected. He sold his drug-store, assumed the name of James Wilson, and after investing in a launch, proceeded to the mouth of the Yukon. On the way up the river he shot his half-breed pilot for some reason best known to himself.

"He met the Bella at Nulato, a point about half-way between St. Michaels and Dawson. Upon the first of September he followed the Bella down stream.  Moore, under the impression that he was simply drugging the passengers and crew, opened the green package and emptied its contents into the food and drink. Supper was served, and within the space of ten minutes there were but two Iiving persons aboard the Bella: Moore himself, and a boy stowaway, whose story you have heard.

"Classon joined him, and they made their escape with nearly a million dollars' worth of gold dust, most of which was the property of a young lady named Fannie. After setting the Bella on fire, they got to the mouth of the river, cutting the telegraph line in two places on their way. Moore, learning that he had unwittingly poisoned so many people, resorted to the brandy bottle. He became unsteady, and fell overboard about a mile from shore. Classon kept right on, heartlessly abandoning his friend."

At this juncture, Beardsley swallowed the remaining contents of his demi-tasse at a gulp. He produced a cigar from an upper vest-pocket, and after glancing at his hostess inquiringly, accepted a light from the servant behind him. The man on his left looked at Beardsley keenly as the latter felt for the cigar, and the speaker paused, ostensibly to take a sip of water.

"At St. Michaels, Classon took passage upon the steamship Wanderer. Arriving at Victoria, he crossed Puget Sound to Seattle, where he realized cash on his gold. He proceeded to Vancouver and took the Canadian Pacific express to Montreal. He then shaved off his mustache and took a train to Boston. At the Sub-Treasury in Boston he exchanged his bank-notes for ones of a smaller denomination, fearing that he might be tracked by means of the five-thousand-dollar gold certificates which he received at Seattle.

"Proceeding to New York, he rented a box in a safe-deposit vault in Pine Street, and then registered at the Holland House under the fresh alias of John B—"

The speaker never finished his sentence, for as Beardsley's right hand stole toward his vest-pocket as if in search of a match, there was a snarl of pain, and a sharp metallic click. The man on his right had grabbed his wrist and twisted it until the bones cracked. Simultaneously, the man on his left had snapped a patent hand-cuff on his left wrist. The cigar, still lit, fell from the mouth of the prisoner, and burned a hole in the table-cloth.

"People with lighted cigars don't feel for matches, " observed the man on the right as he felt in Beardsley's lower vest-pocket and tossed a flat derringer upon the table.

"I'm afraid I nipped you a little, Mr. Beardsley," apologized the man on his left.

"What does all this mean?" said the trapped man hoarsely. "I'm not the man you're looking for! I was never in Alaska in my life! I have no gold tooth! You'll all pay dearly for this!"

"It's now your turn for a story," suggested Miss Martin evenly. She looked straight at Beardsley as she spoke, but something in her expression drove his face to a dead yellow.

"You can all go to the devil!" he snarled, glaring at the men on either side of him.

"My story is very short," observed the man on his left. "I'm Norton, the United States marshal from Circle City, and this man is my prisoner. I'm afraid I nipped him a little when I cuffed him, but these patent cuffs are new to me. They're quick action though."

Miss Martin whispered to the servant. He disappeared from the room for an instant and then returned with another guest.

"Sorry to be late," said the newcomer. "My name is Dr. Watson, and I'm a dentist. About two months ago this man came to my office in Boston, had a gold-capped tooth extracted, and a porcelain one put in its place. That's all there is to my story."

"Next!" called the hostess.

The servant ushered in a dignified individual wearing gold-rimmed spectacles.

"This is the assistant paying teller of the Boston Sub-Treasury," explained Miss Martin.

He took one of the vacant seats and stared at the prisoner for a few moments.

"Yes," he finally declared, "that is the man who exchanged the money. I can swear to it if necessary."

Beardsley gritted his teeth, but made no audible comment.

"There are two more guests, outside," said the lady, addressing the servant. "You may show them both in. They also have stories to tell."

A few minutes elapsed. Beardsley glanced curiously at the door, and then, as it slowly opened, and a stockily built man entered supporting a sickly looking person, the last vestige of color faded from his face, and he averted his eyes.

"Moore!" he groaned, in spite of himself.

The sick man and his companion took the remaining seats, and the latter introduced himself as the United States marshal from Sitka. "We'll now listen to a few words from Mr. Moore," he concluded.

"Jimmie, you're the blackest hearted murderer that God ever made!" declared the ex-cook, speaking slowly and painfully. "Not satisfied with poisonin' all those people and murderin' your pilot, you left me to drown, as you supposed. If you'd asked Ishmak about the depth of the water off the mouths of the Yukon, he'd have told you that there's no spot within five miles' of the shore where the water's over five feet deep. It's the mud that comes down the river that makes the water shallow.

"I fell into water about four feet deep, and if you'd looked behind you, you'd have seen me wade about half-a-mile toward shore and a native meet me with a kayak. He helped me to Kutlik. I got chilled through, the pneumonia set in and settled on my lungs. The government party took me aboard their boat. I told them the whole story after I got a little better, and—"

A fit of coughing interrupted the story of the sick man. A thread of bloody foam fell from the corner of his mouth. Wiping his face, he continued:

"You once said, Jimmie, that you never had the pleasure of meetin' Fannie MacDonald. You can't say it now, because that's her, sittin' across the table from you. She started across the Pass as soon as she got the news over the telegraph-wire. She got here two months ahead of us, and spent nearly ten thousand with Pinkerton to locate you. She put up at the same hotel with you, and played with you just like a cat does with a mouse— until we should get here. She wanted to make sure of you.

"I'm a lunger. I'll never get any better; but the doctors give me about six months to live. That'll be long enough for me. They've already got my affidavits, but I want to live long enough to tell my story in court. God knows I've been a crook and a thief, but a wilful murderer— never! You're on the way to the chair, Jimmie; and when they tie the electrodes to the base of your skull you can think of the day when you ran away from your pal and left him to drown. I want to—"

Another paroxysm of coughing cut him short. His neighbor then spoke again; this time directly to the prisoner.

"Moore's wrong about the electric chair," he corrected. "We're a little behind the times up in Alaska, and still do things in the old-fashioned way. The State of New York has no jurisdiction over your case, Mr. Classon,  Dannie Norton and myself are goin' to take you up to Sitka on a little visit," declared the marshal. "We'll put you in a place where the squaws won't bother you with any flowers for a spell; and after the judge says the word we're goin' to show you an extra fine gallows that's only been used once or twice. Come on, men, let's get him downtown for the night. It's gettin' late."

The men rose to their feet, two of them half supporting the prisoner between them. Moore kept his seat, as did the young stowaway.

"Just a moment, gentlemen," implored the lady. She patted the youth approvingly upon the back, and addressed the men collectively.

"I want to thank you all for coming here to-night. It might have been arranged differently; but father always said I had a weakness for theatrical effects. I suppose that the courts will give me the money in the safe-deposit box in due time. I'm going to take care of Frederic and educate him.

"There is one other thing. Mr. Classon, or Wilson, or whatever his name is, asked me to marry him. I half promised to give him an answer after dinner to-night. I always keep a promise, and my answer to him is 'yes.' "

The men glanced curiously at her.

Beardsley could not believe his, ears. "What do you mean?" he managed to gasp.

"It's the woman's privilege to set the wedding date," she continued. "If Mr. Beardsley still desires my hand in marriage, I'll marry him a year from to-day— if— if he is alive!"

The marshal from Sitka chuckled grimly at Fannie MacDonald's little joke; and the last words that came to the ears of the prisoner as he was led from the room were those of Moore.

"In that case there'll be no weddin'."

And there wasn't.

__________________

10: The Two Looks

John Galsworthy

1867-1933

The Atlantic Monthly, July 1911

THE old Director of the 'Yew Trees' Cemetery walked slowly across from his house, to see that all was ready.

He had seen pass into the square of earth committed to his charge so many to whom he had been in the habit of nodding, so many whose faces even he had not known. To him it was the everyday event; yet this funeral, one more in the countless tale, disturbed him— a sharp reminder of the passage of time.

For twenty years had gone by since the death of Septimus Godwin, the cynical, romantic doctor who had been his greatest friend; by whose cleverness all had sworn, of whose powers of fascination all had gossiped! And now they were burying his son!

He had not seen the widow since, for she had left the town at once; but he recollected her distinctly, a tall, dark woman with bright brown eyes, much younger than her husband, and only married to him eighteen months before he died. He remembered her slim figure standing by the grave, at that long-past funeral, and the look on her face which had puzzled him so terribly— a look of— a most peculiar look!

He thought of it even now, walking along the narrow path toward his old friend's grave— the handsomest in the cemetery, commanding from the top- most point the whitened slope and river that lay beyond. He came to its little private garden. Spring flowers were blossoming; the railings had been freshly painted; and by the door of the grave wreaths awaited the new arrival. All was in order.

The old Director opened the mausoleum with his key. Below, seen through a thick glass floor, lay the shining coffin of the father; beneath, on the lower tier, would rest the coffin of the son.

A gentle voice, close behind him, said,—

'Can you tell me, sir, what they are doing to my old doctor's grave?'

The old Director turned, and saw before him a lady well past middle age. He did not know her face, but it was pleasant, with faded rose-leaf cheeks, and silvered hair under a shady hat.

'Madam, there is a funeral here this afternoon.'

'Ah! Can it be his wife?'

'Madam, his son; a young man of only twenty.'

'His son! At what time did you say?'

'At two o'clock.'

'Thank you: you are very kind.'

With uplifted hat, he watched her walk away. It worried him to see a face he did not know.

All went off beautifully; but, dining that same evening with his friend, a certain doctor, the old Director asked,

'Did you see a lady with gray hair hovering about this afternoon?'

The doctor, a tall man, with a beard still yellow, drew his guest's chair nearer to the fire.

'I did,' he answered.

'Did you remark her face? A very odd expression— a sort of— what shall I call it?— Very odd indeed! Who is she? I saw her at the grave this morning.'

The doctor shook his head.

'Not so very odd, I think.'

'Come! What do you mean by that?'

The doctor hesitated. Then, taking the decanter, he filled his old friend's glass, and answered,—

'Well, sir, you were Godwin's greatest chum— I will tell you, if you like, the story of his death. You were away at the time, if you remember.'

'It is safe with me,' said the old Director.

'Septimus Godwin,' began the doctor slowly, 'died on a Thursday about three o'clock, and I was only called in to see him at two. I found him far gone, but conscious now and then. It was a case of— but you know the details, so I need n't go into that. His wife was in the room, and on the bed at his feet lay his pet dog— a terrier; you may recollect, perhaps, he had a special breed. I hadn't been there ten minutes, when a maid came in, and whispered something to her mistress. Mrs. Godwin answered angrily, "See him? Go down and say she ought to know better than to come here at such a time!" The maid went, but soon came back. Could the lady see Mrs. Godwin for just a moment? Mrs. Godwin answered that she could not leave her husband. The maid looked frightened, and went away again. She came back for the third time. The lady had said she must see Dr. Godwin; it was a matter of life and death! "Death— indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Godwin: "Shameful! Go down and tell her, if she doesn't go immediately, I will send for the police!"

'The poor maid looked at me. I offered to go down and see the visitor myself. I found her in the dining-room, and knew her at once. Never mind her name, but she belongs to a county family not a hundred miles from here. A beautiful woman she was then; but her face that day was quite distorted.

' "For God's sake, Doctor," she said, "is there any hope?"

'I was obliged to tell her there was none.

' "Then I must see him," she said.

'I begged her to consider what she  was asking. But she held me out a sig- net ring. Just like Godwin — was n't it — that sort of Byronism, eh?

' "He sent me this,'' she said, "'an hour ago. It was agreed between us that if ever he sent that, I must come. If it were only myself I could bear it— a woman can bear anything; but he'll die thinking I couldn't come, thinking I didn't care— and I would give my life for him this minute!"

'Now, a dying man's request is sacred. I told her she should see him. I made her follow me upstairs, and wait outside his room. I promised to let her know if he recovered consciousness. I have never been thanked like that, before or since.

'IT went back into the bedroom. He was still unconscious, and the terrier whining. In the next room a child was crying— the very same young man we buried to-day. Mrs. Godwin was still standing by the bed.

' "Have you sent her away?"

'I had to say that Godwin really wished to see her. At that she broke out;—

"I won't have her here — the wretch! "

'I begged her to control herself, and remember that her husband was a dying man.

'But I'm his wife,' she said, and flew out of the room.'

The doctor paused, staring at the fire. He shrugged his shoulders, and went on: 'I'd have stopped her fury, if I could! A dying man is not the same as the live animal, that he must needs be wrangled over! And suffering's sacred, even to us doctors. I could hear their voices outside. Heaven knows what they said to each other. And there lay Godwin with his white face and his black hair— deathly still— fine-looking fellow he always was! Then I saw that he was coming to! The women had begun again outside— first, the wife, sharp and scornful; then the other, hushed and slow. I saw Godwin lift his finger and point it at the door. I went out, and said to the woman, "Dr. Godwin wishes to see you; please control yourself!"'

'We went back into the room. The wife followed. But Godwin had lost consciousness again. They sat down, those two, and hid their faces. I can see them now, one on each side of the bed, their eyes covered with their hands, each with her claim on him, all murdered by the other's presence; each with her torn love. H'm? What they must have suffered, then! And all the time, the child crying— the child of one of them, that might have been the other's!"

The doctor was silent, and the old Director turned toward him his white- bearded, ruddy face, with a look as if he were groping in the dark.

'Just then, I remember,' the doctor went on suddenly, 'the bells of St. Jude's close by began to peal out for the finish of a wedding. That brought Godwin back to life. He just looked from one woman to the other with a queer, miserable sort of smile, enough to make your heart break. And they both looked at him. The face of the wife— poor thing— was as bitter hard as a cut stone, but she sat there, without ever stirring a finger. As for the other woman— I couldn't look at her. He beckoned to me; but I couldn't catch his words, the bells drowned them. A minute later he was dead.

'Life's a funny thing! You wake in the morning with your foot firm on the ladder— One touch, and down you go! You snuff out like a candle. And it's lucky when your flame goes out, if only one woman's flame goes out too.

'Neither of those women cried. The wife stayed there by the bed. I got the other one away to her carriage, own the street.— And so she was there to-day! That explains, I think, the look you saw."

The doctor ceased; and in the silence the old Director nodded. Yes! That explained the look he had seen on the face of that unknown woman, the deep, unseizable, weird look. That explained the look he had seen on the wife's face at the funeral twenty years ago!

And peering wistfully, he said:—

'She looked— she looked— almost triumphant!'

Then, slowly, he rubbed his hands over his knees, with the secret craving of the old for warmth.

________________

11: Pistol-Packin' Gran'ma

Laurence Donovan

1885-1948

Private Detective Stories  May 1944

HARDBOILED years of experience told Harrigan that the tall stranger coming out of the storm was more than drunk. The man had suddenly materialized out of the coastal night. The Key West highway was flooded by the sudden Winter blow on a high tide.

"Run your bus in a ditch?" queried Harrigan, climbing to his feet. "Need a hand?"

The Philly police reporter, on his Winter fishing vacation along the Keys, was sympathetic. He was the only other cus- tomer in Asa Tewbury's fishing lodge and tavern at the moment.

The tall stranger staggered some, but he put out his hand with a negative ges- ture and grunted:

"Nope— I'm okay— Mister, I'll have a double shot—"

Pat Harrigan slid back into his booth. The stranger's long raincoat flopped wetly about his knees. His soaked slouch hat was pulled low over his eyes.

Asa Tewburty was pouring a double of rye as the new arrival weaved his way into another booth where only one long leg was visible to Harrigan. Harrigan watched the rainwater forming a puddle on the floor at the man's foot.

He still believed the stranger was hurt rather than drunk. But that was none of his business. Probably he had been bumped by his car going into a water-hole.

Harrigan got up and walked to the door that the man had neglected to fasten. He was surprised to see the dimmed lights of a cat, high and dry, some distance up the highway. It appeared the new arrival had left his car and walked at least two hundred yards to reach Tewbury's fishing inn.

Just as he was closing the door, Hartigan's keen eyes spotted movement on the other side of the Key West road. He was sure he had seen at least two men and the shadowy outline of another car with its lights turned off.

Harrigan was curious, it being the kind of night when only a swamp frog or a water moccasin could have enjoyed being out, On a quieter might there would have been some fishermen along the bridge and in boats on Snake Creek, But not this night.

Harrigan shut the door, wondering a little. He expected the figures he had seen would soon come over to the fishing tavern, the only shelter in five miles. He heard the soaked stranger give an order in a weak croaking voice,

"Two dozen raw oysters—two dozen —got 'em?"

"Sure have," said Asa Tewbury. "But hadn't you better shuck that wet coat an' git over closer to the fire? You'll catch your death o' that wet."

"Just bring the oysters—" The man's voice was imperative.

But to Pat Harrigan's trained ear there came the wheezing croak of some pain the man could not quite conceal.

Tewbury heaped the double order of raw oysters on a plate. Funny kind of order for a guy that's cold and soaked, thought Harrigan. But then one of the rules of his fishing vacations was to attend to his own business, strictly that of fishing.

Two minutes later Harrigan could hear the stranger gulping raw oysters. He was washing them down with swallows from a glass of beer. Harrigan glanced at Tewbury.  Asa Tewbury was a mild, little man. He rented boats and kept rooms for anglers, because he liked fishing. Usually he was garrulous and started talking steadily with every stranger that came in,

But, now Tewbury was strangely silent. Harrigan met his eyes. Tewbury held out both hands in a funny gesture. His small, round face was a grayish white under its years of Florida tan. Harrigan got it that Tewbury was trying to point out something to him without speaking or attracting the other man's attention.

Harrigan got up and walked over to the juke box, putting in a nickle. He glanced at the door, still wondering about the other men he had seen across the road in the pouring rain.

For when it rains on the Keys, it opens up and lets go with all the water there is. The men he had seen had been outside their car. Apparently they had been pre- paring to come across to the fishing inn.

One of his hunches hit Harrigan. One of the kind he did not care to entertain on his vacation. He liked fishing vacations mostly because of the kind of people who go fishing. He had always said that real crooks never had time for fishing, or that fishermen never had time to become crooks.

Then Asa Tewbury let out a cry above the noise of the juke box, and he was pointing.

"Mr. Harrigan— the man's in trouble —he's keeled over—"

Harrigan whirled just in time to see the raincoated figure of the tall. man slump from the seat of the booth, The plate, now emptied of oysters, banged on the floor and smashed.

"I'll say it's trouble!" and Harrigan added a short-bitten oath, sliding across the floor. "And his last trouble, or I've never seen a mug pass out! Look!"

The water puddled on the floor from the man's raincoat had turned a pinkish color. The stranger who had just consumed two dozen raw oysters, washed down by rye and beer, had his white ands spread on the floot as only a dead man would hold them.

And as Harrigan got down beside him, it seemed that the man had died with a sardonic smile across his broad mouth. His black eyes remained open and star- ing, but all of the luster was gone from them.

Harrigan had just ascertained the dead man had two bullet wounds in his body near the stomach line.

"Ar he sat there an' ate two dozen raw oysters," muttered Harrigan. "It don't make sense and—"

Harrigan was about to seek the dead man's identity when the night storm seemed to slam the door open. The two men with guns in their hands were wearing fishing waders and slickers. But that could not erase the undeniable marks of hoodlums around their crooked mouths.

"Git back from the guy!" rasped one of the hoods. "An' you come out from behind that bar with your hands up, Mister!"

Asa Tewbury gasped and obeyed. Harrigan raised himself from beside the dead man. He was unarmed and would have had no chance if he had had a gun.

"Keep your nose outta this an' you won't git hurt!" slammed out the other hood. "I'll stick here while you frisk him, Corky! An' make it snappy! We ain't got all night on this damn' one-way road!"

Harrigan did not speak. There was nothing for him to say. He was close enough to the telephone. If this was a simple hold-up, the hoods were fools. They could not make Miami thirty miles north before every road would be blocked.

The hood called Corky leered at Harrigan as if he could read his thoughts.

"No dice, chum," he said cheerfully. "The phone wire's cut. An' the first one that starts from here on the highway will be stopped, and quick. Don't git any wrong idea either. They ain't nothin' gonna be taken except what this dead thief—"

"Can the talk!" snapped the other hood from the doorway. "Git the stuff an' we'll be on our way! What ain't known, ain't known!"

"So the dead man is a thief, huh?" said Harrigan. "An' I suppose you two mugs are cops?"

The hood, already tearing the dead man's clothes apart, snarled an oath at Harrigan.

"I said to keep outta this, an' nothin' will happen to you! We're only takin' back—"

The hood stopped talking then started swearing. He was fairly ripping the clothes off the dead man. Harrigan grunted with resignation. Whatever the play, there was nothing he could do about it. Asa Tewbury was shaking on his bowed legs until it seemed he would fall down.

"Corky! Dammit They ain't— wait, I'll take off his shoes! Yeah! That's where the smart guy would put 'em, "cause we've given his car the double-O."

Harrigan watched the dead man's shoes slip off of wet silk socks. And the hood stood up and slammed one of the shoes at the mirror back of the bar, swearing again.

The man in the doorway said, "All we can do is take the body then. Grab on an' we'll put him in his own car!"

The hood started to move from the doorway. Harrigan swallowed hard. For coming from the darkness was a little, old woman who walked with a cane and was being supported on the other side by a blackhaired girl who could have held the spot anywhere in the world.

The sallow face of a youth showed behind the girl. A face with big, scared black eyes.

Suddenly everything was blurred, in Harrigan's startled mind. The shrieking wind tore at the opened door. There was the dead man with his hands stretched across the pinkish pool of puddled blood and water.

The searching hood had lifted his ugly face. He had seen the new arrivals from the storm. It tempted Harrigan to kick the dead man's robber squarely on his crooked chin. But the hood's gun swung quickly upon him.

Then there was the face of the old woman again. The hood in the doorway was swinging toward this new group of petrels that seemed to be blown in by the storm.

"Keep back!" shouted Pat Harrigan. "Don't come on—"

He was abruptly cut off by what seemed the impossible. Although leaning upon her cane and partly supported by the gloriously figured girl, the gray- haired woman spoke with an emphasis that could be heard.

"Sneakers!" she said. "I'll give you one chance—one chance—"

The hood in the doorway laughed raucously and swung his rod toward the group. Harrigan felt as if he were in the middle of some fantastic nightmare. For a heavy-calibred automatic appeared to blossom by magic from the old lady's handbag.

"Gran'ma!" It was the lustrous black- haired girl crying out.

HE was too late with her warning, if she meant it for that. The heavy rod exploded and jumped in "gran'ma's" hand. The hood in the doorway dropped his gun, spun around, and fell.

"Hold it!" yelled Harrigan. "There's—"

The old woman's pistol planged and the lights went out.

The crackling flash of blue light preceding the darkness was evidence that "gran'ma's pistol" had by accident or intention slugged into one socket of Tewbury's rather exposed wiring. In fact the round-faced, little, old woman had slammed lead directly behind one of the light bulbs. A fuse had been blown out.

"Get away from me— Millie! Danny! Do like I told you!"

The voice of the tiny, gray-haired woman penetrated the weird whistling of the storm wind. For a brief few seconds Harrigan was whirling on his toes and thinking in action.

"Millie?" That blackhaired, graceful girl was as neat as some nymph from the sea. And her face had impinged upon Harrigan's retentive memory from somewhere in the past."

This was his thought. In that swift flash of her he had seen the sparking of the little devils in her eyes. The midnight hair and her slim loveliness had com- pleted the picture for him.

"Sure as sin," ran his mercurial thought. "Millicent Manvers, the supposedly dead-broke heiress of old Clinton Manvers, one-time South American shipping tycoon. Pictured and pampered by the sob sisters as the night-club singer who had gone all out in entertaining in the service camps."

The little, old woman would be Grandmother Manvers who had also been often pictured. And the sallow-faced youth would be the brother who had been reported to have slapped down two husky members of a draft board that had classified him as a 4-F because of a supposedly leaking heart.

Harrigan had been too long in the game of give and take, and hit first and hardest, to permit his astounded identification to interfere with instinctive action.

All of this was a bit on the screwy side, but it did not make him forget he had figured he had a chance to kick the hoodlum near the dead man on his crooked jaw.

"Land o' time!" grunted Asa Tewbury with a gulping breath. "That old lady's a stemwinder!"

There was only the thump of the hood at the doorway falling to the floor. Harri- gan luckily made a better guess than kicking at the thug near the dead man. He threw himself sideways, one hard fist punching as a ripping red blaze of the hood's gun followed the unexpected shooting out of the lights.

Hot powder burned across Harrigan's ear. But his knuckles had the bruised, sat- isfied feeling of a connection. He was rolling, one hand hooking into the hood's collar and the other snapping down upon the blazing gun.

Vaguely he heard the voice of Grand- ma Manverts shrilling into the room.

"Stay put, you sneakers, an' I won't kill you off! If you don't, I'm shootin' promiscuous—Millie! Keep out o' line! Here's that first sneaker's gun, an' don't go shootin' that little man who runs this fishing joint!"

With a sudden flurry of a fist hammer- ing at his head, Harrigan still had time to grin to himself. Very evidently Grand- ma Manvers had seen life not far distant from the loading docks of the family shipping line.

IN ALL of his hardbitten years as an ace reporter, this capped the climax of fantasy. Like the newshound, he was, Harrigan could even then think of what a whale of a yarn this would make turned loose in the northern cities.

With that it came to him that here had been murder, and more killing, colored by the oddest turns he had even known. And it came to him that the dead stranger in the raincoat must have had his desperate reason for appearing as he had without seeking any help, or making known his dying condition.

Gulping raw oysters with the aid of rawer whiskey and beer.

But even a fast-thinking newshound cannot think too much with a bulky, desperate hoodlum doing all possible to rub him out. Harrigan could but guess at the reason for the presence of these members of the much publicized Manvers family.

The reporter turned as he heard Grandma Manvers again giving orders that Asa Tewbury was not to be hurt. She need not have troubled, for the timid fishing inn man was on his hands and knees, crawling as fast as possible to- ward the storm-lashed platform where his boats and bait boxes were drawn up.

Stunned by a smash on the hood's rod across his hitherto straight nose, Harrigan had his mad up. For a split second he employed one hard knee in a strictly unethical and competent manner.

The hood groaned and sagged and Harrigan banged his head on the floor. Then he had the hood's gun and was getting off the floor beside the dead man.

Grandma Manvers must have had the eyes of a cat or some seventh sight. Harrigan sensed rather than felt her slight figure beside him.

"You would, wouldja!" she intoned, and if Harrigan had possessed real sense he would have smacked her down, regardless of age, sex, or the days when knighthood was in flower.

Instead, Harrigan uttered a reassuring word—

"Got him— so what do we play now, and who is the man who wants to eat oysters when he's dying—?"

"Millie!" The word was a command.

Harrigan heard Grandma Manvers say, "Danny, head off that crawfishin' bait man! We'll have coast guard an' the whole condemned navy down upon us any minute now! Drag that sneaker back from the door an' maybe he can be used for barracuda bait!"

"Wait— Mrs. Manvers—" That was Harrigan's expostulation and it was his grave mistake.

The barrel of a rod, presumably in the hands of lovely Millie would have amputated an ear if it had not stopped at putting a deep and sleep-producing crease in Harrigan's skull. The reporter faded out without further thought of why thieves claimed to be pursuing a thief, and why a little, old pistol-packin' gran'ma had upset their apple cart.

PAT HARRIGAN awoke to find the fishing inn lights were on. He first saw Asa Tewbury sitting motionless and quiet in a chair back in a corner. Tewbury could scarcely do otherwise.

He looked like a mummy with all the heavy fishing line that bound him tightly and with a woolen sweater tied into his mouth. Someone was prodding Harrigan savagely.

He twisted, looked up, and said, "Now wait a minute, Mrs. Manvers. I ain't— I didn't—"

"Get on your feet, you bit of scum!" rasped out grandma poking his ribs with her heavy automatic while she still supported herself on her cane. "You look like you can drive a car, an' any minute now the coast guard patrol might happen along. You ain't hurt, so get up! You're one o' them or you wouldn't name me right off like that!"

Harrigan ventured a quick look about him. He first saw the puddle of blood where the raincoated man had passed out. Neither of the two hoods, nor any evidence of their mortal remains was to be seen. Harrigan pulled his long body to a sitting posture, trying the effect of his usually laughing blue eyes upon Grandma Manvers.

There was no visible result. Harrigan turned his blue orbs upon the white, lovely face of the tall, blackhaired girl. She looked about as sympathetic as a Rus- sian woman guerrilla out for meat, and she dangled one of the dead hood's rods in her daintily curved hands.

There was Danny. He, too, now had a rod, presumably taken off the other hood. Harrigan rubbed his eyes. He realized that only the passing storm has kept a coast guard patrol away until this time.

And now, except for the watery stain of blood on the floor, there was not a single corpus delicti to meet the eye. Asa Tewbury was screwing his small face into awful knots, trying to tell Harrigan something, but that brought forth only incoherent grunts.

Before he came all the way up Harrigan exploded.

"Just for the record, did the spirits of the dead come and take them away? And I ain't—"

"Speak when you're asked, young man!" snapped Grandma Manvers. "Not for any record, the sneakers have been put where nobody will look— as for you, I hope you have a coast guard identification, or you'll get in trouble driving our car down the Keys to Snake Creek, even in this storm—"

"Now wait a minute," cut in Harrigan. "I'm not driving any motor vehicle down the Keys, it being against the law at night. And especially I'm not driving a hearse. Who was that dead guy who glommed oysters while he was dying? And where is he?"

Harrigan was fast. But not quick enough to get away from the rod rammed into his stomach by the old lady.

It appeared that Miss Millie Manvers, dead-broke shipping heiress, had been too long with her pistol-packing grandma. Also Millie's gorgeous black eyes must have been abstracted from a cat. Or perhaps it was that Harrigan's voice guided her.

Harrigan heard Grandma Manvers say, "Danny, head off that crawfishin' bait man! We'll have coast guard an' the whole condemned navy down upon us any minute now! Drag that sneaker back from the door an' maybe he can be used for barracuda bait!"

"Wait— Mrs. Manvers—" That was Harrigan's expostulation and it was his grave mistake.

Harrigan had sense enough to keep his hands down. But his roving eyes noted that a new shade of whiteness came over the tall Millie Manvers' face as if drawn there by an artist's brush, at his mention of the first dead man.

"If I've gotta, I've gotta," muttered Harrigan, and knew he wouldn't have missed all this for the biggest sailfish ever gaffed in the Gulf Stream. "An' what car am I drivin', an' where an' why?"

He could see the old woman's eyes become smaller as the skin about them crinkled.

"You're askin' me!" she said bitingly. "You're driving Salters' car back to where it came from, which you know well enough. You know the exact spot on Snake Creek we want to go, an' we're getting there ahead of the road police, the coast guard and the whole U. S. Air Force, if it comes to that."

"Nice business," said Harrigan resignedly.

"If we don't get shot as saboteurs, we'll wind up doing time on the Dade County road gang. These roads are closed at night and—"

"You'll get off the main highway and onto the road that leads us to the Spiritus on Snake Creek," snapped the old lady.

"Sounds like a drunkard's nightmare to me," murmured Harrigan, suddenly deciding he was overlooking something big if he opposed the old girl. "But where's the bodies— I mean the guys you called the sneakers, and this man who died first?"

Harrigan caught a violent gesture of old Asa Tewbury's head toward the stormy platform and the bait boxes. Well, at least that was settled. It seemed that the hoods had been placed where they might become either shark or 'cuda bait.

"On second thought, I'll drive for you, Mrs. Manvers," he said. "I'm sure I'd make tough bait to cut."

BECAUSE of the storm and no traffic supposed to be moving, the coast guard boys were seeking shelter where they could. The station at Snake Creek could be missed by cutting into a swamp road, as Harrigan had learned while fishing.

The reporter's blood tingled, however, with the mention of the fishing cruiser Spiritus. It was one of the finest boats lying up in the tarpon-filled waters of Snake Creek. Evidently Grandma Manvers with her deadly pistol had a direct reason for believing he had come from the small crew of the Spiritus,

Might as well let it ride that way, he decided. For he recalled that the Spiritus was owned by an Amos Salters, with many passes and privileges, because he was a manufacturer of torpedo boat engines in New Jersey. He knew Salters and his deluxe cruiser.

Harrigan gave Millie Manvers another once-over. Now that he had a good view of the sweetly-fashioned girl with her wet garments clinging to her, this promised to be somewhat of a desirable assignment. Nature did not pass out many such figures.

If only the old lady would put that pistol down, he mused in the words of the song. He hoped she wasn't out for Salters' blood.

"Okay, Mrs. Manvers, you can stow the artillery," he said, "I'll drive if the coast guard will let us get through to Snake Creek. But I wasn't in on this until you came banging in."

The old lady's voice was acid.

"You was standing over John Mathers with that gat when we came in," she said. "An' I'm gun-herdin' you right back to the lousy crew you come from. You try one word of warning, an' you'll get it before Amos Salters does. Now get going!"

"But— say, you're not out to get Salters, are you?"

"Give me the. chance an' he'll be deader'n than a nit," came from Grandma Manvers' tight lips. "Had Mathers killed, didn't he? He'll never get a chance to beat a phony police rap."

Harrigan was walking slowly toward the door. The old lady's cane thumped and his eye cornered upon the lovely Millie supporting her grandmother on the other side.

But the stubborn old woman managed to keep that pistol prodding into his back. It was not the time to take a sudden chance. And moreover, Pat Harrigan's blood was tingling with a desire to see this killing mystery through to the end.

Nevertheless, at the door he uttered a warning.

"You know Amos Salters is big stuff in war work, don't you? Whatever stake you've got in this, I'm thinkin' they'd burn the whole lot of you if you did shoot Salters. Again I saw I wasn't in on—"

"Shut up an' keep goin'!" rapped out Grandma Manvers. "Right on over to Salters' car that you come out of! You're thinkin' on account of John Mathers havin' a record the lot of you can get away with murder, but this time—"

"Gran'ma! No! Please! Don't talk any more. Maybe this guy's tellin' you straight, an' we ought to take the body—"

"That'll be all, Millie," said the old woman firmly. "All the record John Mathers ever had has been wiped out this night. As for your Uncle Amos, he's the only kin I ever had that was born a rat."

HARRIGAN stepped out then to find that, like most Florida storms, this one had been turned off. It left a huge and, illuminating moon that seemed to float like a brilliant balloon over the Keys down toward Snake Creek.

At any minute now, Harrigan was sure some of the coast guard boys would come hooting along on patrol. Especially if the lights of a moving car were seen.

But evidently the coast guardsmen did not expect anyone to be moving yet. High surf slapped the rocks and sent shallow streams slithering across the concrete highway. The swamp to the west was still steaming from the rain, creating a low-lying fog. Harrigan realized that coast guard patrol boats would be hold- ing well off shore with that rough water pounding over the shoals.

"Get in and the first move you make wrong, young man, you get what the others had comin' to them," commanded Grandma Manvers. "An' don't turn on any lights. The moon's good enough. Danny, you get back there and follow with John Mathers' car the same way."

Possibly the old lady was batty, thought Harrigan. Anyway, he had too much proof that she would use that pistol that never left his side. And Amos Salters was her brother, she had said.

Yes, he had seen the big sedan, a new Caddy. It carried a New Jersey license plate. It was Amos Salters' bus. The old lady's rod never left his side, but Harrrigan stole a look into the back of the car.

Perhaps they had Mathers' body there.

Nothing there except the lovely Millie Manvers. And she was toying with an other automatic too close to the back of his neck to keep him comfortable. From the tightness of her mouth and the mask-like whiteness of her face, Harrigan got the idea the night-club singing heiress who had no fortune would turn on the heat as quickly as her pistol-packing grandmother.

Harrigan could hope for but one break. If it would be a break? A patrol might come along somewhere between here and that Snake Creek road, which was about two miles southward.

They would surely be stopped, and it might give him a chance to end the old woman's apparent murderous mission, As he slid the big Caddy along the highway, a police memory intruded. Why hadn't he thought of that before.

John Mathers? Grandma Manvers had said he had a record. And Harrigan's memory supplied something more. The hoods had said Mathers was a thief and had stolen something.

Not at all improbable, thought Harrigan. For his clicking mind had recalled that John Mathers had been one name used by one of the slickest crib crackers in the business.

As he slid the big Caddy along, the build-up did not add any to Harrigan's peace of mind.

Here was an apparently half-batty old dame out to put a slug in her brother, according to her own record. That brother was a big shot with the government.

And, unless he had misjudged the old woman's shooting, there were two dead men back in Amos Tewbury's bait boxes. Sure, they had all the marks of being hoods, but a big shot like Amos Salter would hire tough boys as guards.

Salters' business gave him a lot of privileges and the coast guard recognized him as a top guy in war work.

Add to that the statement that John Mathers was a thief, and had stolen something, and Pat Harrigan began to get the idea that from the lovely Millie to her aging grandmother, the Manvers must have suddenly turned into a group of killing maniacs.

But with all of that top-heavy evidence piled up against them, Harrigan found in himself a sneaking sort of liking for the pistol-slinging grandma, and considerably more than. that for the white-faced girl with a gun on his neck.

"Look! If you'd only tell me what—"

"Shut up" The old woman's voice was deadly but low. "You want the sound to carry! Find that road to the Spiritus!'

Harrigan shut up because he distinctly heard the little click of the safety opening on grandma's automatic rod.

DANNY MANVERS was following with the car of the dead John Mathers. As he saw the Snake Creek bridge poke into view, Harrigan had an idea that the dead man's bady might have been put into his own bus. Still there was only the moonlight and the beating of surf that effectively drowned out the low pur- ring of the big Caddy's motor.

Harrigan wished Grandma Manvers would slip that safety catch back. But the suddenness of the old lady this eve- ning was not reassuring. She had come into the picture shooting, and it ap- peared she, would go out of it the same way unless a miracle happened.

Snake Creek had been named for its twisting channel rather than for the num- ber of cotton-mouthed moccasins making it their habitat. It was a swell fishing creek. Cut deeply in spots, it had every variety of fish from barracuda to tarpon.

Off the main highway, Harrigan sent the big Caddy plowing through the rutted creek road. After the rain the car threw up as much water as a Solomon Islands landing barge for marines.

"If I could maybe stall in a mudhole," whispered Harrigan to himself. "And if I did, the old heller might plug me just for the fun of it."

He kept going. He knew Amos Salters' Spiritus was anchored less than half a mile up the creek. One more curve and it would come into view.

If ever a hardboiled police reporter prayed to hear a siren, it was Pat Harrigan. But he heard nothing but the car driven by Danny Manvers having tough going behind them.

"Grandma," said Millie suddenly. "We just can't do it. John got them— let that be enough— Grandma, please! You wouldn't really want to kill anyone—"

"Stop it, Millie," fumed the old lady. "T''ve wanted to wring Amos Salters' neck ever since he drowned my kitten forty years ago, an' now he's a murderer, but he hires others to do his killin'. Tm doit' my own."

Harrigan's ribs contracted as the old lady's gun pushed in harder with a bad bump in the old road.

"Grandma," Millie again. "I don't know for sure this guy we've got wasn't on our side—"

It was the first break Harrigan had been given. He would have added to it, taken a chance. But then he heard the explosions of a speedboat. It was coming from up Snake Creek. Amos Salters' cruiser must be no more than a hundred yards away.

The speedboat was coming fast. Its white wake swirled into the moonlight just as Harrigan sent the big Caddy around a curve on a shallow shore of Snake Creek.

Only Harrigan missed sending the Caddy all the way around the bend. In- stead, he jerked to one side, twisted the wheel hard and sent the nose of the car into the swampy creek all the way over its hood.

i ee things happened. Grandma Man- vers swore. Loudly and fervently and her gun exploded so clase to Harrigan's ear he was half deafened. Powder burned his face.

And a light beam jumped from the speedboat and bathed the Caddy.

From Grandma Manvers came a surprising ejaculation.

"Millie! You fool! You almost made me shoot this young man What do you mean—?"

And Harrigan shot up a hand to grab at the gun. The girl had acted with the swiftness of a snake striking. As the car had plunged, she had seized her grand- mother's arm and jerked it upward.

But then Grandma Manvets had the arm free. Waterfront language spilled from her quivering mouth. Harrigan had the car door open and was crouched low.

Even in this crisis the old lady did not lose her head. She punched on the Caddy lights and their beams picked out two men in the speedboat. Beyond the smaller craft Harrigan could see the riding lights of the cruiser Spiritus.

"At last!" screamed Grandma Manvers. "You thought they were bringing John Mathers back to you, dead! But it's me! An' the mugs you sent after the diamonds ain't ever comin' back!"

Harrigan scrambled up in the mud. He could see two men in the speedboat. One man stood up suddenly. He had a paunch that had come of good living. Harrigan groaned, then shouted.

"Salters! You fool! Get down or—"

It was of no use. Amos Salters got down because Grandma Manvers gun cracked and Salters folded at the knees.

The other man was crouched low over the speedboat's wheel. A gun flamed in his hand and slugs pounded the Caddy's windshield.

Some instinct caused Pat Harrigan to lunge back into the car door and seize Grandma Manvers. Her language would have poisoned a moccasin as Harrigan tolled with her into the creek mud.

It was then that the siren screamed. It came from a coast guard patrol boat racing up Snake Creek.

"Too late for Amos Salter," muttered Harrigan. "You're an old woman and I hate to think of you burning."

Grandma Manvers pulled forth another shocker.

"What? Me burn? For breaking a rat's leg! I'd got that other killer, too—"

Harrigan saw then that Amos Salter was crawling about in his speedboat. But the other man suddenly dived into Snake Creek, He started swimming desperately toward the other shore.

The guard patrol boat sliced a beam actoss the swimmer. To Harrigan's amaze- ment one of the gunners cut loose with a machine-gun and laid a circling pattern around the escaping man. The swimmer threw up his hands and gave every evidence of a sudden desire to surrender.

LIEUTENANT KEMPER, in command of the patrol boat, was doing the talking. One of his men was patching up a broken leg for Amos Salter. The 'man who had tried to escape by swimming sat in sullen silence, securely handcuffed to a pipe in the patrol boat's cabin.

"Yeah, Harrigan, you've got yourself a yarn, anyway, and it was luck that put you on the spot right then," said, Lieutenant Kemper. "This Nazi who called himself Ross has been dickering with Amos Salter for several days. We got a phone call from a John Mathers who said he wanted to square up some kind of rap. He said he would never be a witness, but we would find this Ross on Salters' cruiser, and that he was about to take over something Jike two hundred grand in unset diamonds for the Germans—"

"He'd do that." It was Grandma Manvers. "He couldn't take them though, because John Mathers got them from Salters' safe on the cruiser. They were all the fortune that was left to Millie and Danny Manvers, and their Uncle Amos stole them before the will was read.

"Poor John Mathers. Thief or no, he turned out to be a grand guy. He got back the diamonds tonight and Amos Salters' hired killers got him. But they didn't get the stones."

Lieutenant Kemper looked bewildered. Harrigan's head was whirling.

"But where is John Mathers' body?" exclaimed Harrigan. "The two mugs you— that were killed, didn't find any diamonds. They tore up John Mathers' car and searched him—"

"Mr. Harrigan, now that I know you," interrupted Grandma Manvers. "I'll have you understand I have not killed anyone. I'm too good with a pistol for that. The two killers Amos Salters sent after John Mathers are tied up, one with a broken shoulder and the other with a busted kneecap, in the bait boxes on that fishing tavern wharf."

Harrigan gasped, but he was watching Millie Manvers' pretty, white face. The girl's mouth was a straight line of grief.

"John Mathers is in the trunk of Amos Salters' car you were driving, Mr. Harrigan," the girl said with a dry sob. "He was in love with me, but he was a thief, a safe-cracker, and it was John Mathers himself kept me from marrying him.

"But Danny met him and Mathers learned about Amos Salters holding out the diamonds, the only fortune our father left us. John said nothing to me, but he talked with Grandma Manvers."

"He told me there was one good deed he might do to help square up the bad part of his life," said Grandma Manvers. "He would get those diamonds back from Amos Salters. We knew nothing about Amos being hooked up with any Nazis, or that he was trying to get a big price out of the stolen diamonds."

Harrigan did not know how it happened. But suddenly he was comfort- ing the girl. He had never believed he would go for a night-club singer, but he guessed what he believed didn't matter.

"But the diamonds?" questioned Lieutenant Kemper. "The Salters men did not find them, you say. Probably John Mathers hid them where they'll never be found."

Grandma Mathers walked over beside the lieutenant and spoke in a low voice. Kemper's eyes widened with amazement and he turned to Harrigan.

"You were at the fishing tavern when Mathers came there," he said: "It seems he managed to contact Mrs. Manvers by telephone after he was shot and before he got to the tavern."

"Yes, I was there," said Harrigan. "And you don't have to tell me, Lieutenant. I'm a newshound enough to figure that one out for myself. There will have be be an autopsy to recover the Manvers' diamonds.

"He may have been a crook, but what a game guy he turned out to be. He knew he was dying and yet he swallowed two dozen oysters that have become the most valuable in the world at this moment. He lived just long enough to put the diamonds where no one but a surgeon could find them."

________________

13: The Cat of the Stars

Sinclair Lewis

1885-1951

The Saturday Evening Post, 19 April 1919

THE fatalities have been three thousand, two hundred and ninety-one, to date, with more reported in every cable from San Coloquin, but it is not yet decided whether the ultimate blame is due to the conductor of Car 22, to Mrs. Simmy Dolson's bland selfishness, or to the fact that Willis Stodeport patted a sarsaparilla-colored kitten with milky eyes.

It was a hypocritical patting. Willis had been playing pumpum-pullaway all afternoon, hence was hungry, and desirous of winning favor with his mother by his nice attitude toward our dumb friends. Willis didn't actually care for being nice to the dumb friend. What he wanted was cookies. So slight was his esteem for the kitten— whose name was Adolphus Josephus Mudface— that afterward he took it out to the kitchen and tried to see if it would drown under the tap of the sink.

Yet such is the strange and delicate balance of nature, with the lightest tremor in the dream of a terrestrial baby affecting the course of suns ten million light-years away, that the patting of Adolphus Josephus Mudface has started a vicious series of events that will be felt forever in star beyond mounting star. The death of exiled Napoleon made a few old men stop to scratch their heads and dream. The fall of Carthage gave cheap bricks to builders of dumpy huts. But the false deed of Willis Stodeport has changed history.

Mrs. Simmy Dolson was making an afternoon call upon the mother of this portentous but tow-headed Willis, who resides upon Scrimmins Street, in the Middle-Western city of Vernon. The two matrons had discussed the price of butter, the iniquities of the fluffy-headed new teacher in Public School 17, and the idiocy of these new theories about bringing up young ones. Mrs. Dolson was keeping an ear on the car line, for the Oakdale cars run only once in eighteen minutes, and if she missed the next one she would be too late to prepare supper. Just as she heard it coming, and seized her hat, she saw young Willis edge into the room and stoop to pat the somnolent Adolphus Josephus Mudface.

With a hatpin half inserted Mrs. Dolson crooned, "My, what a dear boy! Now isn't that sweet?"

Willis's mother forgot that she had intended to have words with her offspring in the matter of the missing knob of the flour bin. She beamed, and to Willis she gurgled, "Do you like the kittie, dearie?"

''Yes, I love our kittie; can I have a cookie?" young

Machiavelli hastened to get in; and Aldebaran, the crimson star, throbbed with premonition.

"Now isn't that sweet!" Mrs. Dolson repeated— then remembered her car and galloped away.

She had been so delayed by the admiration of daily deeds of kindness that when she reached the corner the Oakdale car was just passing. It was crowded with tired business men in a fret to get home to the outskirts of Vernon, but Mrs. Simmy Dolson was one of those plump, amiably selfish souls who would keep a whole city waiting while she bought canary seed. She waved at the car and made deceptive motions of frantic running.

The conductor of the car, which was Number 22, was a kind-hearted family man, and he rang for a stop halfway down the block. Despite the growling of the seventy passengers he held the car till Mrs. Dolson had wheezed aboard, which made them two minutes late. That was just enough to cause them to miss the switch at Seven Corners; and they had to wait while three other cars took the switch before them.

By that time Car 22 was three and three-quarters minutes late.

Mr. Andrew Discopolos, the popular proprietor of the Dandy Barber Shop, was the next step in the tragedy. Mr. Discopolos was waiting for this same Oakdale car. He had promised his wlte to go home to supper, but in his bacchanalian soul he desired to sneak down to Barney's for an evening of poker. He waited one minute, and was tremendously moral and determined to eschew gambling. He waited for two minutes, and began to see what a martyr he was. There would never be another Oakdale car. He would have to walk home. His wife expected too darn much of him, anyway! He waited for three minutes, and in rose tints and soft gold he remembered the joys of playing poker at Barney's.

Seven seconds before the delayed Oakdale car turned the corner Mr. Discopolos gave up the struggle, and with outer decorum and inner excitement he rushed up an alley, headed for Barney's. He stopped at the Southern Cafe for a Denver sandwich and cuppacofFee. He shook for the cigars at the Smoke House, and won three-for's, which indicated to him how right he had been in not going home. He reached Barney's at seven-thirty. He did not leave Barney's till one-thirty in the morning, and when he did leave he was uncertain of direction, but very vigorous of motion, due to his having celebrated the winning of four dollars by buying a quart of rye.

Under a dusty and discouraged autumn moon Mr. Discopolos weaved home. Willis Stodeport and Mrs. Simmy Dolson and the conductor of Car 22 were asleep now; even the disreputable Adolphus Josephus Mudface had, after a charming fight behind the Smiths' garbage can, retired to innocent slumbers on the soft folds of the floor mop in the corner of the back porch where he was least likely to be disturbed by mice. Only Mr. Discopolos was awake, but he was bearing on the torch of evil destiny; and on one of the planets of the sun that is called Procyon there were floods and earthquakes.

When Mr. Discopolos awoke in the morning his eyes were filmy and stinging. Before he went to his shop he had three fingers of pick-me-up, which so exhilarated him that he stood on the corner, swaying and beaming. Normally he had pride in his technic as a barber, but now all his more delicate artistry was gone in a roving desire for adventure. With a professional eye he noted the haircut of a tough young man loafing in front of the drug store. It was a high haircut, leaving the neck and the back of the head bald clear up to the crown. "Be a joke on some fellow to cut his hair that way!" giggled Mr. Discopolos.

It was the first time in a year that he had needed, or taken, a drink before afternoon. Chuckling Fate sent to him the next torchbearer, Mr. Palmer McGee.

Palmer McGee was one of Vernon's most promising young men. He lived at the University Club; he had two suits of evening clothes; and he was assistant to the president of the M. & D. R. R. He was a technical-school graduate and a Spanish scholar as well as a business-system expert; and his club-grill manners were as accurate as his knowledge of traffic routing. Today was his hour of greatness. He had, as the result of long correspondence, this morning received a telegram inviting him to come to New York to see the president and directors of the Citrus and Southern Steamship Company about the position of Buenos Aires manager for the company. He had packed in ten minutes. But he had an hour before his train, with the station only twenty minutes away by trolley. Instead of taking a taxi he exuberantly walked from the club to Selden Street to catch a car.

One door from the corner he beheld the barber shop of Mr. Discopolos, which renunded him that he needed a haircut. He might not have time to get one in New York before he saw the steamship directors. The shop was bright, and Mr. Discopolos, by the window in a white jacket, was clean and jolly.

Palmer McGee popped into the shop and caroled "Hair-cut; medium." Magnetized by Mr. Discopolos' long light fingers he closed his eyes and dreamed of his future.

About the middle of the haircut the morning's morning of Mr. Discopolos rose up and jostled him and dimmed his eyes, with the result that he cut too deep a swath of hair across the back of Mr. McGee's sleek head. Mr. Discopolos sighed, and peeped at the victim to see if he was aware of the damage. But Mr. McGee was sitting with eyes tight, lips apart, already a lord of ocean traffic, giving orders to Singhalese planters and to traders in the silent northern pines.

Mr. Discopolos remembered the high-shaved neck of the corner loafer, and imitated that model. He ruthlessly concealed the too-deep slash by almost denuding the back of Mr. McGee's head. That erstwhile polite neck stood out as bare as an ostrich.

Being an artist, Mr. Discopolos had to keep the symmetry— the rhythm— correct, so he balanced the back by also removing too much hair from in front— from above Mr. McGee's Yalensian ears.

When the experiment was complete, Mr. McGee looked like a bald young man with a small wig riding atop his head. He looked like a wren's nest on top of a clothes pole. He looked painstakingly and scientifically skinned. At least it was thus that he saw himself in the barber's mirror when he opened his eyes.

He called on a number of deities; he said he wanted to assassinate Mr. Discopolos. But he hadn't time for this work of mercy. He had to catch his train. He took his maltreated head into a taxi, feeling shamefully that the taxi driver was snickering at his haircut.

Left behind, untipped and much berated, Mr. Discopolos grumbled, 'T did take off a little too much; but rats, he'll be all right in couple of weeks. What's couple of weeks? Believe I'll go get a drink."

Thus, as ignorant as they of taking any part in a progressive tragedy, Mr. Discopolos joined Willis Stodeport, Adolphus Josephus, Mrs, Dolson and the too-generous conductor of Car 22, in the darkness of unimportance, while Palmer McGee was on the Pullman— and extremely wretched.

He fancied that everyone from the porter to the silken girl across the aisle was snickering at his eccentric coiffure. To Mr. McGee, queerness of collar or hair or slang was more wicked than murder. He had rigidly trained himself to standards in everything. There were, for example, only three brands of whisky on which a gentleman could decently get edged. He was the most dependable young man in the general offices of the M. & D. R. R., and before that he had been so correctly pleasant to the right fellows and so correctly aloof with the wrong fellows, so agreeably pipe-smoking and laudatory of athletics, that he had made both junior and senior societies at Yale. He had had no experience to teach him to bear up under this utter disgrace of a variation from the standard of haircutting.

As the train relentlessly bore him on toward New York he now and then accumulated courage to believe that his haircut couldn't be so bad as he knew it was. He would stroll with noble casualness into the smoking compartment, and the instant it was free of other passengers he would dart at the mirror. Each time he made the same quaking discovery that he was even more ridiculous than he remembered.

By day, trying to read or scan the scenery or impress fellow smokers, by n:ght, folded in his swaying berth— he could think of nothing else. He read only one paragraph of the weighty book which all persons carry on all Pullmans in the hope that they will be forced to finish it because they have nothing else to read. He grew more and more sensitive. Every time he heard a laugh he was sure that it was directed at him; and because he so uncomfortably looked away from the absent-minded gaze of fellow passengers he made them gaze the harder.

The beautiful self-confidence which had always concealed Mr. McGee's slight defects from himself and had helped him to rise to the position of assistant to the railroad president was torn away, and he began to doubt himself, began to feel that others must doubt him. When he finally crept up the cement incline in the New York station, after a writhing glance at the redcaps, to see if New Yorkers would notice his ludicrousness as much as people had on the way through, he wondered if he could not return to Vernon and wire the steamship directors that he was ill.

He was not exaggerating about the importance of this trip to New York. The directors of the Citrus and Southern Line really were waiting for him. They needed him.

It is a curious fact of psychological economics that there are almost as many large employers waiting and praying for the chance to pay tens of thousands a year to dependable young men as there are dependable young men waiting and praying for the chance to earn a thousand a year.

The president of the Citrus and Southern, the pouchy blob-nosed dean of South American and West Indian shipping, had been in the hospital for six months, after peritonitis. From his bed he had vaguely directed the policies of the company. Things had run well enough, with the old clerks working mechanically. But a crisis had come. The company had either to expand or break.

The Green Feather Line, weary of litigation, wanted to sell all its ships to the Citrus and Southern, which if it bought them might double its business. If some other company bought them and vigorously increased competition, the Citrus and Southern might be ruined.

The Citrus and Southern held a five months' option. By the end of that period they hoped to have found the man who could connect the sick president's brain with the general office's body — and they believed that in Palmer McGee they had found that man.

McGee did not know how carefully he had been watched. He had never met one of the directors or officers of the Citrus and Southern, had never seen one of them, and their correspondence had been polite but not exciting. But the two suave gentlemen who had been poking about Vernon lately had been commercial secret agents of the Titanic Rating and Credit Company; and they knew all about McGee, from the number of drinks he had at the club to the amount of his bank account and his manner of listening to the stories of the chief shippers of the M. & D. R. R.

The Citrus and Southern chiefs were certain that they had found their man. McGee was to be sent to Buenos Aires, but only on test. If he was as good as they thought, he would in three months be brought back as vice president at a salary nearly four times as large as the one he had received in Vernon. In this crisis they had the generosity of despair.

They were to meet McGee in the president's suite at the hospital at four-thirty; and the train got in at three-fifteen.

McGee went to a hotel, and sat still, scared, looking at himself in a dressing-table mirror. He became momently more rustic, more tough, more skinned and awkward in his own eyes.

He called up the hospital, got the president. "Th-this is McGee. I— I'm coming right over," he quavered.

"Huh! That fellow sounds kind of lightwaisted. Not much self-confidence," complained the president to his old friend, the chairman of the board of directors. "Here, prop me up, Billy. We must give him a thorough look-over. Can't take any chances."

The note of doubt was a germ which instantly infected the chairman. "That's too bad. The Rating and Credit people reported he was a find. But still— of course "

When Palmer McGee faced the president, the first vice president and a committee of four directors, three of the six had already turned from welcoming eagerness to stilly doubt. He felt that doubt. But he interpreted it thus:

"They think I'm a complete boob to have a haircut like this. Think I don't know any better. And I can't explain. Mustn't admit that I know there's anything wrong— mustn't admit I was an easy mark and let a drunken barber carve me up."

He was so busy with these corroding reflections that he did not quite catch the sharp question which the president fired at him:

"McGee, what's your opinion of the future of the competition between Australian wheat and the Argentine crop?"

"I— I — I didn't quite understand you, sir," lamented poor McGee, victim of the cat of the trembling stars.

The president thought to himself: "If he can't get as dead simple a question as that Wonder if the first vice president wouldn't do, after all ? No. Too old-fogyish."

While he meditated he was repeating the query without much interest; and without interest he heard McGee's thorough but shaky answer.

And McGee forgot to put in his usual information about the future of New Zealand grain.

Two hours later the president and directors decided that McGee "wouldn't quite do"; which meant that he wouldn't do at all; and they wearily began to talk of other candidates for the position. None of the others were satisfactory.

Four months later they decided that they would have to go slow; wait for the president to recover. They could find no one adaptable enough to coordinate the president and the working management. So they gave up their option on the steamers of the Green Feather Line.

The best of the jest was that Palmer McGee had looked rather well in his flippant haircut. Because the Chapel Street barber had started cutting his hair a certain length when he had been a Freshman in Yale he had kept up that mode, which was respectable but dull. But the semi-shave had brought out his energetic neck muscles. Never had he looked so taut and trim. Though dozens of people between the Vernon barber shop and the New York hospital had noticed his uneasiness none of them had considered his coiffure queer— they had merely wondered whether he was an embezzler or a forger.

McGee returned to Vernon broken, and General Coreos y Dulce, ex-president of the Central American republic of San Coloquin, entered the train of victims of Willis Stodeport, of Scrimmins Street.

The general had colonized Ynez Island, lying off the coast of San Coloquin. Fields of cane and coffee he had created, and he was happily expropriating ten thousand melodious natives. The general was a merry and easy ruler. When he had accepted the presidency of San Coloquin, after certain military misunderstandings, he hadn't even executed anybody— except a cousin or two, merely for politeness' sake.

His colony on Ynez Island was served by the steamers of the Green Feather Line. The business was not yet sufficient to warrant a regular stop, but General Dulce had a private agreement with the manager of the Green Feather, as well as one with the sick president of the Citrus and Southern, which later agreement was to take effect if the company took over the Green Feather boats.

But when the Citrus and Southern gave up their option the Green Feather fleet was bought, not by another Atlantic line but by a Seattle firm, for their Alaskan and Siberian trade. Consequently the general had to depend for service on a tin-can line which ran out of San Coloquin.

The owner of that line hated the general; had hated him when the general had been president, and had added to that hate with every meditative gin rickey he had sipped in the long years since. The general's fruit spoiled aboard the creaky old steamers; it was always too late to catch the boat north. His coffee was drenched, and his sugar short weight. When the general desperately bought a freighter of his own it was mysteriously burned.

Poverty and failure closed in on Ynez Island. The colonists hadn't enough to eat. When the influenza reached the island the weakened natives died in hordes. Some of them fled to the mainland, carrying the disease. The number of fatalities that would probably have been prevented by comfort and proper food and a supply of drugs has been estimated by Dr. Prof. Sir Henry Henson Sturgis at three thousand two hundred and ninety. One of the last to die was the broken-hearted general.

Before he died the wheel of Fate had turned past him and stopped at a certain European monarch. The general had in all his colonizing and his financial schemes been merely the secret agent of that monarch. The king was uncomfortable on his throne. It rocked and squeaked and threatened to give way at the seat. It was kept together only by many fees for repairs — jolly gifts to the duke who hypocritically led the opposition party, to a foreign agent, to certain clerics and editors and professors, even to the ostensible leader of the left wing of the radical party.

Five years before Willis Stodeport had patted Adolphus Josephus Mudface, the king had realized that he was in danger of using up all his private estate. He had speculated. He had called General Coreos y Dulce from Central America; and it was royalty's own money that had developed the colonization of Ynez Island.

It had been impossible for the king to keep in touch with the details of the colonization. Had he learned of the loss of the Green Feather service he might have raised funds for the puichase of the whole fleet when the Citrus and Southern gave up the option. But the proud, dogged general, with his sky-climbing mustachios and his belief that one Castilian was cleverer than four Andalusians or eight gringos, had been certain that he could pull through without help from the royal master.

It was not till the approach of death that he sent the coded cablegram which informed the king that he could expect no income from Ynez Island. Then the monarch knew that he could not keep his promises to certain peers and ministers; that his wordiest supporters would join the republican movement; that the gold-crusted but shaky-legged throne would at any moment be kicked out from beneath him by rude persons in mechanics' boots.

So it came to pass that at a certain hour the farthest stars quivered with mystic forces from the far-off fleck of dust called Earth, forces which would, just for a sketchy beginning, change all the boundaries and customs of Southern Europe. The king had at that hour desperately called in the two ministers and the one foreign emissary whom he trusted, and with that famous weak smile had murmured: "'Gentlemen, it is the end. Shall I flee or— or— You remember they didn't give my cousin the funeral even of a private gentleman."

At that hour, in a hovel in the Jamaica negro quarter of the capital of San Coloquin, General Coreos y Dulce, friend of composers and masters of science, was dying of nothing at all but sick hope and coldly creeping fear, and a belief that he had pneumonia.

A thousand and more miles away the president of the Citrus and Southern Steamship Company was writing his resignation. His old friend, the chairman of the board of directors, again begged: "But this means the ruin of the company, Ben. We can't go on without you."

"I know, Billy," the president sighed, "but I'm all in. If we could have found someone to carry out my ideas I could have pulled through— and the company could have. Shame we were fooled about that McGee fellow. If we hadn't wasted so much time looking him over we might have had time to find the right man, and he'd have taken enough worry off my shoulders so that Well, I'll about pass out in three months, I reckon, old man. Let's have one more go at pinochle. I have a hunch I'm going to get double pinochle."

About half an hour after that, and half a continent away, Palmer McGee left the home of the president of the M. & D. R. R. He walked as one dreaming. The railroad president had said: "I don't know what the trouble is, my boy, but you haven't been worth a hang for quite a while now. And you're drinking too much. Better go off some place and get hold of yourself."

McGee crawled to the nearest telegraph office that was open, and sent a wire to the Buffalo & Bangor, accepting their offer in the purchasing department. The salary was not less than the one he had been receiving, but there was little future. Afterward he had a cocktail, the fourth that evening.

It cannot be authoritatively determined whether it was that evening or the one before that a barber named Discopolos first actually struck his wife, and she observed, ''All right, I'll leave you." The neighbors say that though this was the first time he had mauled her, things had been going badly with them for many months. One of them asserts that the trouble started on an evening when Discopolos had promised to come home to supper but had not shown up till one-thirty in the morning. It seems that, though he had forgotten it, this had been her birthday, and she, poor mouse, had prepared a feast for them.

But it is certainly known that at the same hour on the same evening there was much peace and much study of the newspaper comics in the house of the Stodeports on Scrimmins Street.

Willis stooped to pull the tail of Adolphus Josephus Mudface, now a half-grown cat. Mrs. Stodeport complained: ''Now, Willie, do let that cat alone! He might scratch you, and you'll get fleas and things. No telling what-all might happen if you go patting and fooling with "

Mr. Stodeport yawningly interrupted: "Oh, let the child alone! Way you go on, might think something dreadful would happen, just because he strokes a cat. I suppose probably he might get one of these germs, and spread it, and before he got through with it, maybe be the cause of two-three people taking sick! Ha, ha, ha! Or maybe he might make somebody rob a bank or something just awful! Ha, ha, ha! You better hold in your imagination, Mamma! We-ell "

Mr. Stodeport yawned, and put the cat out, and yawned, and wound the clock, and yawned, and went up to bed, still chuckling over his fancy about Willis having a mysterious effect on persons five or six blocks away.

AT EXACTLY that moment in a medieval castle about five thousand miles from Willis Stodeport, the king of an ancient nation sighed to the Right Honorable the Earl of Arden, K. C. B., special and secret emissary of the British throne: "Yes, it is the twilight of the gods. I take some little pride in saying that even in my downfall I can see clearly the mysteries of Fate. I know definitely that my misfortune is a link in a chain of events that impressively started with—"

"—with the loss of thousands of lives and millions of pounds, in San Coloquin," mused Lord Arden.

"No! No! No! Nothing so earthy and petty. I have long been a student of astrology. My astrologer and I have determined that this evil chance of myself and my poor people is but the last act in a cosmic tragedy that started with an esoteric change in the magnetism of Azimech, the cold and virgin star. At least it is comforting to know that my sorrows originated in nothing trivial, but have been willed by the brooding stars in the farthest abysses of eternal night, and that—"

"Um. Oh, yes. Yes, I see,'' said the Earl of Arden.

____________________

14: Paper Ladies

Sumner Locke

1881-1917

Sydney Mail 11 March 1914

Australian playwright, novelist, poet and short story writer. Mother of author Sumner Locke Elliott; she died from complications of giving birth.

A VERY large man was watching a very little girl through the narrow window that was cut in the front of the low shanty-house behind the great timber of the forest. He stood there for some time with a demure look in his eyes and a somewhat tired heart.

'That child's been doing that ever since I brought the paper along,' he said— 'cutting out the pictures— paper ladies. Poor little kid, she's wonderfully taken with them, and there's nothing much but trees for her to amuse herself with out here.'

Just then the child looked up and saw the man standing there. 'Father Jim!' she called with the most radiant smile. 'It's my day at home, and these are my guests. They are only paper people, but I'm getting them ready to walk about.'

The man leaned on the window-sill.

'Child,' he said, 'don't you ever get tired of cutting those things out? Aren't your little fingers sore with turning them through the scissors? It must be three months since I found that old journal in the train coming from the sales, and you've been here every day since, cutting and cutting—

'You wouldn't understand, Father Jim,' said the child. 'It's what we call "society"— I think that is the word, meaning a lovely lot of ladies who walk about and show their pretty new dresses. I think mother always called it that. She said it was what made life, didn't she?'

The last words brought the man to a firmer position on his feet. He looked at her now with a tremendous sorrow in his face.

'Joan, she used to say a lot of things that you and I could never understand— leastways, they were above our heads. We are only very ordinary people, you and I. Your mother was— Well, anyway, I think— I know now why— why you care so much for the — paper ladies.'

He went away from the window and round to the back of the house, where a thin, burnt woman washed some clothes at a bench near the kitchen door.

'Ann,' he said very slowly and bitterly, 'I understand a deal more in the last few minutes than I have since— since that time— you remember?'

'Good heavens,' said Ann, the worker in soap and water, 'you don't mean you have heard something about— I mean, something to make you think she was right in going off and leaving you and the child? You are always making her correct in what she did; but— oh, well, I s'pose it's caring that makes a man see only reason in his wife's stupid actions.'

'Hush!' said the man. 'The child must never know— I mean, I have discovered just where that little trouble starts— the taste for fresh life, the sort of always wanting to see the wheels going round. The child's got it— yes, Ann, sure as she is born!'

'Don't see what she can get from another that has left her these four years, uucared for and—'

'She's got it, I tell you, Ann!' said the man. 'It's her blood coursing the same way— rushing along with the spirit of her mind driving it at a frantic nace whenever she gets a fresh notion. She's not wrong— she's only following her ideas, and they come from—'

'Not from you,' said the practical Ann.

'The child,' said the man, 'has lately had a frantic fascination for that journal I brought home from Bungawindy a while ago. I found it in the train— wish I'd left it there now. She's been cutting and cutting at the figures, and she has a large number of what she calls her paper ladies. She wants life, same as her mother did: only she's too young to— clear out yet a bit.'

'And pray the good Lord,' said Ann with reverence, 'she never will.'

The man stood where he was and thought a bit.

'You remember so much, Ann,' he went on. 'You came with her when she first married me, and if it had not been for you stopping it out, well, I don't know what I should have done. You see, the kid remembers enough about things to start working it now she is right out of her babyhood. She even quotes her mother's words, though it is only her little brain that is going to bother her. Oh, Ann, I never tried to hold the mother back when she wanted to go, as I ought not to have made her come out here. She begged to wait another few years, and I persuaded her to marry me right away. I could not blame her after that— but I do not want the kiddie to— want to follow.'

'Heaven help us— no!' said Ann with feeling.

'You see, my wife was unused to the quiet, and when she wanted to go hack to her people and their social whirl I would not have asked her to stay. She had no particular love for the child, either, and— so you acted the part, Ann, and I can never thank—'

'Did only what God saw fit to show me,' said Ann. 'I wouldn't have been happy myself with strangers, seeing I had known her all her life, or thought I had. Don't I just sit down to my happiness when it comes to that child?'

She took in the tub to have no further conversation, but put her head out of the door again to give him another ounce of consolation.

'There's a good bit of yourself in the child, Jim, so what's the good of worrying?'

'We never know ourselves,' said the man quietly. 'I am certain that I should prefer the town life if I was a woman— I don't know now if I wouldn't rather like the noise and the lights and the humi of a mighty big universe right at the front door, 'stead of those giant timber-men over there.'

An hour after this the child came to her father with the box of paper ladies, and deposited them and herself, scissors and all, at his feet.

'Father Jim,' she said in her funny little way, 'now watch me. These ladies are getting ready for my garden party. What would you call that kind of dress this one has on? I want to remember it.'

The man looked at the flimsy bit of paper propped up against the saw he had put down on the floor of the toolhouse. He knew as much about the picture of the Parisian-gowned paper lady as he knew about the tides of the great city five hundred miles away.

'Now really, kiddie,' he began, 'how should a man know? Is she one of your guests?'

'Yes.' said the child; 'and, of course, it would be rude to ask her the name of the stuff her dress is made of; and, besides, it would be of no use, as, of course, my guests can't speak.'

'I see,' said the man with the tired heart. 'And I am to be a sort of interlocutor— a person who speaks for the rest. Well, I really know nothing of ladies' dresses.'

The child's face fell. She looked at him with great, distressful eyes. 'Oh. Father Jim, don't you ever want— mother? I do!'

'Don't!' The man stood up very straight. 'Don't, kiddie! Aren't you very happy, dear? Tell me. Mother has been away so long now, and you know she can't come back, as she can't live in the bush— she gets— sick in the bush?'

The child seemed to be dreaming, yet she smiled a very weary smile. 'Oh, Father Jim, I wish— I got sick— in the bush,' she said, and the man clasped her in his arms and held her tightly. 'I'd die if you got sick— sick— really sick of this life,' he said. 'I can't give up the place till I make more out of it; and I can't afford to live in the town. You won't get sick of it?'

'Well, I am,' said the child. 'It doesn't seem fair not to tell you. Mother told you, didn't she?'

The man let her down very quietly. His face was scarlet.

'Who— who told you? Whoever said—'

'Oh, I know such a lot of things since I was nine,' said the child.

'And— and the paper ladies have only started you thinking a whole heap more,' said the man with another severe pain ringing somewhere in his head. 'It would have been better if I had never found that— thing.'

'You mean the paper ladies?' said the child seriously. 'Oh, Father Jim, I can just see things that I love when I have them to play with.'

'Same as— she,' sighed the man and quietly turned away. 'God help us all,' he said, and went out of the toolhouse.

LATER on in the years ahead he struck another turning in his life that gave him a queer feeling about the child who had been left unmothered by a woman who preferred to live in the bustle rather than share the smaller things with her man. He drove in from the township with the stores and necessaries that he would want in the place. Only once a month he went to the general store fifteen miles away. The child, now grown into promising womanhood, stood waiting for him.

'Father Jim,' she said, 'you'll have to go back to the store. You forgot my gloves, and they must be changed— they're miles too small. Also I want some shoes— not heavy ones, you know, but some pretty ones with buckles if possible, so that I can wear them to the dance at the woolshed next week.'

The man looked down from the cart.

'Right, girl,' he said. 'I know I have been acting strangely of late and forgetting things — it's the dry spell, and things have not been too good lately. But you shall have your things. Wait till I change the horse— this chap's a bit tired.'

'If the store has not the nicest kind of shoes, you had better wire to town,' said Joan. 'You know I must think about that sort of thing now. that the boys all seem to prefer me to the Gunter girls. Father Jim, will you get me some ribbon, too? The wide sash ribbon. I don't know how much it will cost, but you are so good to me.'

'Buckled shoes, gloves, and ribbon,' said the man. 'You shall have them all.'

And he took the girl to him as she stood there with the last colour of the day on her hair. Then he went round with the horse and got another one from the paddock.

'She will ruin us, old chap,' he said. 'And any more seasons like the last one— But never mind; she's first, whatever comes now. I must keep her to myself and not let her get the stir in her blood that will send her from me. I must keep her, old horse.'

ANOTHER instance of the mother's spirit in the girl came across the life of the man a few years later. The girl, delightful, and with some recommending beauty, stood before him one summer night and looked so tall and sweet that he felt things were going from him. He was tired from the field, and she looked so cool as she said:

'Father Jim, could I have a bank account?'

There was not a break in the tone, and she was so outright and honest that the man smiled, though he was groping about in the dark for an answer. Affairs had been only medium of late, and the concern did not run to a private bank account for the family.

'You're clean outspoken, child,' he said. 'Who could refuse you? We'll see.'

'You won't be long, then, will you?' said the girl, 'for I have a distinct reason in asking you.'

'What is it?' said her father, slightly disturbed.

'It's my clothes,' said the girl. 'I wish to get my things from the town. The store in the township does not order up the things I could wear when I put my hair up. I nearly hate going out to tea nowadays. I look so commonplace. You remember the paper ladies, Father Jim? Well, I simply must be one of them.'

The man wiped his forehead, and went awav without speaking.

'Paper ladies!' he said, when he was alone. 'Oh, how can I help her? First the mother, then— it's coming— style and dress and life! Oh, paper ladies — my two paper ladies!'

But the menace that had been over him all the years came stumbling down on his head soon after that.

'Could I go. to town?' said the girl one night when he sat tired. He struggled with a quick desire to get up and crush her into unconsciousness.

'When?' was all he said; and the girl, pleased with herself, put both her hands to his face. They were warm, but the man felt cold under them.

'Just as soon as I can get away, Father Jim— just when I can get ready. You can spare the money, eh?'

'Better than I can spare you, child,' he said.

'Well, you could come after me if I did not want to come back,' she said, and looked so tall and so fresh with young life that the man thought he understood enough to feel for her in the bush, among the tall trees— away from life— wanting the things that other women of her standing had.

He stood up. cold, and with steel in his heart.

'Your mother never came back,' was all he said, and he went inside to tell the woman who did the work.

EIGHTEEN months after, the girl went to the great city of lights and congested traffic, and the man found he could not keep pace with her innocent demand for hard cash. She was harmlessly enjoying herself with some relations he had arranged for her to stay with, and she gave no thought to the thing that was cutting into her father.

There had been such a drawing on the bank that the man was afraid to look past the next few months or so. He wrote to her. and it was the first time in her life that the girl had even had a reminder from him that she must think herself for once.

She wrote to him that she was sorry she had been so unthinking, but that she had determined that rather than return to the silences of the scrub and timber country she would work, and that he was not to bother to send her another penny.

This hurt the man more than anything, but the old working woman, who could look further into the future than he could, held up a finger.

'Give her the chance to find out.' she said. 'Let her learn both sides of the life— she'll regret her going sooner.'

This was so much scalding water on the wounds of the man; but he could do nothing else and yet allow his daughter to remain where she was. So he said no more and the girl went her own way.

First she took a position in a tea-room in the city, and found much more pulsing life there, the exigencies of which nearly sent her to bed at nights too tired to sleep. But she persuaded herself that it was better than going back to the bush home, so she kept on at it. During the days that followed she found much amusement, and some slight irritations to her vanity, when she was spoken to by the proprietor in rather a nasty way.

She put that also behind her; but when she was lightly laughed at by a visitor to the room, and told she was a jolly pretty girl and that he would think seriously of marrying her if she had been anything else but a tea-room girl, she decided it was time to take another course.

This started in someone giving her the idea that girls on the stage were very happy and well paid. She decided to see to it right away, and when interviewed with another couple of dozen applicants for the position advertised was told she was a 'thumping big girl, and that she could go in the chorus at two pounds a week.'

'They have such a peculiar way of speaking to one that it almost seems rudeness,' she said, as she came away. 'Anyway, Father Jim will be glad to hear I am making such good money.'

But Father Jim, who knew a little more than the inexperienced child of the bush, flew to the woman of the kitchen and breathed hurriedly the truth. 'Ann, Ann, what shall we do?'

'Leave her,' said Ann. 'It's getting near the finish, I tell you. Can't you wait? She's not learned her lesson to the full yet.'

'And when she does!' gasped the man. 'Oh, Ann! the life— the horrid glaring facts she has to learn— the sordidness— the dreadful way the men will stare! Oh. the little kid— my paper lady! Better rather she had never been born. And it's the mother over again!'

'I tell you to wait,' said Ann, and went away from him and left him wisely alone.

And far away in the town the girl trod to the measure of many new things— things that excited her and made her think she was at last in the right way to success and happiness. She enjoyed the laughter of the girls, and she knew she could afford frocks as good as they wore, directly her salary started.

One day before the opening night the girls were all congregated in the wardrobe department to be fitted and made ready for the costumes they were to wear in the opera. The head woman was decidedly cross and irritable, and spoke in such a rude way to the girls that they answered her in as nasty tones. Joan stood back waiting her turn.

'Don't stand waiting if you want us to get away to-day,' said the woman. 'Come over here and let me try this tunic on you.'

'Aren't you too tired to do any more?' said the girl, and the woman laughed slightly. 'Well, you're a funny one! Who cares if we are tired? It's the chatter that nearly makes me mad, and I have a constant headache. You're new — I can see that.'

The bush girl stood easily.

'Yes.' she said. 'It's my first try, you know. Do you think I shall get on well?'

'Not as well as if you had stopped off the stage,' she said, and looked hard at the girl. 'You're— awfully like someone I used to know. Who are you?'

'I'm from the bush,' said the girl, 'and I wanted to see life and make myself like the pictures in the books I used to cut out when I was a little girl. My father is so good, and he is letting me have a try.'

'The bush!' said the woman. 'You were better off there, if you only knew it. Got a father, too. Heavens! there are girls here that have to work because they have no parents; but you— well, you'll have to find out, as I did.'

'Find out what?' said the girl.

'Find out that there is no place like home, and that father is the best man in the world. I had a home and a dear, good husband. I wanted all you thought you want, and when it was too late I wanted to go back.'

'And couldn't you?'

'I was too proud, after my stupid behaviour,' said the woman. 'I have never been the same since.'

Just  then someone called the woman by name, and the girl caught her arm as she was going to leave her.

'Do you know,' she said, 'that your name is the same as mine?'

The woman stared at her, and then burst i I ir.to tears.'

'That's what I have been suspecting, and I feel the double sin. Your father's name is Jim, and I'm the stupid-minded mother who ran away.'

But as the girl tried to speak the call came for chorus on stage. She tore to the steps and to the rehearsal. When there the assistant stage manager was also found in a bad temper. He shouted to the girls to come down stage, and not stand about like so many cows. The bush girl thought it was rude, and not feeling too bright for the first time since she had come to town and heard the things the woman had told her, she stood back of the rest and did not j go forward.

'Come on, you little fool!' called the stage manager. Joan went scarlet. She knew that her father would not have spoken to one of the dogs that way. and she trembled and felt she could not move a step without ! bringing herself to the level of the man who had addressed her. It was the worst degradation, she felt, that could have been I put upon her. 'If you don't come forward when I speak, you can get off the stage,' said the man, and the girl, with the blood of her progenitors welling in her head, stood firm with raised chin, and then calmly walked off the stage by the left wing. She sought the woman who was in the wardrobe-room.

'And now you will go back, dearie,' said her mother. 'You will go back to— him.' But Joan sobbed, hurt and badly wounded. 'How can I, when I wanted to come after he told me I had better not? Oh, how rude the people are in town!'

'You know you were wrong to come,' said the woman. 'But you will go back.'

'Not unless you go with me?' said Joan.

'That would hardly be fair,' said the woman. 'After leaving him and you all this time, how could I ask him to take me back? No, you must go alone.'

But the girl clung to her.

'We'll stay and work together, but we must get away from this place.'

Then as it was after time to go down to lunch they departed together.

'There's a country-looking chap wants you at the door,' said the attendant as Joan went through the passage.

'It's Father Jim— oh!' She ran forward and fell into his arms.

'Had to come,' said the man. 'Couldn't stand it, kid. I guess it's my turn to run away, and this time I've run after you.'

And the girl could hardly speak to tell him the truth.

'It was like you, Father Jim, dear, to come— I said you would. But there's more than that to reward you for your journey. There's—'

But the woman standing there had heard enough, and she came to the two slowly, penitently.

'Will you take us— home?' was all she said, and the man, riveted to the footpath, could only stare and blink hot, tired eyes. 'We're so— sorry,' said the girl, standing there with limp hands, too. And then the man laughed aloud, out of a full heart.

'Give me a hand each.' he said. 'Home we go— back to the bush. Let me take you home— my two paper ladies!'

________________

15: Kiwi

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Adventure, 1 Jun 1928

IT SMOLDERED on the trip out from San Francisco, smoked up a bit when the transport docked over in Honolulu, smoldered again as we steamed over green, calm water toward Guam. It was a strange thing— this hatred existing between the two men. There were times when I wished the break would come; times when I could have welcomed a flailing of fists, a pounding of flesh. There was too much suppression, too much quiet, deep bitterness. It made things awkward as the devil.

There was, for example, that afternoon three days out of Honolulu. The Army transport Thomas was making a light trip; Bill Graham was having difficulty in getting four chairs in the smoker filled— for bridge. Jess Hall was seated, fingering the cards. I was lighting the worst and best of my pipes, and looked up to see whom Bill had brought along. It was Melford.

"Here we are!" Bill stated cheerfully. "It takes a good infantry shavetail to dig up a good flyin' man for a warm game of—"

And then Jess Hall laughed that nasty laugh of his, and Bill got wise to the fact that he'd pulled a bad one. Lieutenant Melford just stood in the smoker doorway, with a bit of deck and plenty of green Pacific back of him, and smiled.

"Sorry!" Jess rose from his seat and tossed the cards carelessly down on the table surface. "But something's making me sort of sick— and it isn't the motion of the boat, either."

I was watching Lew Melford. He had rather a sallow complexion anyway; Hall's words robbed his face of what little color there was under the skin. He swayed a bit— and then Jess was moving his tall, rangy body toward the port door, and his back was turned to us. There was a little silence, and I broke it.

"Sit down, Lieutenant," I suggested. "Hall had too much pie for lunch, maybe."

But the other officer didn't sit down. He smiled grimly toward the port doorway, through which Jess had made his exit from the smoking room. Bill Graham was staring blankly at me. Lieutenant Melford spoke sharply.

"Too much pie for lunch— or too much command back in the States?" he snapped.

I reached for the cards. Bill Graham dropped down into a chair. He swore softly.

"What in hell's the matter?" he muttered. His eyes went to the brown ones of Lew Melford. "Don't you two get together?"

It was then that Melford got rid of the thought that I'd had in my mind for sometime. His voice was knife edged.

"Not yet," he replied. "But just give us time. We will!"

With that he swung about, vanished from sight along the deck. Bill Graham swore again. He reached for a pill, lighted up, and looked into my handsome face.

"Mac," he breathed, "what sort of a boner did I pull that time?"

I grinned. Graham was going down to the Islands detached, a little over two years out of West Point. He was taking the Army pretty seriously.

"Forget it," I advised. "Both of 'em ate too much pie for lunch."

But Bill is of the breed who possess inquisitive minds. And, too, he'd sensed the depth of the feeling between the two airmen.

"Your branch of the Service, Mac," he said slowly. "Come through."

I shook my head.

"I've been over at Rook for the last year— experimental and test work," I stated. "Lieutenant Hall's been down on the Border. Suppose you dig up two medicos. They usually play a good game, and we can—"

"Hall's been down on the Border," Bill Graham repeated slowly, and I could see my interruption hadn't got me a thing. "And where's Lieutenant Melford been?"

I groaned.

"The same place!" I stated softly. "How about getting Captain Jones and—"

I checked myself. Bill was smiling grimly, and it was a cinch that he had started to figure things out. I tried sarcasm.

"Three or four other fliers were on the Border, too," I stated slowly. "Will their names help any, Bill?"

Graham swore softly. He flipped over a card that had been lying face downward. The ace of clubs.

"Both on flying duty now, Mac?" he asked casually. "Both Hall and Melford?"

"I can let you know, shortly after we reach Manila," I stated sarcastically. "You might radio the staff office—"

"Lay off, Mac!" Bill's voice was grim. "I pulled a boner. Maybe if I hadn't come aboard this transport at Honolulu I'd have known better. It isn't kid stuff, Mac; those guys hate each other's guts! You can see it, hear it— and feel it. Why?"

I shook my head. Somehow, it made me feel superior not to show that I was just as curious as Bill. So I stuck to my line.

"I draw my monthly pay— even if I don't know the why," I replied. "And I still claim the ship's cook knows his pie and coffee—"

"Go to the devil!" Bill snapped grimly. "Before we make Manila I bet I'll know something."

"When a ship prop's turning— don't get too close," I advised quietly.

Bill looked at me sharply.

"Here's another," he said slowly. "A funny old bird is the kiwi— looks like a bird, but can't fly. No wings."

I swore cheerfully.

"You've been reading books. Bill," I told him. "I'm going down for a nap."

But Bill Graham's no fool. I've run across him, off and on, in the past year, and I know that much.

"Like hell you are!" he returned. "You're going down and think!"

And Bill was right.

OUT OF Guam about two days we picked up the tail end of a typhoon. It wasn't bad, as typhoons go, but it was bad enough to set the Thomas up on end and crack up a few dishes. There was a big coil of cable up in the bow, and when things got going pretty bad a rumor got around that if the cable got loose it would batter the plates apart. The wind was blowing close to ninety, and the sea was white— no other color in it.

We were in the smoking room— Bill Graham and myself— having no troops to worry about, when Captain Phillips came in and gave us the news. The cable had got loose; two men were dead and three in the hospital, and things looked bad. They had all the men down below that they could use, and there wasn't anything for us to do but sit tight.

The ship was pitching fiercely; the captain was convinced that only the fact she was heavily loaded would pull us through. Crests of waves were running the decks; even the bridge was a tough spot. But the transport captain felt we would stay right side up, so Phillips told us. Bill grinned.

"They always do," he stated. "Part of their business. If they handed out—" Bill stopped speaking abruptly. The deck door on the port side was flung open; wind and spray filled the smoking room. A figure, bent low, came in. Lew Melford turned, got his weight against the door, slammed it shut. Then he faced us. His eyes were wide, staring— his lips moved, words came from them hoarsely.

"Overboard! Hall— went over the rail as she listed that last time—"

I stared at him. Bill Graham leaped to his feet. Captain Phillips was up, too, clutching one of the floor-clamped card tables with both hands. Above the shrill of the wind through the transport's rigging came a cry.

"Man overboard!"

Lieutenant Melford took a step forward. The ship pitched violently. As her bow came down, and her screw shuddered the length of steel and wood, out of water, Melford slumped to the cushions of the nearest seat. His face was ashen in color.

Bill Graham sank down near him. He looked up at the captain.

"No use jumping. Cap. Can't do anything," he muttered. "No one could live two minutes in this kind of a sea. Take it easy."

I nodded my head. A cry sounded faintly from the stern of the ship, hardly reaching us against the wind's shrilling. Lieutenant Melford groaned.

"He was— right ahead of me!" he half muttered. "When she slid through the crest of that one we both went down. He got to his feet— slipped— hit the rail and went over. Just ten feet from— this door!"

Melford buried his face in his arms. Bill Graham's eyes met mine. They held a peculiar expression. I could guess what Bill was thinking. I got to my feet, edged my way toward the door.

"You fellows stick with him," I told Bill and the captain. "I'll check up on—"

By that time I had the door opened and was saving my breath. The waves were coming in higher than the masts of the transport, but with plenty of sea valley space between them. I got outside and made my way along the deck toward the stern. Twice I was ankle deep in white foam, but I stayed clear of the rail. And then, suddenly, I saw him. Jess Hall!

I was up against the shelter of some forward cabins. Hall came along slowly, head bent low, hands gripping any object they could cling to; and I waited. He was almost beside me when he straightened a bit, and his eyes met mine. There was red on his lips; he had a nasty cut over his left eye. And he was soaked. Water dripped from the short leather coat he had been wearing since the typhoon had struck us.

I gripped him by the arm nearest to me. But he shook me off, moved on toward the smoking room, up forward. And I followed. He plunged in through the door; I got it closed behind him. Standing just inside, he swayed, wiped the red from his left eye with the back of a soaked hand.

Lew Melford looked up. He cried out hoarsely, staggered to his feet. Bill Graham swore fiercely. The captain's eyes were wide.

"Hall!" Melford's voice was shaken, barely coherent. "You didn't go over? You didn't go—"

Then Jess Hall took one step forward. His left arm lashed out. He struck with everything he had— with his right. There was the sound of the impact—clenched fist against flesh— and they were both on the floor of the smoking room.

By that time Bill Graham and I had got into action. And by that time, also, we weren't needed. Jess Hall was lying with his eyes closed, unconscious— and Lew Melford was only semiconscious. We got them up, with Captain Phillips' help, and stretched them out on the smoking room side-cushions. Melford was coming out of it all right; there was a red spot under his left ear, where Hall's fist had landed. He struggled to sit up.

"He hit me!" he muttered thickly. "He thinks I—"

"Hell!" It was Bill Graham who interrupted. "Hall's in bad shape. We'd better get him down to the hospital and—"

Melford was rubbing the spot under his left ear. I called to the captain, who sat staring at Hall.

"You stick close to Melford, Cap. We'll get Jess down to the hospital. He's been banged up— out on the deck—"

Hall's lanky frame stirred. He tried to rise, but Bill held him down. Then he twisted his head— stared at Melford.

With a sudden strength he shoved Bill out of the way. He straightened up to a sitting position, his eyes narrowed on Melford's.

"Tried it— again , eh?" he breathed hoarsely. "You damned kiwi!"

Then he pitched forward, and Bill Graham kept him from rolling to the floor. I looked at Melford. His eyes were shut, but his lips were moving. No words came from them. Captain Phillips was at his side, holding him by one arm. I looked doubtfully at Bill.

"Maybe we'd better get a doc up here—"

"Hell, no!" Bill snapped. "What these two need between them is distance. And your friend Hall may be badly hurt. If he went over the side—"

"He was swept over!" Melford spoke, his voice shaken. "The sea must have washed him—"

"Come on, Mac!" Bill interrupted again. "Grab hold and let's get him down to a doc. He may be in bad shape."

I don't know exactly how we did it— but we got him down to the ship hospital. The regular medicos and a couple going down to the Islands were all on duty, and they all had their hands full. We stuck around until we got the verdict. A bad rap on the head, head cuts and bruises all over the body, and three broken ribs.

"What happened?"

It was the ranking major who asked Bill the question, but I got in the answer first.

"He fell— on the deck," I stated. "Heavy sea smashed him into the rail."

The major nodded. That wasn't at all hard for him to believe. There were plenty of others who had been smashed down in the same way. Bill and I climbed up two decks and reached the dining saloon. It was empty—both of humans and food. We picked out a couple of swivel seats and dropped into them. Bill was smiling grimly.

"Guess you heard what Hall said, eh? And he called him a kiwi, too. I wasn't so dumb, after all." His voice was grim.  "I did a little thinking. It was a cinch that Jess Hall figured Lieutenant Melford had tried to shove him overboard. And it was a cinch that Jess figured he'd tried something of the sort once before. But, somehow, I wasn't so sure of that. Melford had always seemed pretty calm, and pretty white— to me.

"Bill," I said slowly, "there are a few things in this world that we don't know about. We don't know what happened to Jess Hall, back there on the deck and—"

"But we can guess," Bill cut in. "He comes in all excited— this fellow Melford— and says that Hall's been washed overboard. A lot of guys have been smashed down by these waves— but they haven't been washed overboard. Then Hall comes in— and goes after Melford. How come?"

"He hasn't much use for Melford. I'll admit that," I stated. "He showed that when you dug the other lieutenant up for a fourth at bridge. There's something, as I said before, that we don't know about. Something that dates back some. Hall might have been slapped down by that water wash, got a bump on his head and gone crazy momentarily."

"Get out!" There was derision in Bill Graham's voice. "You don't think that way, Mac. He called him a pretty rotten name, didn't he? Or do wing wearers like being called a kiwi these days?"

"I wouldn't like it much— not the way he used it," I replied. "But I don't think Melford tried to murder Hall, that's sure."

There was a little silence. Bill Graham spoke in a low, cold tone.

"I do! And I think he tried it once before. And I don't think Hall was off his head when he got back to the smoking cabin. And—"

"Well," I snapped, getting a bit fed up on Bill's line, "who do you squeal to— the transport C. O.?"

That got Bill. His eyes were little slits, and he stuck his chin close to my face.

"I'm not talking, Mac— and you damn well know that. But I'll lay you a bet. Melford's on the nonflying list. Ten to one on that. And I'll lay you another. He won't talk. Still another— Hall won't talk. And here's the big one— even money that if the two of them ever got up in a plane together—"

Bill Graham shrugged his broad shoulders. He grinned with narrowed eyes and tight lips. Then he relaxed.

"You're not so dumb as you look, Mac. Figure it out for yourself, and take that bet or leave it."

"I'll leave it," I returned. "Oh, I get you, all right. You think they'll scrap it out to a finish. End up in a sky murder, or something. Well, it's their affair, Bill."

The infantry officer swore.

"Hell, but you're noble, Mac!" he muttered. "It's a damned shame that a guy like you will sit in for the finish— and I'll be sweating out in some province post."

I grinned.

"I'll write you all I hear— and see," I consoled.

"Which will be plenty!" Bill stated. "Even a kiwi can get sore."

I stared at Graham.

"How come you know so much about the breed, Bill?" I asked slowly. "How come you had the hunch that one of the two wasn't rated as flying?"

The infantry officer tossed me a pill, lighted up. He spoke quietly. The motion of the transport was less severe amidship, where the dining saloon was located. But it was bad enough.

"Went from the Point to Brooks Field— trained for seven months for the Air Service, Mac. Surprised? Thought you'd be. Well, I flopped. Wasn't alone— there were plenty who flopped. Lack of complete coordination— that's what they called it. Had a drill lieutenant named Muller. And I learned about kiwis from him. That's all. When they haven't been flying for a while they talk and act different. I've talked with Melford a bit. Also with Hall."

"Bill," I stated, "if you ever get fed up on the infantry, go in for intelligence. You're gifted."

Bill didn't smile, and he didn't get sore. He just looked at me through squinted eyes, his face expressionless.

"For you," he commented sarcastically, "that's a hell of a good suggestion!"

THE TRANSPORT got through the typhoon's tail in fourteen hours. Perhaps it was a bit more than a tail, but the captain rated it that way. She steamed into Manila Bay, past the gray Corregidor Island, with a half dozen life boats badly smashed, thirty-five men in the hospital and her flag at half mast. Lieutenant Jess Hall was one of the men in the hospital. Twelve enlisted men and two officers, a portion of the detail that had finally conquered the great coil of cable down in the bow, were hospital heroes. The boat was almost twenty hours overdue.

I left Bill Graham at the dock. Jess Hall would be in the General Hospital for another week. Lew Melford and I were to report to Major Very for assignment to active duty. Bill was going out to Mindoro as a replacement. We shook hands.

"Write me after it happens— and tell me how it happens." He smiled slightly. "Even if you don't draw the same post he does— you'll know. It's your branch of the Service."

"Forget it, Bill," I advised. "The heat down here will give you enough trouble without your worrying about Melford and Hall."

"Dengue or dysentery— I'll still be curious, Mac," he returned. "You scribble me the news."

He went along to look up his steamer trunk, leaving me staring at the stern of the Cheyo Maru, docked near the battered transport. I shook my head slowly.

"Maybe there won't be any news," I muttered to myself.

But I didn't really think that way. Jess Hall, for one, was too good a hater. And I wasn't so sure that Lieutenant Melford would forget the two blows Hall had given him, before they had both crashed to the slanting floor of the ship's smoking room.

Heat— considerable monotony— that would be just a part of the Island dose. A bad climate for brooding, hating. But there was a good chance that Hall and Lew Melford would draw separate posts, particularly if Hall wasn't flying. A good chance.

"All set, Lieutenant?"

I turned slightly, nodding my head. It was Lew Melford, and he was ready to hop into one of the waiting carrometas with me, for our report. We picked out one whose pony was almost as small as the native driver, and settled back. The driver shrilled thin words at the pony; the carromata jerked into action. We were both silent.

For five minutes or so we watched the crowded, narrow streets of Manila, without speaking. It was very hot. Then, as we turned into the Escolta, Melford spoke.

"Curious to know where we're going, MacLeod?"

Melford's voice was almost toneless. He was medium sized, with rather broad shoulders, his face sallow and his eyes rather deep set.

I grinned.

"More curious," I stated directly, "to know if you and Jess Hall are going to the same field."

He stiffened a little. And then he smiled. It was a different sort of smile than I'd ever seen on his face before.

"I'll relieve your curiosity," he said slowly. "Major Scott, an old friend of our family, came down to the boat to meet me. He's on the inside, when it comes to assignments. A new field is being established, just south of Batac, on Luzon. It's about two hundred and eighty air miles from Manila. Some enlisted men are up there now, and a few fliers. Barracks are up and the field is in fair shape. More planes are to be flown up, and there is talk of an air survey of the surrounding country— soon to be made. We go up there— you and I."

I was sitting up straight in the carrometa's seat now. My eyes met Lieutenant Melford's.

"And Lieutenant Hall? Does he—"

I checked myself at Melford's grim chuckle.

"Same place," he stated slowly. "I shall have another chance— to murder him."

He spoke the last three words bitterly, his eyes narrowed. My eyes pictured him, staggering into the smoking room of of the pitching Thomas, crying out that Jess Hall had been washed overboard.

The carromata driver was shrilling the pony around a comer. Odors and high pitched voices reached nostrils and ears. I could sense the future contact— the closeness of it. The same, small Island Field. The same mess. Heat. Monotony.

I swore softly— and Lew Melford chuckled again. His lips moved slightly; he spoke in a low, hoarse voice.

"Good place for the finish, eh? An accident— up in some Godforsaken—"

He broke off abruptly, as I stared at him. He relaxed, shrugging his shoulders. I started to speak, to ask questions, to try and learn something. But I realized that it would be no go. Melford reached for his handkerchief, wiped his lean face.

"Warm, eh?" he muttered. "And they say it gets warmer."

Then we were pulling toward the curb; the pony stopped, head low. The grinning native boy turned toward us. We had arrived at headquarters.

TEN DAYS of it. Testing out new ships, getting the feel of Batac country air. Learning the tricks of setting them down and taking them off from the small and not too level field, to the east of which were the post buildings. Six pilots, with one due to arrive in an hour or so. Ten ships, most of them P. T. training planes. A few new type Douglass planes were promised. But promises could be easily forgotten when the post was two hundred and eighty miles from Manila.

I sat on a cane chair on the tiny screened porch of my quarters. It was hot, as usual. There were many bugs beating against the screening. It was almost dusk. The Caraballo Mountains, off to the east, were framed darkly against a gorgeous red sunset. They took purple tints which became black with the passing minutes. I thought of flying planes over them, for the survey work, and smiled grimly. Great country!

Then, almost like the falling of a curtain, it became dark. The tropical twilight was swiftly sped. There was the sound of a car, crossing one end of the Field from the dirt road which ran into Batac. Voices drifted down the silence. I heard Lieutenant Collins, whose quarters were next to mine, bellow cheerfully.

"Here's Hall— tough luck for him! That engineer must have had a date. First time he pulled that tin steed of his in ahead of time."

Collins broke off, moved out toward the headquarters office. I followed him. Jess Hall, as lean and rangy as ever, climbed down from the Army car. Captain Sweeney came out to meet him, grinning. Jess saluted, grinned back.

"Welcome to Batac, Lieutenant!"

The C. O. and Jess shook hands.

I moved in closer. Jess Hall smiled at me. We shook hands. I was tempted to use Major Mullen's epic welcome to pilots who came down to his Border field, back in the States— "Welcome to hell, sir!"— but I didn't.

"How's everything, Mac?" Jess kept right on grinning.

"Fine," I returned. "Feel pretty fit?"

Hall's eyes narrowed.

"How's the kiwi?" he snapped suddenly. "Hasn't shot any one in the back yet, has he?"

I saw the C. O. straighten, watched the expression of surprise in his eyes. And I felt myself getting a bit cold. Then Hall laughed— the same, nasty sort of laugh he'd used in the smoking room of the Thomas. He turned toward Captain Sweeney.

"Just an old joke of ours, Captain," he explained. "Dates back to the Border."

The C. O. was smiling; he lead the way into the office. Jess Hall followed along.

I walked back toward my quarters. I was sitting on my cot, smoking a pill, when Melford came in from the Field.

"Ballin's still out— in the Curtiss Scout," he stated. "Looks like a forced landing. I'll go over and report. What's the matter, Mac?"

He must have seen something in my eyes. I grunted.

"Hall's here," I said slowly. "Just got in."

Lew Melford nodded. There was no expression in his eyes.

"Hope he likes it," he said quietly. "See you later, Mac."

And he moved along, toward the headquarters office. I grabbed my helmet and goggles and tagged along after him. Ballin was down somewhere and that meant a hurried search. The country was bad, and if the lieutenant had cracked up, the sooner we got to him the better. We had wing lights on the ships, and flares to drop. There would be a fair chance of locating the lost Curtiss Scout.

Melford was within ten feet of the two steps leading up to the screened porch of the headquarters office when Jess Hall came out. A few of the officers were around, waiting to say hello to Hall. But his eyes were on those of the field officer. Hands at his sides, he halted at the bottom of the steps and waited for Melford to come up.

The non-flying officer moved up close. He was smiling. Lights from within the office showed me that fact. I wasn't far behind him.

"Hello, Lieutenant!"

His voice was steady, though a bit strained. Jess Hall spoke harshly.

"To hell with you— kiwi!"

Melford stiffened. I swore softly. And then Melford lowered his head and rushed in. Jess stepped to one side, swung a battering right fist. But Melford went right through the impact of the blow. And then, suddenly, Jess Hall was stretched on the ground and Melford was standing over him, white faced, swaying slightly.

Collins was the first one to get into action. He bent down over Hall, with the help of Ed Means got him to his feet. The two of them half carried, half dragged him toward the officers' quarters and sway from the C. O.'s office. Lew Melford stared at me stupidly.

"You damned fool!" I snapped. "You'll rate a court martial and—"

"He called me— kiwi!" Melford spoke thickly. "You heard him—"

A screened door slammed. The C. O. stood on the steps. Melford straightened.

"Lieutenant Ballin, sir—he hasn't come in. He's been out four hours. I would suggest searching ships, sir."

The C. O. nodded.

"You takel charge. Lieutenant," he ordered. "Get ships up right away. Use all available officers and planes. Bad flying country. Ballin may be badly hurt."

I stared at the C. O. It was strange— letting a ground officer, even though in charge of Field operations, handle the search for the missing pilot and plane. But the C. O. was doing just that. He turned abruptly, moved toward his office. The screen door slammed behind him.

Melford faced me. His eyes held a peculiar expression. He spoke sharply.

"Get all flying officers out at Hangar B., Lieutenant. I'll have the flood lights turned on for the take-offs. Hurry them up, please!"

I nodded.

"How about Hall?" I asked foolishly.

Melford smiled grimly.

"He has not yet been assigned for flying duty," he snapped. "We won't need him."

I headed for the barracks. In ten minutes there were a half dozen pilots gathered around Lieutenant Melford. He spoke in a low, steady voice.

"Ballin was out for a look over the first range of the Caraballos— and he may have gone down over that way. Use your heads— as well as your ships— and don't set a plane down unless you've got a chance of reaching him. We don't want another crash just because we've had one. If you can get down, do it. If not, get back here with the location of the ship. We'll try to reach him on foot. I've given you the sectors each plane is to cover. Watch for running lights. A red flare means the lost ship has been found. All right! You've all got food to drop him, and the first aid kits. Go to it!"

The pilots scattered, headed for their ships. There were flood lights on the field. I jerked my helmet over my head, adjusted the harness of my 'chute pack. Melford moved close to me. His face was drawn.

"Ballin's only a kid, Mac," he breathed. "I sent him up. If you spot the ship— and see him down below, hurt but still alive— come back and get me. That is, if you can't get down to him. It may be days before we can cut our way through the jungle to those mountains. I'll go over the side with a 'chute, try to get near—"

"The hell you will!"

There was amusement in the words— a grim, harsh note of it. Standing close behind Melford was Lieutenant Jess Hall. Neither of us had heard him, seen him come up.

"You didn't go over the side two years ago down on the Border!" Jess spoke quietly, icily now. "You made me think you were out, cracked in the head by a piece of strut, after that air crash. You made me try to land a one-wing ship, because I thought you were out— and wouldn't jump and let you crash alone. But you weren't out! You were just yellow— that's all! So yellow you wouldn't go over the side. And when you saw I couldn't make a landing, you jumped! At five hundred feet you jumped and let me crack up on the ground, thinking you were still out in the rear cockpit. You'll jump over for this Ballin? Like hell you will!"

"I sent him up there." Melford spoke tonelessly as I stared at Jess Hall.

"Sure you did!" Jess Hall's eyes met mine. "After that crash, back on the Border, Mac, this kiwi got off flying. He quit and he hated me because he was afraid I'd come through with the
truth. He tried to get me on the boat, coming down. First time we'd come together in a year or so. Slammed me down—"

"Wait!" Melford interrupted. His voice was hard. "Ballin's down somewhere. We're wasting time. We'll change plans. You take the extra scout, Mac. Lieutenant Hall will fly the P. T. you were going to fly. And I'll ride the rear cockpit with him!"

I saw Jess stiffen. His eyes narrowed on Melford's. He smiled grimly.

"Jess may not be fit enough to—"

"I'm fit enough!" Jess cut me off sharply. "The kiwi's in charge, Mac. You skyride the scout. I'm flying the Curtiss. How about equipment?"

The roar of engines of the ships taking off from the lighted field almost drowned out Melford's orders to a ground crew sergeant.

"Equipment— for Lieutenant Hall," he ordered. "Fast, Sergeant."

Then he turned away, and I looked Jess Hall in the eyes. I spoke in a low tone.

"Be yourself, Jess! You know Melford isn't yellow. Give him a chance!"

"He never gave me one!" Hall interrupted. "But— he'll get his chance, Mac. And if he doesn't take it..."

He checked himself. I turned toward the deadline, and the Curtiss scout I was to fly. And I made up my mind about one thing. I'd fly fairly close to the two- seater Jess Hall was flying. If Bill Graham had been correct, and I was to be in on the finish—I'd be in on it right.

IT WASN'T a black night. Starlight in the tropics has a silver glow. The red exhaust streaks of the departing planes trailed to the eastward as I taxied the baby ship to one end of the field, kicked right rudder and got her headed into what little breeze there was. As I advanced the throttle, opened the engine up for the take-off, I got a glimpse of a P. T. plane coming out from the deadline. There was the waving of a hand— Jess Hall at the controls in the front cockpit.

I groaned, got the scout off the clipped, rough grass— and into the air. Climbing in a steeply banked spiral, I stared over the side of the fuselage, watched the P. T. plane coming up. I thought of Jess Hall's words. Had Lew Melford lost his nerve in that Border air crash? Had he forced Jess to believe he was unconscious, rather than jump— and at the last moment, when he had seen a crash ahead, had he gone over the side without Jess knowing it?

I shook my head. There was something about Melford that caused me to doubt Hall's version of the thing. But there was the transport incident. And now they were skyriding together.

The scout banked around momentarily to the west and I straightened in my seat. Almost at the same altitude as my ship, flying in from the west, was another plane. She had running lights— and she was small. I got the scout out of the bank— roared toward the other ship. She was coming in at an angle. In the starlight I got a good look at her. She was the other Curtiss scout and Lieutenant Ballin was piloting her!

As I flashed past her he waved a hand— nosed his plane downward. I waved back. That was the end of the search. The C. O. would send up one of the planes that had not yet left the field to fly after the others and bring them back. Better still—

I got my rocket pistol from the rack and held it over the side. There was a pretty burst of red. Probably most of the departing ships' pilots would catch the sky reflection of the rocket— the signal that the lost ship had been located. I fired one more burst, then nosed downward.

A shape flashed upward off my port wing. The P. T. in which rode Jess Hall and Lew Melford. I leveled off, pointed down toward the gliding Ballin Scout. Momentarily the two planes were flying close to each other.

"She's— in!" I shouted with all my strength.

And then I got a glimpse of Jess Hall's face. He was grinning. The goggles.

with the starlight reflected in the goggle- glass, made his grin a hideous thing. He stuck a hand out in the prop-wash, jerked a thumb upward. Then, suddenly, he zoomed the P. T.

I understood in that second. Here was the showdown. Ballin was safe; even now he was setting the little scout ship down on the Batac Field. But there was something else. Jess Hall had Lew Melford riding the sky with him—

I zoomed the baby scout. When I pushed the stick forward, got her out of the zoom, we had six thousand feet, a couple of hundred better than the P. T. I got her over in almost a vertical bank— and watched the two-seater, which was circling in a mild bank below. I could see that Jess Hall had his head turned, was shouting words at Melford.

The P. T. was out of the bank now, Melford was standing up in the rear cockpit. He had an arm flung forward; his head was twisted to one side. I held the scout in the bank, my eyes on the plane below. There was movement in the front cockpit now. Jess Hall was up, squirming out of the cockpit. I could see the Irving 'chute pack on his back. He got a leg over the fuselage side— a foot on the wing surface. Melford's hands were groping for him.

I got it— then. Jess was about to make a hop-off. He was about to leave the non-flyer in the air, six thousand feet up, with just two things to do. Make a 'chute jump after Jess— or climb over into the front cockpit and land the plane! And Melford had not flown for months, not since the Border crash.

A 'chute jump, with the ship crashing down below, looked like the only chance for Melford. I groaned. Jess Hall was out on a wing several feet now; the plane was falling off into a spin...

I dived the scout downward, after the P. T. I shouted hoarsely, knowing that my voice would be drowned by the shrilling of wind through the planes' rigging. Something flashed downward from the two-seater's wing surface. Jess Hall had jumped!

And then my eyes widened. The two-seater was in the first turn of a spin and from the spot where Hall had leaped there trailed down lines— shroud lines! A figure dangled fifteen feet below, slanting out grotesquely. In some manner the ripcord release ring, over Hall's left thigh, had been jerked. The pilot 'chute had been sprung, had caught, tangled itself on a strut of the wing! Jess Hall was trapped, dangling below the plane from which he had leaped, and which was going down now in a spin!

Even as I watched Jess trying to pull himself up on the shroud lines below the bigger spread of silk the P. T. came out of the spin and got into a mild glide. I maneuvered the scout into a better position, stared at the two-seater's front cockpit. Lew Melford had changed cockpits. He was at the controls, in front!

The P. T. was down to four thousand now. Jess Hall was still struggling. The 'chute seemed to me to be tangling. If he didn't get free in a hurry—

I glided the scout close to the other gliding plane. It was the pilot 'chute—  the smaller spread of silk which jerks out the large, sailing spread—that was tangled on a strut. There would be no chance of saving Jess Hall unless he could be cut loose. And in seconds now the larger spread might be hopelessly tangled.

Jess had ceased to struggle. My eyes went to the figure of Lew Melford— the kiwi. His head was bent forward in the front cockpit. He was working desperately at something. I thought of trying to maneuver the Scout beneath Hall's dangling form, but there was too much risk of cutting him to pieces with my whirling propeller.

Lew's form had straightened now. The P. T. was down to three thousand, still in a mild glide. Lew swung a leg over the side of fuselage and the plane was wing-drooping now. He got his other leg over, clung to a strut, worked his way out toward the tangled pilot- 'chute silk. Then he was slashing away with something that glistened in the silver starlight—a knife.

The ship was over in a sixty degree bank. Her nose was coming down. I was forced to dive the soout sharply. Then, suddenly, Jess Hall's body was drifting downward. The big main spread of silk swung lazily in the breeze, undamaged— bore Lieutenant Hall down toward the field. The man he had called a kiwi had cut him free!

My eyes went back to Melford's form, out on the wing surface. The P. T. was in a sky screaming spin. His figure was nothing but a blur. I muttered hoarsely as I dived the Scout.

"Jump! Get clear before she—"

A shape shot off to one side of the plunging plane. For seconds it raced the ship downward. Then it seemed to be arrested in the silver colored sky. Legs dangled loosely— above Lieutenant Melford and the shroud lines was the arc- shape of the big silk spread. Lew had got clear.

A crash came up from below; there was a great burst of yellow-red. A booming roar sounded above the shrill of wind through the scout's wires. Flames were stabbing into the sky from the wreckage of the P. T., not far from the field. I swore grimly, banked the ship around, nosed down the flood lights. There were running lights to the eastward; the other ships were coming in. Jess Hall's 'chute had let him down near the barracks and the mess hall. Melford was drifting toward the east end of the field.

"Kiwi!" I muttered. "Maybe he is— but he sure saved Jess from being a sort of— permanent one!"

I leveled off, got the tail assembly down for a pretty decent landing. Shaky? When I got the plane to the dead-line I had to grab for the switch three times before I could cut the engine. I slid down to the ground; the C. O. was coming toward me.

"What in hell," he snapped, "happened up there?"

I shook my head. "Lieutenant Hall can tell you, sir," I returned. "And, believe me, he ought to be damned glad to be able to do it!"

I WAS sitting with Lew Melford, in his quarters, two hours later. We had come out of the C. O.'s office, after an hour's conference. Lieutenant Hall had been ordered to remain.

"The thing that hurts, Mac—" Melford's voice was low, grim— "is that he thinks I tried to shove him overboard. I did lose my nerve, after that crash back on the Border. I couldn't force myself to jump at the right time. I never thought that Hall was sticking in front because he thought I was out. I had my eyes closed, and my head forward and I was trying like hell to make myself go over the side. When I reached the point where I did go over I never thought about Hall. It was pretty rotten. But he'd never listen to an explanation. He hated me all the way through. I lost confidence, and applied for ground duty. Thought perhaps I'd lost my nerve— was a washout up above. And until tonight—"

He stopped. The lanky form of Jess Hall loomed in the doorway of the room. Lew looked up.

"Come on in," he said. "What's the verdict?"

Jess Hall dropped down on the cot beside me. His eyes met those of Lew Melford in a grim smile. There was momentary silence except for the beating of insects' wings against the screening, the night screeching of birds out in the jungle growth.

"The C. O.'s white." Hall's voice was low. "He told me what I was. Said he'd heard rumors— about the two of us. He'd heard about the transport mess. Things get around, down here. He was wise. That's why he let you handle this search tonight, Melford, instead of running it himself. Ballin wasn't lost. He went out on the C. O.'s orders and stayed out of sight. Even then he came back a little too soon. The captain's guess was that we'd clash tonight. He wanted to get it over in a hurry. Called me a damned fool— but no court martial. You go back on flying status. The plane's charged up to an accident— unavoidable."

I swore softly. Lew Melford had a faint grin on his face. Jess Hall spoke again.

"Figured you tried to get me— on the transport, Melford. You did hit me an awful wallop."

Melford nodded.

"I went down on that slippery deck," he stated slowly. "Got up— and she listed badly with me half off balance. Then you came around the cabin, on the lee side and the sea battered me into you. You hit the rail and went over. I thought you were gone— and I lost my head. Made for the cabin."

Jess Hall grinned.

"Got a grip on the deck rail. That saved me. A crew member thought I was gone and yelled I was overboard. I was set to kill when I pulled myself back on deck. Several kinds of a fool— I've been, Melford."

Lew stuck out his hand, and Jess took it. He grinned at the field officer.

"I came near getting a new set of wings up there," he muttered. "Had a grip on the rip-cord ring and the ship hit a bump. Moved my arm to grab a strut and out came the pilot 'chute. Dumb— that was. Worse than a kiwi..."

He broke off, shook head slowly. Lew and I grinned at him, and Jess grinned back.

"That's a bum line. I'm off it," he muttered. "There are kiwis and kiwis. You never can tell!"

After a few minutes I left them chinning and cursing about the Border. I had some literary work to do. And I hoped, for Bill Graham's sake, he could read my scrawl. He always was too curious.

________________

16: At Twilight

Ethel Lina White

1879-1944

Observer (Adelaide) 17 July 1930

THE world seemed to end at Pymans Corners and pile itself up in a green wash of trees. Although it was still afternoon, the autumn mists had veiled the evergreen shrubs in Miss Luck's moist, leaf-strewn garden, so that the lawn seemed peopled with crouching forms.

Standing at her parlour window, Miss Luck thought of churchyard lights— the whisper in the lane— the footsteps on the stairs— all the old nursery tales of horror and fear. In appearauce, however, she looked more than a .match for man or ghost. A tall, massive woman, she were an irongrey suit cut on masculine lines; her powerful shoulders and muscular back suggested almost ruthless strength. She turned her head and the illusion vanished. Her face was a mere handful of little, indefinite features over which peered timid eyes.

"Fay," she bleated, in a small, weak voice: "I saw a— a tree more in the garden."

The younger Miss Luck, a feather-weight of a girl with a small, pale face and short, dark elf locks, laughed.

"Did it? Now, that's quite interesting. Suppose we have a look at it."

As she rose and put her arm within that of her aunt the enormous lady felt a sudden gust of courage, for this tiny creature was more than her niece and companion. She was her protector. Together they peered into the gloomy garden, nearly submerged in that strange medium— the shade between the lights." And immediately the creeping, misted trees stopped in their advance and stiffened into definite holly or laurel.

"Where's your wonderful tree?" asked Fay.

Miss Luck laughed in her relief. She did not know that she was unable to point it out to her niece because it had crept so much closer to the cottage that it was lurking-behind the pillars of the porch.

"Draw the curtains and let's be snug, Felicia," she said.

SHE squared her massive shoulders and flung back her head, every inch a heroine. At this moment she could have faced lions or raging seas. Because— at this moment— the witched garden was shut out by thick wine-red curtains; the comfortable room glowed with light from lamp, and fire; the gilt clock told her that it was only a quarter to five. And on the rug was a small, dark girl in a leaf-brown jersey and kilt

Unfortunately, she saw the smile Fay tried to suppress. It made her writhe with secret shame. It was in vain that she reminded herself that she was a lady of considerable wealth and, as such, an object of interest to her family. She could always depend upon some niece eager to "keep her company" in her Sussex cottage.

In spite of her armour of frigid dignity, she was the meekest soul at heart. A street urchin could make her quail by a shouted insult. She never rode in an omnibus, because she feared the angry glances of the passengers she crushed.  She allowed tradespeople to overcharge her tether than risk a scene.

As Fay remained silent,  Miss Luck tried to force her to an admission.  "Did you hear how that gardener you— I— discharged described me to Elsie?" she asked. "He said I was a fat old coward. Really fantastic!"

"Really insolent," said Fay severely.

"I confess it made me laugh. . . . Now, Would you call me a coward?"

Fay noticed that the tip of her aunt's nose quivered, as it always did in moments of emotion. In spite of her natural contempt, she suddenly felt very sorry for Miss Luck. Fortunately, she was spared a reply by the ringing of the telephone bell from the hall.

"I'll answer it," she said quickly. When she returned there was a jaded look on her small, vivid face. "Frightfully sorry,

Aunt Winny," she said, "I've got to go out immediately."

Miss Luck's mouth dropped. "Leave me all alone?"

"But, angel, it's still afternoon. It's only for half an hour. And you'll have Elsie."

"No. It's her evening out. Where are you going?"

Fay braced her nerves for another scene. "To the police station," she replied. "They've arrested another man and they want me to identify him."

Miss Luck's face puckered with rage and fear.

"Felicia," she gasped, "I forbid you to go."

"I'm afraid it's nothing to do with you." Fay's tone lacked respect. "And I don't see why you should worry. It's my funeral. Oh, dear, why did I take that , walk?"

Her face grew wistful as she remembered that wild wet day of high wind and flying leaves which had tempted her to a ramble in the beech woods. She had been so filled with the joy of living— so unconscious of the horror in store. And, in the midst of her rapture, she had heard a scream. Breaking through the bushes, she had been in time to see a man rushing away from the prostrate form of a woman.

Although she had missed the actual murder and was thus spared the nauseating details— which her aunt devoured in the morning paper— the shock was severe. She relived that moment, together with her breathless rush to the police station, in many a nightmare.

What had tried her nerves most, however, was her aunt's attitude. She reproached Fay bitterly for giving information Lt the appearance of the criminal, and thus exposing them to his possible recrimination

"We're a 'marked house,' " she quavered. "You should have kept your own counsel and said nothing at all."

Unfortunately, some of Miss Luck's gloomy prophecy, had been fulfilled. The police made an arrest, but Fay failed to identify the man. Although her name was kept out of the papers, she must have been seen as she left the station, for the next day she received an anonymous note.

I seen you. Keep your trap shut or I'll serve you same as I done her.

A man of his word.

Fay crushed the note in her indignation.

"Fancy that railing itself a man. Optimist. I'm jolly glad now I saw flic' little rat."

But some of the poison which lurks in every anonymous letter got under her skin. She could not rid herself of the impression that her movements were dogged. Therefore she was careful to avoid lonely localities and not to go out, unaccompanied, after dark.

Todays' message from the. police station came as a relief. Her description of a gentleman of brunette colouring, smart appearance, and poor, physique applied to more than one member of a razor gang in which the police were interested.  But, since the problem boiled itself down to a suspect being unable to account for his movements on a certain fatal Wednesday afternoon, she was hopeful that this time she would return to the cottage with the comforting knowledge that the criminal was safely under lock and key.

Her lips were set as she walked into the hall and took down her brown tweed coat from its peg. When she returned to the parlour her aunt looked at her with doglike, appealing eyes. She. had many nieces— all attractive and charming— but this independent chit was the one she cared for most, and was, in fact, her principal legatee. She wanted desperately to win back Fay's respect.

Fay's lips. did not relax at her unspoken plea.

"I'm going to the kitchen to tell Elsie that she must stay in for another half hour," she said.

As she spoke, she regarded her aunt with eyes that had grown speculative. Apart from her failing, Miss Luck was a good and charitable soul, with excellent qualities. At her death she would he missed more than many an attractive personality.

Suddenly Fay felt that she would he really fond of the old thing if she were not such a desperate coward. With the regrettable urge fn- reformation which animates most young and ardent natures, she wondered if it wopld be possible to cure her aunt of cowardice. She would have to endure a sharp lesson, but the result would justify any pain. She must bemadc afraid of some peril which was nonexistent, and thus receive a demonstration of the. futility of fear.

"How?" wondered Fay, her eyes brilliant as diamonds.

But, even as she racked her brains, she remembered the classic horror of the man who frightened his wife with a dead snake, only to attract its living mate. Fay shook her head. Her idea held dangerous possibilities.

As she went into the kitchen, she caught Elsie in the act of applying lipstick before the small mirror. Her pretty face had rather a foxy expression. Although it was not yet 5 o'clock, she wore the Lido blue coat and small felt hat which showed that, temporarily, she was out of service.

"My aunt wants you to stay in until 5.30 thin afternoon. Elsie," said' Fay.

"Then 'want' must be her master," returned Elsie smartly.

She knew her value as a treasure whose only fault was carelessness, and she had no intention of making herself cheap. By leaving the cottage at five,  she could obtain her seat at the cinema for the low price of the afternoon session.

"Where's the sense of me staying?" she argued. "She's set in the drawing room and me here, and she won't see me once all the blooming time."

SUDDENLY, Fay saw a chance of the desired lesson for her aunt. There would be no possible risk in leaving her alone at this ridiculously early hour for thirty minutes.

"So long as you can make her think you are here," she said carelessly, "it seems to amount to the same thing."

She brought back the tidings to Miss Luck that Elsie would stay in.

"And they're going to fetch me and bring mc back in a car," she added, "so there'll be no risk of meeting the man."

She noticed that Elsie had taken off her coat and hat and was wearing her muslin apron when she announced Sergeant Davis. He was an excellent type of policeman; powerfully built, with a pleasant and intelligent face.

"Sorry to trouble you again," he said, addressing Miss Luck, "but I think we've got our bird this time. We're lucky to have someone like your young lady, who knows her mind right off. Indeed, we're most grateful to both you ladies for your publicspirited attitude and your pluck."

"My aunt thought she saw a man lurking 'round," Fay said.

"If he is, we'll soon have him out," remarked the sergeant, darting across the lawn and ducking 'round every shrub and tree.

"Not a smell of anyone," he said, returning to the porch, "Well, if your niece identifies this man we'll see the end of a nasty set of cowards. He's the brains, and the gang will fall to .bits, once he's out of the way, like a slit string of beads."

"Good luck," beamed Miss Luck, waving her hand.

"Back in half an hour," called Fay from the car.

As she looked back she saw the front door close on her aunt. She smiled, feeling confident that her plan must succeed. Inside were warmth, light, and safety. The garden had harboured no reptile. And when Miss Luck knew how she had been tricked she must realise the absurdity of her fears.

For there was nothing to tell Fay that she had just locked up the poor lady in the Company of a live snake.

HAD Sergeant Davis beaten the garden three minutes previously he would have found the snake. It lurked, coiled up behind the pillars of the porch, a yard away from him, when he rang the bell. When Elsie opened the door to admit him she did not slam it to, but left it slightly ajar. This was the snake's chance. With the flash of the fer-de-lance it darted inside and hid behind the row of coats which hung in the recess under the stairs.

In appearance it was not an imposing snake, but among the most venomous of the species are the small reptiles which crawl in the dust. And it carried its sting— a razor in the breast pocket or its smart, plum-coloured suit.

In its flat, black, oiled head, too, was its plan. Snotty, the brains of the gang, who had croaked the woman in the woods, was now in quod, awaiting identification. The snake had been unable to strike before the advent of the police car. But, upon Fay's return, she would find a perfect gentleman waiting to open the door to her.

With the mentality of his kind he believed that the removal of the chief witness for the Crown would cause the case against Spotty to collapse.

Happily unconscious of her anonymous visitor, Miss Luck strolled back to her parlour.

As she lowered herself cautiously into a deep-padded chair, Elsie entered, carrying a plate with molds of yellow-white sugar.

"I've brought you the sugar from the candy peel," she said loftily. "I've started to mix the Christmas puddings while I'm waiting for Miss Fay, and then when I come back I'll finish them before I go to bed."

Miss Luck beamed her approval.

"And please, mum," went on Elsie, "can I get you anything now? Because I won't want to answer the bell with my hands all mucky with flour."

"I shall require nothing, Elsie," Miss Luck informed her.

Three minutes later Elsie slipped through the hall, unbolted the front door cautiously, aud started off at a good pace down the dim grey road toward the tram terminus.

Presently, Miss Luck nmsnca ner sugar ana strolled out into the hall for a little exercise. At its far end was the kitchen door. It was outlined with a crack of yellow light, which, together with a smell of nutmeg, told her that Elsie was busy at her puddings.

The knowledge gave her such a sense of security that she determined not to disturb her conscientious maid in order to light the bedrooms. Miss Luck explained her illumination of the house by her wish to avoid a possible personal accident in the dark.

UP the stairs she ambled ponderously. When she was nearly at the top she slipped and had to hold the balustrade to prevent a fall, as the carpet became suddenly taut beneath her feet. Looking down, she saw that Elsie had failed to put back one of the brass rods after cleaning.

"Elsie, Elsie," she called.

There was no reply, although the girl must have heard her. Miss Luck was on the point of descending the stairs when she remembered the Christmas puddings. Because of them, she resolved to accept the fiction of Elsie's deafness.

The staircase ended in a broad corridor. On one side were Elsie's bedroom, the bathroom, and the spare bedroom. On the other side Miss Luck's huge bedroom opened into Fay's smaller apartment.

As a rule, Miss Luck hated to open her door in the dusk, because it faced the wardrobe mirror, and it gave her a shock to see a dim figure advance to meet her. But this evening she was forcibly struck by her vast, swaying grey shape.

Her face grew wistful as she remembered how Fay had hinted that she, too, could acquire courage if she would realise her reserves. From the bottom of her heart she wished that, by some miracle, her cowardly nature might be changed. She had been told that miracles actually did happen. Her silly muddle of features did not look quite so silly as she uttered lip a voiceless prayer for a miracle to happen to her. A prayer— to be brave.

Feeling quite gay and confident, she strolled over to her toilet table. To her surprise, a cheap blue leather bag lay on her silver tray. She opened it and found, by the evidence of money, key, packet of fags, and sundry cheap aids to beauty, that it belonged to Elsie.

Miss Luck forgot her exaltation in the human indignation of a mistress. This time the careless baggage should stir her lazy bones and come upstairs, in spite of floury hands.

ON her way to the bell, however, the thought of the Christmas puddings prevailed. Elsie might get mixed in her quantities were she called away. Leaving the bag on her toilet table, Miss Luck descended the staircase, treading carefully over the loose carpet on the twelfth step. She was crossing the hall when she glanced at the front door.

It gave her a mild shock of discomfort to discover that the bolt was not drawn. She distinctly remembered doing so herself, when she had seen Fay to the police car. Feeling vaguely disturbed, she burst into the kitchen to catch Elsie unawares. The homely place reassured her with its glowing fire and snowy table laden with suet aud dried fruits. The primrose-enamelled walls gleamed and the air was hot and spiced.

But Elsie was not there. Miss Luck's heart began to hammer as she went into larder, scullery, and out-houses, calling the girl by name. When she returned to the kitchen her eye fell upon the empty peg upon which Elsie's coat usually hung. Suddenly she felt blasted by a terrible sense of desolation. Elsie had gone out secretly and left her all alone.

Miss Luck's muddle of features puckered up like a pimpernel on a wet day. To understand her feelings it must be stated that the situation was unique. When she was quite young the doctor had prescribed constant companionship, after a nervous breakdown. Being' a lady of means, Miss Luck had converted a temporary measure, into a permanent one.

She felt as helpless as a stranded baby. Fortunately, however, her first flush of indignation left her no room for actual fear. She vowed that Elsie should have her marching orders. . When she returned from the pictures Miss Luck would be waitiug for her on the mat. Elsie should learn who was her master.

The kitchen clock, too, provided her with a measure of comfort, for its hands stood at 5.15. Already half the time had slipped away and she had survived. Mechanically she scooped up a handful of raisins and put them in her coat pocket. In another quarter of an hour Fay would be back. Meanwhile, she thought, she would feel safer in her own bedroom than on the ground floor.

With the exception of the bathroom and her own bedroom, all the white-enamelled doors had their keys on the outside, in proof that they were never used. As Fay's sanctum communicated with her own by a door without even a flimsy bolt, Miss Luck locked it, and then put the key in her coat pocket. She marched, like a soldier, into her own fortress, where she set about the task of making it impregnable.

It was now more necessary than ever to curb her imagination, for the pictures had made her dread gigantic hands with clawing fingers shooting out from behind curtains and secret panels opening behind her in the hall. She began to give Elsie notice all over again, but this time her phrases were pitched in an ominous minor key.

"Oh, Elsie, how could you betray me?"

"Haven't I always been a kind and generous mistress to you?"

"Perhaps you'll be sorry when you hear I'm—"

Miss Luck checked herself just in time. Under the beds. Behind the window hangings. Inside the wardrobes. The worst she found was a little fluff. Dusting her skirt, she went to the window and looked out.

She was amazed to find that it was still twilight. The laurels and hollies stood out distinctly against a neutral background, ancl the lamps in the road were not yet lit. Officially, it was afternoon. As she leaned out of the window in the hope of hearing the car her broad back was toward the door. So she did not sec the handle turn slowly, as though someone on the other side were trying to enter.

But she looked, around at the sound of footsteps. Or, rather, they sounded like footsteps, creeping along the corridor. She put her hand automatically to her heart and then withdrew it proudly, as she remembered the locked doors. Besides, she knew how much mimicry there was about the noises of an empty house at dusk. That creak, for instance, exactly resembled the opening of Elsie's door.

She looked at her watch and heaved a sigh. It was nearly 5.25. Of course, she could not count upon Fay returning to the dot, but her vigil would soon be over.

She determined not to let her thoughts get out of hand. Little bits of cotton wool in her ears would be helpful.

Suddenly her expression grew intent. In the distance there was a pinging note, like the buzz of an insect. It might be the car returning with Fay. In order to listen better, she removed the plugs of wool from her ears.

Her face paled. Someone was moving inside Fay's room.

This time it was not fancy. There were unmistakable footsteps on the other side of the thin wall. Intelligent footsteps, too, that paused when she moved, in order to mark her down.

In an agony of fear. Miss Luck told herself that it was impossible. She had herself locked Fay's door, and the key was in her pocket. Besides, there were old-fashioned lusters on the mantelpiece which always rattled when anyone walked over a loose board in the middle of the room. As the thought flashed through her mind it came— the thin, icy tinkling of glass.

MISS Luck's terror was too acute to endure. She was timid of most tangible things, but her practical mind rejected sheer impossibilities.  She did not believe in ghosts. And no human being could pass through a locked door.

It was Elsie's bag, lying on her table, that suggested the solution. The girl must have discovered her loss directly she reached the tram. What was more natural' than for her to return and stealthily creep about the house to find her bag?

Miss Luck knew that she was on the right trail, for Elsie had informed her of her discovery that the bathroom key fitted the lock of Fay's room. She determined to give her deceitful domestic the fright of her life.

"Come out," she called in a loud voice. "I know you are there."

There was silence as the footsteps stopped dead. Miss Luck advanced toward the door of communication.

"Come out and show yourself," she repeated. "I'm waiting for you."

But as she stood, in expectant majesty, her attention was distracted by the hooting of a motor horn outside the gate. She hurried to the window to see a car stationary in the road This time there was no mistake for Fay's voice floated faintly on the air.

The person in the adjoining room had caught the sound's even sooner than herself. Returning fm the window. Miss Luck looked inside to find the bird flown.

She smiled grimly. Elsie could wait her pleasure, with Fay at the gate. Humming tunelessly, she opened her door, only to step back in surprise at the belt of darkness which lay behind the area illuminated by her room.

She nodded sagely. Another of my lady's tricks. This fresh demonstration of guile was typical of Elsie's mentality. Since her mistress could not actually see as-she stole upstairs, she would swear by all her gods that all the time she was in the kitchen.

As the electric switches were in the hall, Miss Luck groped her way along the wall until her outstretched hand touched the balustrade. Stepping cautiously into the gulf, she started to descend, peering the while into the well of darkness. Suddenly she stopped and stared more closely, blikiug her eyes ihe while, as though to clear some flaw of vision. Against the dark panel of the front door was a denser shadow, like the blurred shape of a man.

The light from the porch, filtering through the fanlight, fell upon a flat, shiny black bead, a peaked, evil face, rotten teeth. A corrupt soul peered out of small, flickering eyes.

As she stood, petrified with shock, her brain worked rapidly. She realised that Elsie had not come back, after all. Below her crouched the actual source of the mysterious happenings— the footsteps, the scratching. Probably, following some predatory urge, lie had crept about the house under cover of darkness. His cunning would soon detect which key fitted the lock of Fay's door.

HER hands grew sticky and her throat dry as she thought of the boltless door of communication. Only a few frail panels of wood had divided her from him. She remembered the murder in the wood and those newspaper details from which Fay had been spared. Had she confronted the man, she knew that he would have attacked her, like a cornered rat.

Even as she thought of the danger she had just escaped, she heard Fay's voice ring out from the garden path. She was evidently calling to her escort in the car.

"Don't wait. I'm all right. My aunt will he frightfully thrilled at the news. She's been windy about me."

Miss Luck made an important gesture as though to arrest the car. But she heard its exhaust roar as it hummed down the road like an express train.

Cheerily Fay's signal knock sounded on the front door. In imagination Miss Luck could see her standing outside— her cheeks coloured by her ride, her dark elf locks blown, and her eyes shining with excitement. She had a tale to unfold.

Instantly the dark figure crept forward, while the light flashed upon something in his hand. Then Miss Luck understood the ultimate horror. A gentleman with a razor was waiting to open the door for Fay.

That moment was to remain as her bitterest memory. She recognised it as the peak of her life. All its events had led up to this climax, when she would expiate her cowardice in a blaze of heroism. She had prayed for a miracle to happen....

But miracles follow the working of the natural law. Because Miss Luck had violated this law— starving each feeble flicker of courage while she pampered her nerves— the moment of trial brought its logical fulfilment.

No rush of mysterious power flooded her veins. Instead, she stood paralysed, like a rabbit hypnotised by a snake. She tried to move, but her limbs were stiffened.as though her muscles were tied. Iler strength oozed away through every pore. Her tongue felt so swollen that it seemed to stopper her throat.

"Fay! Don't open the door!"

Her lips framed the words, but the only sound that issued from them was a tiny gasp.

With the sensitised ears of his species, the snake heard. He darted forward, the razor flashing in his hand. As he sprang, terror snapped tile spell which bound Miss Luck. All thought of Fay was swept away by sheer, blind panic. She turned to run. As she did so, the loose stair carpet slid under her foot, and the tense moment of climax shirred down into anti-climax.

Miss Luck fell down the stairs.

She dropped, like a stone, with twice the force of her stupendous weight, hitting the snake just over his heart so that he collapsed, like a crumpled paper bag. Winded and prostrate, Miss Luck awaited her end.

THEN, as nothing happened, she opened her eyes. Underneath her lay something which felt boneless as pulp. Peering down, she saw a narrow-chested, putty-faced creature— an adder crushed flat by an elephant's foot. His sting was drawn, for his razor gleamed two yards away.

Miss Luck stared in astonishment at her handiwork.

"I— did— that!" she gasped.

It was in this moment that the miracle actually happened. As she gaped at the puny form, now beginning to twitch feebly under her weight, she suddenly realised her own strength.

A wondrous sense of release swept over her. She felt mighty and dominant, as though she were sitting on top of the world.

Outside the door Fay hunted for her key. She had just remembered that Elsie was out, so could not answer her knock.

As she entered the hall she was startled by the unfamiliar darkness. But her alarm was lost in surprise when she heard Miss Luck's feeble bleat magnified to a trumpet blast of triumph and scorn.

"Fay, bring the laundry cords, quick! I've squashed something here!"

_________________

17: Crocodile Tales

Anonymous

Evening News (Sydney), 21 Aug 1897

Possibly written by Ernest Favenc, as it has numerous stylistic similarities.  But no author was indicated.

These are the sorrowful stories

Told when the twilight fails,

And the monkeys walk together

Holding each other's tails.

—R. Kipling.

VERY probably there is no place or surroundings more conducive to storytelling than the hush of a calm night in the tropic seas. The monotonous beat of the steamer's machinery, the half light and shadow on deck, the absence of other sound, if you are lucky enough to be on a boat which does not carry a mob of passengers who want to sing comic songs, etc., all form the best possible surroundings for the swapping of first-class lies. Next to snake and fishing lies, stories about crocodiles form the roomiest subjects for amplification, and the man who started them on this occasion, was fairly good as a narrator.

We were close to Torres Straits at the time, and he commenced to tell us of an adventure he'd had in the Gulf of Carpentaria.

'Crocodiles, as they are now called, but alligators as we in our ignorance used to call them at one time, have been acquaintances of mine from my first new-chum years ; but the worst experience I ever had of one was on a salt water creek, marked on the chart as 'Shooters' Creek,' at the bottom of the Gulf, between the Van Alphen and Robinson Rivers. It is across the western boundary of Queensland in the Northern Territory of South Australia, and the coast line there is nothing but an intricate network of salt water creeks and mangrove swamps. The most abominable country on the face of this earth. Nothing lives there but crabs, flying-foxes, mosquitoes, and blackfellows. I and two others had taken up some country down there, and my share of the work was to go round in a lugger we had chartered with stores; while they took the cattle overland. We had it all cut and dried how and where we were to meet, and the time to be there, etc.  This creek would, we thought, answer our purpose for a landing place, if it ran inland far enough to take us clear of the mangrove flats; so that's where I made for, and, after some trouble, found the entrance, and deep water far enough to give us a safe place to lie at while we explored with a boat. A lovely spot it was. At night we could hear the most unearthly sounds all around, noises like explosions in the mud, the whistling chatter of the flying-foxes, and the grunting of the crocodiles, for although a crocodile is not supposed to be a song bird or a nightingale, he makes the most abominable gruntings during the night when, he has no other way of relieving his feelings. Mosquitoes, of course, were a chuck in, and no charge made.

'In the morning a creeping white mist hung over everything, and the water seemed to steam again, until the sun got strong enough to dissipate it. We had two boats, one fairly-sized one, that we had brought up for after use on our station if we formed it on tidal waters, and the other was a cockleshell of a dinghy, fit for one man to poke about in. The first morning after we anchored we took the larger boat and explored all the branch creeks, to find out which was the main one, the real Shooters' Creek. Mangrove creeks are just the same as coolies, all alike, and we couldn't afford to go cruising about with the lugger, running on mudbanks, on pure speculation. We had a long day of it without much result, beyond going up all manner of blind creeks and having to come back again. There was one creek that I took a fancy to, and determined to go up and have another look at by myself in the dinghy, which I could scull about easily, so I gave the word to go back to the lugger, and we got back just as the sun was setting. The next morning I had the dinghy dropped, and started off by myself, not saying a word to anybody; in fact, I had only one white man on board, a Scotchman, who professed to do the navigation of our small craft, and all the obstinacy of 'Caledonia stern and wild' was centred in his body. So I knew that if I took him as a companion it would simply mean a heated argument at the mouth of every creek we came to. I, therefore, merely left orders that they were to stay there with the lugger till I came back. I reached the mouth of the creek I had noticed the day before, and pulled leisurely, very leisurely, up it. It took two or three sharp bends and twists, and then settled into a long, narrow avenue of mangroves, with all the flying-foxes in Australia (more or less) camping and quarrelling in the branches. The eyes and snouts of crocodiles were floating about everywhere, and on the slime on either side, young ones, about a couple of feet long, were scuttling to and fro. They have to keep out of the water, because the old ones eat them, on principle. Blue crabs were marching sideways, too, and when they saw my boat they would suddenly disappear, leaving only a row of stinking black bubbles to show where they had been. Altogether, it was a scene that for cheerfulness and general mad hilarity could not well be surpassed, or even equalled. I have said that I was on a long, straight stretch like an avenue; so regular was it; and when I came to the end I noticed a beaten path, or what looked like one, leading up the mudbank, away into the mangroves. That's a nigger's track, I thought, and if so it leads in land right enough to the nearest high country, so I made for it.

'I tied the dinghy up, and landed; but though the track looked fairly well beaten, I could not see any blacks' tracks on it. Still I thought that it must be a native pad, and shouldering my Martini, started to follow it. My tub of a dinghy was safe enough, for up there in the Gulf the tide only rises and falls when it has a mind to, and sometimes it takes two or three days to make up its mind on the subject; so I marched on without troubling my head about it. " The track ran me on to a sand plain, one of those marine plains that occupy a few acres in amongst the mangroves; then it disappeared utterly, and I saw beyond the little plain the belt of mangroves and mud and the water of a creek. Evidently I had not struck the right place after all. I took a stroll over the plain, but finding the sand rather hot, for I had come away from the lugger barefooted, I made up my mind to return, and see what the place was like higher up the creek. 'I sauntered down the pad among the man-groves, when suddenly I nearly ran into the jaws of a huge crocodile lying fair in the track. Evidently it was not a natives' track, but the private path of this monster that he used for coming out to sun himself on the little plain. There he lay perfectly quiet, and behind was my dinghy. On either side of me was a slimy bog that I dared not venture into. How was I to get past him? He seemed to have no intention of moving, and although it is held that a crocodile will not attack a man on land, unless you are between him and the water, I did not feel very sure about it. I was in a nice fix as long as he chose to stop there. I had no idea a crocodile was such an atrociously ugly beast before. His little pig's eyes squinted at me viciously, and in a rage I took fair aim at him with the Martini and fired. Then I turned and ran for it, for I thought he would come at me. However, I neither saw nor heard anything of him, and when I reached the plain I stopped and determined to wait a little time and give him ample time to clear out. I walked back very cautiously, and when I reached the place I saw to my satisfaction that he was gone, I hastened to the dinghy, anxious to get away from the place, and saw to my horror that I was in as bad a plight as ever.

'The crocodile had got into the dinghy and was lying in it.

'I had wounded him, for there was blood about; but he was not badly hurt, at least he did not appear so to me. He had stretched himself out with his head resting on the bow, and regarded me more viciously than ever. His weight nearly swamped the little boat, and she had a list to one side. He didn't understand how to trim."

'Do you mean to say that the crocodile got into the boat purposely?' asked the doctor.

'That's exactly what I don't know to this day. He may have blundered into it after getting the shot; but from the look on his face I'm inclined to think that it was pure malice and devilment. Anyhow, there I was, in my shirt and trousers and hat, and with an empty rifle; and there was the crocodile an my boat, with my belt and pouch and water bag. Until he got out I was a prisoner, for it was sudden death to attempt to swim, although, strange to say, the blacks down there do it; while up in other parts of the Gulf they won't dare to enter a salt water creek. I expected no help from the lugger; if McClusky had been an ordinary man, he would have come to look for me by the evening, but as I had said, "Wait till I came back," he would wait till there was nothing left of me to come back; and the two kanakas would not think of coming until they were told. I was hard and fast in limbo until the enemy chose to move.

'How long he intended to stay there I could not possibly guess, but it wouldn't take long to finish me off under that sun without a drink of water. He seemed mighty comfortable, and I had no means of rousing him. It seems foolish to be caught like that, but actually I was helpless. He never moved all day, except to open his mouth and yawn, and such a yawn it was. Night came on, and a night of misery it was. My pipe and tobacco were in the boat in my pouch with the crocodile sitting on top of them, and what with mosquitoes and the horribly ghostly noises, I spent a fearful night. When the mist rose at daylight I crept down to the boat, thinking that I might make a rush and capsize it and the crocodile as well; but the first thing I saw was his head poking out of the mist so close that I could have touched it if I hadn't bolted back like a shot. I was getting pretty thirsty by 12 o'clock next day; and I stood looking at the monster, and wondering how I was to get him out of that dinghy, when I heard voices. I listened, and recognised niggers. Two of them paddling a canoe came along close under the bank. Their eyes were fixed on the boat with the crocodile in it, and they didn't notice me, as I crawled down through, the slush to the edge of the bank. On they came very slowly— evidently rather shy of the strange sight. They were keeping close to the bank, and I suddenly rose up within touch of them. There was a yell of fright from the pair, and the next minute they were swimming across the creek as hard as they could. Fortunately they didn't upset the canoe when they sprang out, and I laid hold of it. Luckily it was not very crank, and had a good out-rigger to it, so I managed to step in and crouch down, and the next minute I was off.

'It was just as I expected. There had been no attempt to look for me from the lugger, and McClusky seemed to regard it quite as a matter of course that I should go away in the dinghy and come back in a blackfellow's canoe.

'After a drink and a feed I had the boat out, and went away with the two kanakas to interview my friend. He was there all right, and now, as I was cool and safe, I had my suspicions aroused, so we backed up quietly, and he was as dead as Pharaoh.

'How long he'd been dead I don't know, nor how long I'd been kept prisoner on that place by a dead crocodile; but I'm certain I saw him yawning on the first day.'

'Your shot killed him, I suppose?'

'Yes. He had died of it. I've got his skull at home now.'

'Then no one can entertain any doubts as to the veracity of the story, but I confess I never heard of a crocodile climbing into a boat before,' said the doctor.

'No more did I, until I saw it happen,' replied the narrator.

'I have never known of their climbing into a boat,' said the pearl-buyer; 'but one crawled up the gangway of a Dutch gunboat lying off Sumatra, and was caught on the main deck. I believe they have him now in a tank in the Botanic Garden at Buitenzorg.'

'Humph!' said the doctor; 'now I come to think of it I remember a little crocodile incident that I was a witness of. It was in the Sulu Sea, and I was on a tramp steamer— as a passenger, for tramps don't carry medical attendants-that got wrecked there. It was not a wreck to create a sensation of any sort, simply piled the steamer up and she stayed there, and we had to stay too until something came along to take us off. In the Malay village, where we camped for the time being, there was a man who had just lost his wife through a crocodile, and was very much troubled about it. You know how the Malay villages are built there on piles in the sea? Well, he would sit there watching for this crocodile to have a shot at him from his front doorstep. I may as well tell you that we had on board another passenger, a young globe-trotter, not at all a bad sort, but as green as grass. Of course he had a complete outfit of firearms and explosive bullets for big game, as though he was going to decimate the Malay Archipelago, but nobody thought any harm would come of his having saved all his baggage, and it didn't fortunately. 'He found out about this Malay widower and his desire for vengeance, and went and confided to him that he had possession of some explosive bullets that would compass the death of anything if once struck. Our skipper came to hear of it, and gave the young fellow a wigging on the subject, because a Malay in the peculiar state this fellow was generally starts to run amok, and the anticipation of his doing this with a lot of explosive bullets in his possession was not pleasant. He told the youngster he must get them back again at once, and the three of us started down the street, to call it so, to do this. We came in sight of the Malay's house, which was approached by a ricketty bamboo bridge or causeway, and saw him standing contemplating something on the slime beneath him; that something was the guilty crocodile. We saw the whole of it; the man must have been mad. He never used his gun, but went down with his knife and fought the beast. It was not a long fight, for when the crocodile was swallowing the Malay there was a thundering explosion, and Malay, crocodile, and house disappeared. He must have had the explosive bullets somewhere about him, and the crocodile's jaws exploded them.'

'I have heard you tell that yarn before, doctor, only with a slight difference,' said the second engineer.

'How's that?'

'Why, the last time you made the Malay swallow the crocodile.'

______________

18: A Model Crime

W. Pett Ridge

1859-1930

The Idler March 1896

THE TWO swollen-eyed men from Bethnal Green rubbed their stubbly chins thoughtfully with the palms of their hands. They glanced at the yellow young man in the armchair, and then out of the window at Jermyn Street. The yellow young man was Mr. P. Rawlings, from San Domingo, and these were his chambers.

"Wot d'ye mike of it, Jimes?"

"It's thick," whispered James, hoarsely. "Vurry thick, Awlbert."

"T'ent as though this gent wanted the other gent abslootly mide off with," urged Albert.

"I should strongly object," interposed young Mr. Rawlings from the armchair, in his thin high voice, "if anything of the kind were done. Understand that, once for all. There must be no great harm done to Mr. Burleigh. He is simply to be kept out of the way for a month. He proposes to start shortly for a quiet trip on the Continent, and—"

"Before his merridge," remarked James.

Mr. P. Rawlings threw his black cigar into the fire with an impetuous exclamation.

"Be-fore his merridge," echoed Albert.

"He must be abducted and kept quietly for a space until I give the word," said young Mr. Rawlings.

The two men glanced at each other again.

"He's a biggish chep," remarked Albert.

"Chlorryfom might do it," said James, thoughtfully. "But it's a precious risky job. Do you 'appen to know the lidy he's going to merry, sir?"

It was a most unfortunate question.

"What the devil has that to do with you, man! There is your business. Mind it."

Mr. P. Rawlings was in a great rage. He had started up from his chair, and stood glaring with his small black eyes at the two men.

"No 'arm done, sir," said James, in a conciliatory way, "I on'y asted the question. I wish to Gaud he wasn't a M.P., that's all. They're such a fussy lot, and you see he's a important chep. Why, I see his portraits are in the shop-windows, and he's in Madame Tussaud's, and—"

"I know, I know. It makes me hate him all the more."

"Got to be done to-night, has it, sir?"

"This very night. He walks round St. James's Park between nine and ten. What you ought to do is—"

A long detailed explanation. The two Bethnal Green gentlemen listened with great attention, nodding now and again as sign of their acceptance of the suggestions.

"If I were abroad," said Mr, P. Rawlings at the conclusion, "this could be done as easily as the striking of a match."

"Ah!" said James, bitterly, "that's just where it is. You're in 'appy England now, the 'ome of the free, where for the leastest little thing a man finds hisself locked up. Still, we'll do wot we can, won't we, Awlbert?"

He closed his left eye for a moment as he looked at his colleague.

"We will that," responded Albert. "The best of men can do no more."

"You understand," said Mr. P. Rawlings, decidedly, "that I give you nothing now. Come back here this evening and take me to the place where he is, and the money is yours."

"I could 'ave done with a bit on account," said James.

"Not a penny," said Mr. Rawlings, definitely.

The two Bethnal Green gentlemen sighed a protest against the dogmatism of Capital.

"Well, if you won't, mawster," said Albert, philosophically, "I suppose you wont."

THE House that evening was unusually full. There was some excitement in the air, and earlier in the afternoon the Inspector had shaken up nearly a helmet full of tickets for the Strangers' Gallery. The space dividing Ministers was littered with the strips of paper which members tear up when they are in an emotional mood, and no one was perfectly asleep. The youthful-looking member who was addressing the House came to his peroration. He glanced at a small red bonnet in the Ladies' Gallery.

"For my part, Mr. Speaker, I can only say, that so long as life remains with me— and that period may be short, and it may be long— I shall not cease to present with all the vigour in my power the arguments to which the House has so generously listened this evening."

Enthusiastic cheering, as Mr. Gerald Burleigh resumed his seat. Congratulators nodded from the front bench of his own side. A pleasant little note of felicitation tossed across from the opposite side. Young Mr. Burleigh, M.P., hurried round to meet the small red bonnet.

"You are going for your usual walk round St. James's Park, I know," said the Red Bonnet, pleasantly.

"No, I am not, dear. I'm going to stroll with you on the terrace."

"Well," the Red Bonnet gave a sigh as affectation of regret, "it is useless to argue with a Member of Parliament. I only hope that my cousin— Bother!"

Mr. P. Rawlings, blinking his small black eyes, said he was pretty middling. How was Mr. Burleigh? Burleigh, without answering, said that Mr. Rawlings's cousin and he were just about to stroll on the Terrace, so that they would have to say good-bye to Mr. Rawlings.

"Burleigh," Mr. Rawlings took the young member aside. "I want to speak to her as a member of the family about money matters. I want to do something rather handsome for her when this affair of yours comes off."

"You're very good," said Mr. Burleigh. He said this unwillingly, for he usually told the truth. "But, really, I don't know—"

"No, you don't. I'm not so bad as you think, Burleigh. I've got a heart after all, although my manner is a little odd at times. Now, you go for your usual run and I'll talk to her."

Mr. P. Rawlings insisted on walking out of St. Stephen's and across the yard with Gerald Burleigh. He seemed to talk rather quickly, and with a dread of anything like a pause in the conversation. Outside the gates he stopped.

"I must hurry back to my cousin," he said. He looked across the road and took his scarlet silk handkerchief from his pocket. The two Bethnal Green gentlemen standing on the opposite side of the road saw this, and then, shading their eyes, looked up at the clock. "You won't be more than half-an-hour?"

"Less," said Gerald Burleigh.

And striding across the road, St. James's Park way, he disappeared from sight.

"NAH, for this desprit deed," said James, with much good-humour. "Is Ginger in Birdkige Walk with his keb?"

Albert nodded, and smiled the confident smile of a general who sees success.

"It's the biggest old beano I was ever in," he said. "I will sy this for you, Jimes. You're a perfect mausterpiece."

Mr. P. Rawlings did not return to his cousin. Instead he took a swift cab to his rooms in Jermyn Street, and, arriving there, walked up and down outside. He was in a great state of nervousness, and he managed, in peering anxiously towards the end of the street, to drop hbis pince nez and smash the glasses.

"Well, I'm hanged!" said Mr. P. Rawlings. Which remark was, of course, premature.

A cab drove up. On the top was a long orange case, corded up. Out of the door stepped James; James, in a state of much disorder, red stains on his band, a look of extreme fright on his swollen countenance. Albert behind him trembling obviously with horror.

"Well," said Mr. Rawlings, with an attempt at cheeriness, "you're soon back. You've managed it, I hope?"

"Yus," said James, hoarsely. His voice sounded like the voice of a blanket. "Yus, we've managed it. For Gaud's sike, sir, go upstairs."

Mr. P. Rawlings did so. He left the door open for the two men to follow, and switched on the light in his rooms. He picked out a particularly strong cigar, as though to honour the occasion, and stood the liqueur stand on the table. Then, with his back to the fire, he awaited their coming.

"Mind the corners, Jimes," said Albert "Lift your end, cawn't ye?"

"Aint I aliften my end?" said James, in a hoarse whisper. "It's bloomin' 'eavy. Nah then, al-together! That's it."

They brought in the long case and placed it carefully on two chairs. Mr. P. Rawlings started forward.

"Stand back, sir," whispered James. "Don't touch the 'orrid thing until you've 'eard the tile. Awlbert, shet the doar."

"What on earth have you got there?" cried Mr. Rawlings, excitedly.

"He's not on earth," said James, reverently, "He's in 'Eaven, poor chap, or 'Ell as the kise may be. Can't you turn the lights dahn a bit, sir?"

There was a break in the voice of the Bethnal Green gentleman. He untied the cord as the yellow Mr. Rawlings and the trembling Albert stood by. Albert poured out some port in a tumbler; James turned over the top lid of the case and lifted a handkerchief from the end.

"Great God," cried Mr. Rawlings. "You've killed him!"

The two men took their caps off reverently as they looked with every sign of remorse at the placid face, Mr. Rawlings gazed at the smoothly parted hair, the neat moustache, the strong chin, the—

"Tell me what it means," he cried, feeling for the broken pince nez. "Why have you done this? Why have you brought him here?" The two men did not answer. "Do you know who you are? You are"— he gave the word in a muffled scream— "murderers."

The two men started as Mr. Rawlings, half white now and half yellow, hissed the word at them.

"It was an oversight, I admit," explained James, slowly. "I s'pose we used too much chlorryfom. But if you're going to call us nimes, mister, perhaps we can find a title or two for you."

"What is it to do with me?"

"A prutty tidy bit," said James, with much decision. "For one thing we're a goin' to leave Mr. Burleigh here, and we're a goin', Awlbert and me, to give ourselves up at Vine Street. There's nothing like being perfectly strite forward in these matters. And your nime will be mentioned as 'aving egged us on to the deed."

Mr. Rawlings screamed. He rushed to the door and turned the key.

"You have done this purposely," he exclaimed. "You blackguards."

"We didn't do it purposely," remarked Albert, setting down the tumbler; "but we cert'ny are blaiguards. All free of us are."

"Come on, Awlbert," said James, "It's no use arguing the question. Let's get down to Vine Street and see the Inspector. How might you spell your nime, mister?"

"Look here," young Mr. Rawlings breathed quickly. "Look here. I'm going away. I am going to leave London at once."

"No daht," said James, ironically. "O no daht. And leave us two gentlemen to bear the brunt of it all."

"You have only to— to dispose of the body," said Mr. Rawlings, appealingly. "You can easily do that."

"Ho, yus,"said Albert. "Nothing easier I'm sure." He laughed a short sharp laugh of derision. "It's quite a everyday job this is."

"Look here," cried Mi. Rawlings. He laid a hand on James's sleeve in an imploring manner. "If I give you"— he whispered a large sum— "will you get rid of it? I shall catch the morning mail at Charing Cross, and go right away— for good."

James hesitated. He drew Ins colleague aside, and conferred with him.

"Look 'ere sir. We're lettin' you 'ave it all your own way, I know, but if you'll double that figure, we'll— well, we'll do wot we can."

"And you will take this— this away?"

He looked with loathing at the ghastly upturned face in the long wooden box.

"No cheques mind you," said James, with sudden suspicion.

"Notes and gold, my good man, notes and gold."

The transaction took but a few minutes. Then the two men lifted the long box and carried it slowly downstairs.

"Give us a 'and, Ginger," said James to the red-haired cabman. "The gent don't want it awfter all."

A yellow frightened face watched them between the curtains of the first floor window. The cab drove off slowly and solemnly St. James's Street way. At the corner it stopped.

"There's on'y one thing now," remarked James. "How are you going to get rid of the body of this onfortunate young Member of Parliament."

He laughed with the satisfied air of a man who has done a good night's work.

Albert considered.

"Tell ye wot," said Albert, "I'll tell ye wot. Tike it back to the Marylebone Road where we pinched it from; stick it outside the blooming Exhibition and let old Tussaud, or wotever his nime is, find his property there in the morning. Is that good enough?"

James slapped his colleague on the knee.

"My boy," answered James, with much good-humor, "it's great, I never 'ave give back anything before as I borrowed, but just for once, I'll do it."

______________

19: The Hunting of Chilton Sahib

Dolf Wyllarde

Dorothy Margarette Selby Lowndes, 1871-1950

Short Stories Aug 1903

THE Brahmin had crossed the Dekkan afoot in his pilgrimage, and reached the little Indian village where the Shrine was, in the blazing noonday. His father, and his father's father, had vowed a vow to Vishnu that one of their race should make this journey, but it fell to Rung Dow to carry out that promise, and youth was far behind him before he made the attempt. Vishnu had appeared to Nana Dow and had promised him his favor if the neglected Shrine at Kali were jealously guarded and served by one of his race; and because he hoped for Heaven, Nana Dow, a Brahmin himself, had undertaken the charge for his descend- ants. The Shrine was but poorly served; hardly an offering was laid, or a prayer made, before the peculiarly hideous presentation of Vishnu which stood there, and which the villagers neglected. But when Rung Dow had crossed the Dekkan on foot— as the God had stipulated— all that was to be changed. The people of Kali would recognize him as a holy man, and would return to Vishnu, and all the land would flourish thereby.

Rung Dow had accomplished his pilgrimage. His feet were burnt and blistered with the hot plains and the rocky hills; for he might take no advantage of other travelers' pity, and accept their offers of assistance over certain stages of his journey. Once he fell in with a hunters' encampment, and the Sahibs, who could speak his tongue, would have taken him forward with their party; but he might not accept, for Vishnu had said, "Go afoot, and fear not." Jungle and scrub, bare hillside and cultivated land, all baked by the pitiless sun, had drifted slowly by him, until in the hush of the Indian noon the mud walls of the village with the shrine rose before his longing eyes; and he prostrated himself to thank the God who had brought him safely over the weary miles— the God who had promised that neither beast nor man should harm his pilgrim. Mecca to the Mohammedan was not more sacred than the village of the Shrine to the Brahmin priest.

But he was almost at the end of his strength. From village to village scattered across the Dekkan he had been fed by the god-fearing folk, who had given him a handful of grain, or a cake baked among the ashes; but he was an old man, and the journey would have worn out anyone less upheld by religious enthusiasm. The fanatic can endure longer than ordinary men, but Rung Dow was nearly exhausted. He stumbled as he approached the outlying mud huts, and sank down on the baked earth, gazing with filmy eyes at the object of his hopes— the tall pagoda of the Shrine which rose above the rest of the village. To die of exhaustion now, when the pilgrimage was accomplished! The gods could not be so cruel! Had Vishnu failed him?

A woman came running from the nearest hut, for she had seen the failing figure, and recognized its caste. She laid before him both clear water from the river which had of old time been blessed by Vishnu, and some rice in a metal pan. She was of a Brahmin household, and it was not forbidden him to eat what she brought. He drank a little water and revived, blessing her children, and promising her house prosperity. Then, seated on the ground, he proceeded to make a cooking-stove of mud and to cook the grain. Beyond himself and his culinary arrangements he drew a broad line of demarcation— the sacred circle which keeps the Brahmin and his food holy. Once during the process he almost swooned again from the heat and exhaustion, while the woman and her neighbors stood at a little distance, watching with strained anxiety, but powerless to help him farther.

The food was all but ready, and the famished man about to bless it and eat, when the crowd of villagers parted to allow someone to pass. It was Chilton Sahib, head of the district, and a great man among his people, not only because he was a white man and English, but because he talked to the wild things of the Dekkan through a fire-stick and then they fell down and died. Chilton had only had his district some six months, and thought he was beginning to understand his people; which was an error of judgment. They liked him, he knew, and he was pleased at that, and at the quantity of game he found to destroy— the sambur, and an occasional antelope, even a man-eating tiger which he had slain to the everlasting gratitude of the village, and, above all, the great gray boar which frequents the ravines and the hillsides, and which will fight to the death. On the whole Chilton was inclined to congratulate himself on his district. He was comfortably satisfied, certainly thinking of no ill-luck, and his head running more upon crops than Brahmins as he strode along, watched by the villagers. He did not notice the sitting figure on the ground— he knew something of native habits— or observe its caste; he did not notice the ring drawn on the sandy soil as he passed by it— and his shadow fell straight across it and on the cooked rice which Rung Dow was just about to bless.

The Brahmin took the contents of the metal pan and tossed it outside the circle without a second's hesitation. It was his last effort. As Chilton passed on in the sunlight the pilgrim fell quietly on his side, and lay there as if smitten. There was a murmur that rose to a wail among the villagers, and those of his own caste hurried forward to the rescue. The old man was still alive, but it was too late; perhaps, would have been too late in any case though the superstition of the villagers laid the disaster directly at the Englishman's door. That night there was weeping and lamentation before the Shrine, because a priest had died on the outskirts of the village, and the pilgrimage of Rung Dow had come to naught. His mission was not known in Kali; but his caste, and his obvious desire towards holy things in journeying a long way to the Shrine, were sufficient to make him the equivalent of a patron saint. Brahmins do not arrive at outlying villages dying of fatigue, and with the signs of their travel upon them, without a religious object. The village of the Shrine wailed to Vishnu.

A WEEK later the Shikaree of the village brought Chilton Sahib news of a sounder of hog, led by a great boar. The sounder was located in a ravine among the barren stony hills. Would Chilton Sahib go out and slay him?  Without doubt it was a big boar— a boar that had never been equalled in size and ferocity, and worthy the spear of the renewed slayer of wild beasts. Chilton Sahib would indeed go out, and his heart waxed warm within him, and his English blood sang to the tune of slaughter. Nor did he notice anything unusual in the Shikaree's earnestness over the peculiarities of the great boar, or his almost awed description of its unearthly fighting powers. That such a wild idea as the soul of the dead Brahmin (dishonored by the Englishman's shadow, and some failure of his object in pilgrimaging to the Shrine) having entered this huge boar, had taken hold of the villagers' minds, never occurred to the head of the district. But the villagers talked of it beneath their breath. Why otherwise should a boar, quite unrivalled for ferocity and size, have suddenly appeared to tempt the hunting instincts of the Sahib to a deadly combat? Without doubt the Brahmin, sanctioned by Vishnu, had temporarily discarded his caste, and his spirit had entered the body of an unclean animal that he might slay Chilton Sahib. When the feud was wiped out by blood the priest would, by favor of the gods, regain his caste and attain to paradise.

Now, to hunt hog you must rise early, and Chilton was up before sunrise, unwitting of the interest that centred round his person as one foredoomed to death. There is, to the Indian hunter, no game like the big Sus aper, which can at times outpace the swiftest horse and which will turn to bay and make such a fight of it at the end as may easily give him victory over the sportsman. Chilton grieved that he had no time to get a hunting party together; for to draw first blood and win the spur of honor was denied him in the absence of any opponent. He intended, as a matter of course, to take the Shikaree with him, as well as the beaters; but after all it came to a fight between him and the boar. There was some consolation in that; but there was no exciting race against another man as eager as himself to be the first to dim the spear-head with the smallest drop of blood, no matter who finished the work, and he regretted the lack of com- petition.

The gray morning was hanging mysteriously over the village, and over Chilton's queer little bungalow, as he came out on to the verandah. The scouts were back already with news of the sounder's trail, and Chilton's Arab was waiting for him, chafing at the bit and tossing his light head because the shadows of the dawn were full of bogies to his mind. The native groom was talking to him as a mother to a child, and grim and silent the Shikaree sat in the little mud yard before the bungalow. Chilton spoke to him cheerily as he swung himself into the saddle; but the man only answered briefly, and with more than the usual stolidity of the Oriental ; he had little to say to a man whom he considered to be fore-doomed. But Chilton had not time to notice his silence; he mounted at once, and rode out a little ahead of the native, his horse keeper and the beaters following in the rear, away over the broken plain to the nullah into which the sounder had been marked down at break of day. Like much of the hunting country of the Dekkan, it was about as difficult a spot as the wily beasts could have chosen; a narrow ravine between two steep hillsides, where the dry bed of an empty watercourse presented an awkward jump, however well the hunter might be mounted. Chilton, like all his kind, was proportionately pleased.

"Jove: the brute knows his ground, eh, Junga?" he said, cheerily, as he halted in some loose scrub at the mouth of the narrow gorge, and the beaters began to skirt round the hill. "Any idea where the sounder is?"

"There, Sahib!" The Shikaree pointed to some low scrub on the hillside, where it was thought that the pigs were concealed. But with a trace more animation than he had yet showed, he added, "Will the Sahib follow the sounder, or wait only for the great boar?"

"Oh, I will take the game the gods provide!" said Chilton, easily. "But if my luck holds I shall have the boar yet. There they go!"

For down the hillside came a grunting, heaving mass of black backs, and behind them came the beaters, making a noise unearthly enough to have driven the scriptural herd of swine into the sea without any possession by devils. With a grunt and a scramble two large boars came down one side of the hill, crossed the watercourse as only a boar can cross such impediments, and ascending the opposite bank, made for the plain. Chilton wheeled his horse round and dashed after them; but, as luck would have it, some misgiving of an outlet seemed to disturb their minds, for they suddenly stopped and turned hillwards again. Seeing this, Chilton crossed the dry bed of the watercourse in turn, and urging his horse up the broken ascent, he was soon on terms with the foremost boar, who instantly turned to bay. The bright steel head of the bamboo flashed like lightning ahead of the game little Arab who was laboring up the rough ground, and then the sharp spear buried itself in the boar's side fair through the heart. As the animal stumbled the spear snapped, and the horse, checking himself as best he could, scrambled along for some paces, the broken spear remaining in Chilton's hand.

"That," said Chilton, turning to meet the Shikaree, "reminded me of polo. I got the ball, and couldn't see whether I had succeeded in making a goal.   Good sport, Junga!"

"The Sahib is a great chief, and his spear invincible!" said the man, with unmoved flattery. "See, already one boar has-been killed; but does the Sahib not desire the tusks of that great one who is still unharmed?"

"My good fellow, the sun is not at his full height yet, and my horse is not blown!" said Chilton, coolly. "I will hunt till nightfall, Junga, if you will show me the game."

"Choose another spear then, Sahib, and breathe your horse. The great hog has not stolen away, and he may yet be afoot. The beaters are again ready."

Chilton swung himself out of the saddle, backing the Arab into some scrub on the hillside. There was a silence as of perfect peace over the ravine, and the increasing power of the sun was drawing strong scents from the vegetation. Overhead a great kite hung in the vault of blue, in ominous anticipation. Nothing broke the rich silence of the hillside to Chilton's ear save the jingle of his own horse's bridle as the Arab tossed his fine head impatiently. He was a true specimen of an Arab hunter— lightly built, yet in perfect proportion, and with that length and strength in his quarters that proclaimed speed and endurance; but the legs, more especially the forelegs, were marked and scarred with many an old fight, the unintentional tribute of his adversary the boar, at whose death he had frequently assisted. Chilton quietly remounted after a brief rest and sat on his horse, wondering if it would not be better to have tiffin now instead of waiting for another beat.

"He comes, Sahib!"

Junga's repressed excitement escaped Chilton, whose five senses and a few extra were concentrated on the patch of scrub from which the hog might be expected to break cover, and the Shikaree's curious manner did not impress him either. He sat his Arab with every nerve tense, the spear ready for use on the chance of the animal charging. The boar, however, had no intention of thus running into the enemy's jaws. He broke cover, the beaters yelling above him, trotted sullenly down to the watercourse, and turning short to the right made for the head of the narrow gorge which looked like a cul-de-sac to Chilton. But it was possible there might be an outlet, and in the hope of this the Englishman urged his horse down the hillside in pursuit as fast as he dared, with the result that the Arab suddenly stumbled, and horse and rider finished the descent ignominiously by rolling over into the empty river bed. Chilton was up in an instant, and had recovered his spear before the horse was fairly on his feet. He was not hurt, but he had no time to remount before he saw that the boar had turned. A wild boar, one of the great gray hog of India, moves at first breaking cover at a pace peculiarly his own— he does not gallop exactly, though his speed is soon such that it needs a fast horse to ride him down. But in his charge he appears to jump off the ground and be literally hurling himself through the air, all four feet stretched out like a horse's as he rises at a big jump. The effect is ludicrous to the onlooker, who is not taking part in the game. To the man who faces the charge it is by no means amusing, and Chilton was on foot! To spear a boar rightly one should be on horseback and so meet the charge at a gallop, otherwise the horse will probably get ripped open by those mighty tusks.

Chilton stood his ground. There was just one chance for him, that by springing aside the force of the boar's pace might carry him past, if the man did not succeed in planting his spear. Even in the stress of the moment a wonder flashed through his brain that the Shikaree did not come to the rescue, or at least attempt it. He had heard his own Arab turn short round and gallop off panic-stricken without the guiding will of a rider. If he could have looked behind him he would have seen that the Shikaree was sitting motionless on a steep rock a few yards up the hillside, watching, with something that was almost awe in his face, for what he considered the struggle ordained by the gods between the soul of the dead Brahmin in the boar's body and the unconscious murderer. The beaters had stopped also, and formed the same silent group of spectators on the further hillside; while Chilton's horse keeper, behind Junga but further up the hill, was in the same attitude of arrested motion. Between the spectators was Chilton in the dry bed of the watercourse, and the great boar charging down on them. Overhead the kite had dropped a few feet lower, and waited also.

The man saw the foam flying from the beast's mouth, and heard the savage grunt as he stood steadily facing the direction from which the boar was coming— facing death, as it well might be. How wicked the little gray eyes looked! How those long tusks would gore and tear! He had seen many a horse ripped open because of an unskillful rider, and once a horse keeper had been killed before his very eyes— trampled and gored to death, and then flung over the boar's head, as easily as a child tosses a ball. The charge was upon him—the shaggy gray thing looming as large as a donkey— and with a last supreme effort springing aside, he felt the enormous brute almost brush him as he blundered past, and lunged out awkwardly with the spear. It entered the tough side behind the shoulder, and passed straight through the heart; but the weapon was dragged from his hand, and he himself was swung staggering towards the boar.

With a dizzy feeling he turned to look at his handiwork. Had the boar attempted more mischief it would have gone hard with Chilton, left without a spear as he had been. But the lump of blood-stained gray lay inert before him, the nine-inch tusks still grimly flecked with blood and foam, for the resolute lunge of the spear had done its work in a final manner that seemed little short of miraculous. Not until he was sure that the brute was really dead did Chilton discover that his followers had at last joined him, and demanded the reason of their delay from Junga.

"What the deuce did you mean by keeping away?" he said, hotly, "You saw I was dismounted —where were you?"

The Shikaree's face darkened a little, as if his pride were touched; but he answered patiently:

'*The Sahib knows I have no fear. Did I not attend him when he tracked the wounded tiger, and have I not been present at the death of many boars?   But this boar was The Hunting of Chilton Sahib 201
different. It was decreed that the Sahib must fight with him alone, and the gods have given their favor to the victor! "

He salaamed as reverently as if Chilton were himself a god, causing the young man to stare at him blankly.

"It was decreed!" he repeated. "What was decreed, and why? What on earth do you mean, Junga? "

"The Sahib is the god's favorite— what he does has sanction. But, indeed, not many days since he slew a holy man— a priest who, without doubt, was a pilgrim to the Shrine. "The Sahib forgets," he added, soothingly. "What are such things to one whom Vishnu favors above the lives of priests? But, indeed, his shadow fell upon the food which would have saved the fainting life of one who sat by the wayside, and— and— it was a Brahmin, Sahib! He threw away the food, and before we could succor him he died! "

Chilton grew paler than the boar's charge had made him, as some meaning of the situation flashed into his mind. He had been long enough in India to realize what he had done— in all innocence— and that his Shikaree would have calmly stood by and seen him killed before he would have interfered with what he thought was the will of the gods. Chilton ordered the submissive natives— submissive enough now!— to rest, and said shortly that he would have tiffin, leaving Junga to arrange about the dead boar. Not until he was sitting under a date tree clump eating his lunch did he gather the full meaning of the situation from the Shikaree's explanation. And he thought of the shaggy gray hide, the little fierce eyes, the white tusks speckled with foam as the boar charged, and his blood ran colder than at the actual moment of peril.

"So you would all have left me to my death!" he said slowly as he lit his cigar and looked down the baked ravine where the shadows of the rocks were cut sharp and black by the blinding sunshine.

"Truly, Sahib, if the gods decreed it! For our aid would have been as nothing. The Sahib had to prove his right to kill the Brahmin!"

"And now that I have killed the boar?"

"The Sahib is great in favor with the gods! Who shall stand against him?"

"I suppose," said Chilton, thoughtfully, "that the beaters won't think it necessary to avenge the boar, will they, Junga?  I should like to know what to expect. And possibly they might regard themselves as chosen instruments of Vishnu, eh?"

But the man smiled as at a jest. "The Sahib knows that that could not be so.   We are all thy slaves, Heavenborn!"

"I did think I knew; but it strikes me that I know very little. So I have cleared myself from further suspicion by to-day's slaughter, have I? Still, I should not care to repeat that five minutes. Junga, it is in my mind that the day has become too hot for more hunting. I will rest, and go home."

"The Sahib is wise," said Junga, submissively; "and, indeed, he has had a great hunt, and has killed much game. Will you ride? For the beaters will rejoice to make a palanquin of boughs and palms, and carry you on their shoulders in triumph do you so please!"

Chilton stared. He thought of the callous indifference of these same men in his extreme peril, and that not from being unarmed, but because they deliberately stood aside to see if he were Vishnu's favorite. Now they would have made a smaller deity of him, and carried him home rejoicing; for had he not killed the boar, afoot, with all the odds against him, and proved that he was great in favor with the gods in spite of slaying the Brahmin priest? Great was Chilton Sahib, and greatly to be honored!

"Truly, you are a strange people!" said Chilton.

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20: Big, Bad Annie

Ernest M. Poate

1884-1935

Detective Story Magazine 24 Sep 1921

CLUTCHING a huge sheaf of papers I fidgeted in the outer office and cursed all hen medics beneath my breath. Here were all the afternoon reports to be checked over, the lists for the medical examiner of the State Hospital Commission and the cases for Dr. Bentiron's clinic at Bellevue to-morrow; and the Doctor remained inaccessible, closeted with this Titus woman. Also, Milly, my wife, and I were going out to dinner, and I must dress. Curses!

"How long do you suppose the doctor'll be?" I asked Miss Morgan. "That darned medical student must be telling him the sad story of her life with comments and marginal annotations."

Doctor Bentiron's chief clerk shrugged. "You can't hurry the doctor," she answered placidly.

That was true enough; the chief took his own way and hastened for no man. Indeed it was, and still is, a continuous marvel to me that one so lethargic, so maddeningly deliberate, should accomplish each day a volume of work far beyond my own powers; and I am more than thirty years his junior.

But at last the chief's noiseless signal flashed. I heard Hanrahan, the big orderly, rising in the hall; Miss Morgan hurried out, and I followed her, papers in hand.

A slender young woman was just emerging from Doctor Bentiron's private office; a white-faced, colorless girl, with pale eyes too closely set and now reddened with tears. She passed me with bent head, holding herself with the stiff self-consciousness of immaturity. June Titus was her name, I knew; but to me she looked much more like the latter end of February, a chilly, constrained, repellant personality,

She refused to notice me, though I had seen her at Doctor Bentiron's psy- chiatric clinics all that spring; she was a fourth-year student at the Physicians and Surgeons Institute. I passed her by, as she seemed to prefer, and went on into the chief's office.

Beneath the reflected glow of the skylight Doctor Bentiron lay back in his reclining chair, relaxed, immobile, wrapped in a faded green bathrobe. His bearded face was wearily expressionless; his long, dull eyes brooded upon the bare wall before him; a wreath of blue smoke rose from the cigarette between his fingers.

Beside the doctor's the two revolving bookcases, the big, bare room held one lone chair; whereby I knew that this Titus girl had found some favor in the chief's eyes. Most of his patients must stand.

"Umphf," said the doctor, still blinking mournfully at the wall. "Did you observe that infant, Blakely, my son?"

"I did," said I grimly. "I observed that you kept her a very long time, with me waiting to see you."

This the chief ignored utterly. He lay back and smoked furiously.

" 'There's a divinity that shapes our end,' Freddy," he announced at last. "And many a would-be M. D. turns out a D. P. instead." With which cryptic pronouncement he lapsed into silence once more Big, Bad Annie

"So you think she's a praecox?" I inquired. "Well, she looks it. She's full of mannerisms, anyhow."

"Umphf!" said the doctor. "Engaged to be married, poor infant. And it worties her frightfully. Shut-in make-up, my son, regressive tendencies and all that rot. Yes, exactly. And so she has dreams, horrid dreams, Freddy. They have alarmed her virginal soul; wherefore she came to consult the old doctor. The world is full of fools." Doctor Bentiron's dry, toneless voice dragged more wearily than ever. "Every night she dreams of killing her fiancé, abolishing him in various fashions, with scalpels and bistouries and hatpins and all sorts of pointed tools. And the idea distresses her beyond measure."

"Well," said I, "why doesn't she break the engagement, then?" For, to your psychiatrist, such continued dreams are sure evidence that the dreamer's unconscious mind desires to be rid of their subject.

"Umphf," repeated the doctor and gave me the merest flicker of a dull, sardonic gray eye. "Bright youth, clever old son, what? Even my poor attainments, Freddy, reached thus far. I suggested it, Freddy; I urged it upon her. And the lady replied: 'But I love him, Doctor Bentiron; I love Ralph and I can't give him up and I won't! Why should I?' " Without seeming to change at all, the chief's dull, dragging voice reproduced subtly a strained, stiff, feminine protest, so that I grinned. But the chief's face remained very sober; his long gray eyes were mournful. "Freddy if ever you get to be a Turk and your prospective wife number two, or three, or seven, begins to dream about slaughtering you in seventeen ways, still protesting how she loves you, why then, Freddy, my son, it will be time to lock up the cutlery if the lady is of the type of this one who just went out."

I stared at him. That pasty, pale-eyed girl was innocuous, surely. "You mean you think she might really kill him?" I demanded.

"By which incoherence I gather that you wish to ask whether Doctor June Titus might kill her fiancé? Exactly! Why, yes, Freddy, dear, I consider it to be eminently possible," replied Doctor Bentiron placidly and yawned. "Give me your reports, and let's get them cleaned up. I desire to ponder; I wish to meditate; I intend to reflect. Exactly !"

He set aside the case of Doctor June Titus, nor would he speak further of it, but grunted noncommitally at all my questions, as was his exasperating habit. Presently the reports were ap- proved and signed, and the inspector's lists checked; for no one could work more swiftly than Doctor Bentiron, when he chose. And so we came to the list of cases which I had selected for demonstration at the chief's clinic next day.

"Umphf!" groaned the doctor. "In what am I to instruct the rising generation to-morrow? Oh, yes, psychopathic personality, constitutional inferiority with episodes. I might use Doctor June Titus for one, but I'm afraid she's a bit on the praecox side. Moreover she might object to a demonstration; some folks are absurdly sensitive. It's a new lot, mostly, isn't it? But there's Rosie Dorcas, she'll do. And here we have my old friend, Annie Hoffman." He handed back the list. "Approved, my son, approved. 'Big, Bad Annie' is a clinic all by herself."

I nodded, for I, too, knew the lady of old. I doubt if New York City could afford a more viciously incorrigible psychopath, unless it might be "Little, Bad Annie," whom all old State Hospital men will remember.

Then I went out to bathe and shave and beautify myself and go to dinner with my wife; and I was not sorry to forget psychiatry for a few hours.

ii

WE CAME home very late, and next morning Milly must call and call and finally splash cold water on my face to wake me. She did this with such impish glee that our baby, Janet, begged for the pitcher that she might "sp'inkle daddy, too."

I sat up sputtering, for I love my bed of mornings. But I was awake at last, and none too soon, for it was after nine, and the chief's clinic at ten, two miles away. As I pounded down the stairs I caught a glimpse of Doctor Bentiron's shabby, baggy homespuns, disappearing through the front door. I followed at speed and caught him, just as he clambered into his big blue limousine.

"Umphf," drawled Doctor Bentiron. " 'As a door upon its hinges, so turneth he himself in his bed.' Hasten, Freddy. Think of the incalculable loss to medical science if you and I should fail to meet that class. Climb in."

I climbed in over the doctor's lank, outthrust legs, and we rolled away, while he sat on the small of his back and smoked inscrutably. As we turned into Twenty-sixth Street, however, the chief leaned forward, took up the speaking tube and gave an order to his chauffeur. "Swing in to the curb, Perkins, and stop."

As the man obeyed, Doctor Bentiron leaned out of the open window, beckoning languidly.

A tall, shapely young woman saw his gesture, threw up both round arms and rantoward us, the ostrich plumes of her wide hat nodding above a mop of brass-yellow hair. "Oh, it's Doctor Bentiron, the dear, lovely man! I'm so glad to see you, doctor, so glad!"

"Umphf," replied the chief phlegmatically, avoiding her threatened em- brace with the nonchalant dexterity of one to whom such exuberance was an old, old tale. "Hello, Annie! Did they let you out?"

"Yes, doctor, dear, they turned me loose las' night, they did, and no thanks to 'em. No boat ride for Annie Hoffman this time!" She leaned forward and peered into the car. "I see you still got that fat thing, Blakely, hangin' round. What makes you stand for him, doctor ?"

I grinned. "Hello, Annie! Don't you like me any more?"

Big, Bad Annie grinned back expansively. "W'y, doc, I c'd love you true, if you wasn't such a big, ugly, fat pig."

"Tut, Annie, tut," replied Doctor Bentiron, preternaturally solemn. "No fair twitting on facts."

Big, Bad Annie shook with laughter, clinging to the side of the car; passers- by looked at us askance.

"Umphf," said the chief and looked the lady reflectively up and down. "Annie, aren't you feeling a bit happy to be loose? Better come along back to the psychopathic for a few days, hadn't you?"

But Annie shook a vehement head. "Aw, nix, doctor, dear! I don't wanna go back; they'll shoot me up to Ward's Island, sure, if I do. I'll be good, doctor; honest I will. See?" And she drew a face of absurd decorum.

"Umphf," repeated the chief.  "Annie, you're a menace to the public. Oh well— drive on, Perkins."

Big, Bad Annie went up the street, half dancing with exuberance, and we turned into the gate of Bellevue Hospital.

Throughout Doctor Bentiron's clinic in the Psychopathic Pavilion I paid little heed to his cases. Rosie Dorcas and the others behaved as psychopathically as one could wish; I might have been pardoned a certain pride in my selections; but my eyes were all for another lady who sat on the long bench, among the students of Doctor Bentiron's section.

For Miss June Titus, who should take her medical degree next month, Big, Bad Annie sat woodenly erect upon the very edge of the long bench, a little withdrawn from her classmates. Her hands were clasped stiffly in her lap; her colorless face wore a painfully self-conscious smirk; her pale, close-set eyes were fixed in a vague, unchanging stare. I do not think she heard a word of what was said; she was submerged in her own thoughts, and once I saw a tear steal down her cheek. Remembering the chief's suggestion of last night I wondered what his class would say if he should turn suddenly upon Miss Titus and proceed to demonstrate her mental status. They would be amazed, no doubt, seeing only a stiff, self-conscious, prudish girl, culpably indifferent to her work where the trained eye perceived an incipient mental aberration.

The idea caught me between laughter and pity. Doctors are callous, they say; and it is true that one must guard his sympathies lest they wear him out. But few can watch, without some inner qualms, an intelligence flickering, like a dying candle, into mental night.

There came a silence, and I looked about. The last patient was dismissed; the chief sat far back in his chair and blinked somberly at the ceiling, while his students regarded him hopefully. At times the doctor would be moved to reminiscence. His dull, dragging drawl would each the likeness of some remembered patient, delicate, vivid and clear as one of Helleu's dry points, and his classes would forget the hour in listening. I wish that Doctor Bentiron would write a book of the lunatics he has known. There were a book to wrench your heart, for, of all men whom I have met, the chief alone can bring out in dry, brief words, rendered more plangent by his lifeless drawl the commonplace, terrible pathos of insanity.

But to-day there came no such tales. The doctor stirred and yawned, his ineffably weary eyes still upon the ceiling.

"Umphf," said he. "You fatigue me; go away! You know nothing at all about insanity, fortunate infants!"

They all filed out, all but Doctor June Titus, who sat rigidly erect upon the edge of the bench, hands tight-clasped in her lap, her pale, far stare, empty and unchanged.

Doctor Bentiron groaned, running long fingers through his mouse-gray hair. His weary face was suddenly kind, almost tender; his dull, blank eyes softened and glowed pitifully. "Doctor Titus," said he, "June Titus!' Even his dragging, toneless voice was gentle and alive. "Come here, my child."

The girl started violently ; tears filled her eyes; she covered her face with both hands and sobbed hopelessly.

"I want to talk with you again. Will you come to my office this afternoon?"

The girl straightened and nodded dumbly, hands writhing together in an agonized grip. Tears streamed unregarded down her pasty cheeks. She swallowed hard; thrice she strove to speak and could not. Then: "Yes, doctor, I'll come. But you can't help me; nobody can help me!" Ina dry, shaking whisper she added: "It's thought transference! Thought transference! And it's too late. Oh, what a terrible power!"

"Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron, blinking sadly at the ceiling. "I see. Thought transference! Exactly! Go home, child, go home and lie down; come to see me at two o'clock. Stop crying now and straighten out."

His dull, indifferent tones held no urgency; yet he was obeyed, as it was the doctor's habit to be obeyed. Miss Titus wiped her eyes, sniffed twice, pro- duced a vanity case and powdered her nose and was presently ready to de- part, outwardly composed.

The chief heaved up his lean length to follow, but Doctor Roscius, resident physician at the Psychopathic Pavilion, appeared in the doorway. "Connolly died in the night, doctor," said he. "Bernstein is doing the autopsy now, over at the morgue. I thought you might like to see it."

"Connolly? That pachymeningitts interna? Why, yes, Roscius. Thanks! Come along, Blakely; let's stagger down there. Pachymeningitis interna hemmorrhagica membranosa fibrinosa pigmentosa chronica"— he dragged out the thunderous polysyllables with dry sarcasm—"is a rare sight enough, in these godly prohibition days."

iii

WE ENTERED the big blue limousine and drove to the city morgue; a short drive, but Doctor Bentiron did not walk unless he must.

Nodding to an attendant here and there, the chief strolled toward the autopsy room, walking, as usual, as though each step must be his last. And so he came to a closed door and opened it; through the crack drifted a high- pitched, irritated voice.

"Brain; membranes normal, parenchyma normal. No gross lesions. I don't know what the man died of, Gross, 'Heart failure,' maybe."

Doctor Bentiron smethered a fugitive grin and entered, I at his heels.

"What, Bernstein, the unerring pathologist, at fault? Can such things be? I hope that's not my pachymeningitis."

The black-browed pathologist looked up, as though he rather wished it were. "How you do, Doctor Bentiron," he said, reluctantly respectful. "No; un- identified man brought in this morning. Picked up on a bench in the park."

"And you can't find the cause of death?"

Doctor Isadore Bernstein, once coroner's physician and now medical ex- aminer, scowled blackly and thrust out a chin, blue with close-shaven beard. "There isn't any cause of death," he averred petulantly. "All organs normal, Remarkably healthy specimen."

"Umphf," drawled the chief. "He's dead, none the less, and it's reasonable to suppose he died of something." He came closer to the slate-topped autopsy table and looked down at the body.

"Bernstein, let me have a look at the man. Possibly you missed something in your examination."

Doctor Bentiron then proceeded in his carefully meticulous way to examine the dead man's head and neck, As he ran his long, sensitive fingers over the bate of the man's skull he called for the assistance of one of the attendants. Directing the latter to hand him a probe, the doctor then began a thorough examination of the spinal cord. Suddenly his expression changed, and his eyes lighted with satisfaction.

"Found it," he exclaimed. "Umphf!" Then he withdrew and held up to view a tiny piece of slender steel, the broken end of a hat pin, which had transfixed the spinal cord. No doubt death had been instantaneous.

"You, Gross," said Doctor Bernstein, "phone police headquarters; tell 'em this is murder. Hurry back and take down my descriptions."

"And my pachymeningitis?" gested the chief.

"Oh, sorry, doctor; I'll have to clean this up first. Won't get to it before noon."

"I will totter home, then. Come along, Blakely."

"Rather a nice little murder, Blakely, my son," drawled the chief when we were settled in the car. "I can only recall one similar case; it was the Scarpia killing, done in 1893 by an Italian, with a glass stiletto. They're more likely to strike for the heart, for it takes luck, or a certain amount of anatomical knowledge, to penetrate to the medulla. You have to strike through an intervertebral space, you see." A pause, while he rolled a fresh cigarette. Then:

"Anatomical knowledge and a hatpin! Umphf!"

The doctor's grunt was almost stressed. He fell to smoking furiously, his drooping figure more wearily immobile than ever. And he said no more.

iv

WHEN we reached the big house on Madison Avenue the chief clambered out and went straight to his own office.

"Send 'em all home," he told Miss Morgan, glancing over her shoulder at the waiting room full of patients. "I'm going into seclusion; I desire to meditate. What? Oh, those two! Let Doctor Blakely see 'em. Treat 'em tenderly, Freddy. Hanrahan, get me two bags of tobacco and a fresh book of papers. If anybody bothers me before Doctor Titus comes at two, off goes his head." Then Doctor Bentiron disappeared, and I saw no more of him until afternoon,

Promptly at two o'clock Doctor June Titus appeared and was taken at once to the chief's private office. She re- ceived many an irritated glance from the new grist of patients who had al- ready refilled the waiting room; but none murmured aloud. Doctor Bent- iron was a law to himself; he saw his cases, or refused to see them, or made them wait long hours, according to his own sweet will. And they submitted; for, after all, he was Doctor Bentiron.

At half past two I was called from the ward by Miss Morgan, the doctor's chief clerk. I found her in a quandary.

"It's a police officer, Doctor Blakely, Lieutenant O'Malley. He says he'd like to see the doctor right away. What shall I do?"

"Is the chief still talking to that Titus woman? Well, he only told us not to disturb him until she came. I'll see O'Malley and find out how important it is."

Lieutenant O'Malley waited in the outer office, as spare and shrinking and silent as ever. His rusty head was well streaked with gray; the lines of his quaintly ugly face were bitten deeper ; otherwise he was much as when I met him first, beside the body of my wife's murdered uncle.

" 'Lo, doc," he said, and his creaking, reluctant voice was quite as I remembered it. He was a man who seemed to loathe the need of speech. "I gotta see th' doctor. It's about that feller the doc saw at th' morgue this mornin', We identified him."

"Well," said I, "you'll have to show me more than that before I go in to the chief right now. He might be annoyed with me."

"Aw," whispered the detective hoarsely, "I c'n wait a wile." The doctor's annoyance was not lightly braved by those who knew him, whatever their rank. "But, say, doc, he got a skirt in there, has he? A student f'om th' college, name o' Titus?"

"Yes."

"It's her I wanta see, really. Y' see, this feller was croaked las' night, she was engaged t' him. Griscom, his name was, Ralph Griscom. Found out by th' laundry marks. He didn't have no letters 'r nothin' in 'is pockets ; likely some- body'd took 'em out."

I stared at him, remembering Doctor Titus's recent abstraction and grief; remembering the chief's account of those dreams which had troubled her and the inference he had drawn.

"My word, O'Malley! Yes, I'll take that in to him, right now. You wait here a minute."

I knocked at the chief's door with some trepidation. But presently I heard an "Umphf" from within and made bold to enter.

Doctor Bentiron lay at length in his reclining chair, wrapped in a faded, green bathrobe. His bearded face was perfectly expressionless; he stared at the bare wall with dull, inscrutable eyes.

A nimbus of pale smoke surrounded his head; he was rolling a fresh cigarette, lapping and twisting its paper with lazy speed.

Miss June Titus sat in the room's only other chair. She had withdrawn it a little toward one corner and turned her face to the wall. There she sat, mute and as moveless as the chief himself. But her posture was not relaxed, like his; it was rigid, woodenly stiff, and spoke of mental tension in every line.

"Umphf," repeated the chief tonelessly and pointed a languid thumb toward his visitor. "Mute— so far." He settled deeper in his chair, implacably patient, as if to say that this girl must speak, though he waited the night through.

He did not ask my errand, but I stated it, none the less. "Lieutenant O'Malley is outside, doctor. He wants to see you. It's important."

Doctor Bentiron's impassive face did not change His long gray eyes brooded on vacancy; he might not have heard me at all. But the girl, crouched there in the corner, sprang suddenly erect, baring a tragic face.

"Oh, have they found the body?" she demanded.

"Ah," said Doctor Bentiron placidly. "I was rather looking for something like that. What is it, Blakely? What does O'Malley want?"

I told him, obeying literally, as one learned to obey the chief. "They've identified the body we saw at the morgue this morning. Ralph Griscom, his name was, and O'Malley wants to talk to Miss Titus."

The girl shrank briefly, then stepped forward. Her pale, close-set eyes shone wildly; her face was exalted. "Yes, bring him in," she cried. "Bring him in, and I'll confess and begin my pennance. Oh, oh, oh!' Her voice mounted hysterically.

"Now," said the doctor, "shut up."

And she did. "Bring him in, old son, and let us see what shall transpire."

Lieutenant O'Malley advanced diffi- dently, ducking his bullet head in re- spectful greeting. "Give you good day, doctor, and it's sorry I am to bother you. But that one in th' morgue, that you seen this mornin', an' th' lady here —well, sorr, I'm just after findin' out they was together in th' park las' night."

He shifted his feet awkwardly, being always uncomfortable in explanation, But Doctor June Titus advanced with her slim wrists held out before her. Her uplifted face was palely alight. "Officer, do your duty," said she; and the prim mannerisms of her speech contrasted oddly with its content. "I confess; I give myself up. I did it; it was my mad deed; arrest me, sir!"

O'Malley scratched his rusty head. "We-ell, now, ma'am " He glanced at the chief, as for guidance.

But Miss Titus was eager to be arrested and have done, it seemed. Words flowed from her. "He was stabbed in the back of the neck," she declared. "Stabbed through the medulla with a hatpin. I wickedly did it; take me to prison!"

The chief continued to blink sadly at the wall throughout this theatrical outpouring. His face was perfectly in- scrutable; whether she convinced him or not I could not tell. But Lieutenant O'Malley was troubled by no doubts.

"Anythin' ye say c'n be used against yuh," he warned her formally. "But will ye come along now, ma'am, an' tell it to th' captain? If ye'll excuse me, sorr?"

Doctor Bentiron grunted phlegmatically. "Freddy, dear, avoid young ladies who dream of hatpins and things; they are potentially dangerous. But wait a minute, O'Malley. There's no such rush. Let's get the straight of this before you start off. Now, June Titus—"

A commotion rose suddenly in the hall without. The chief sighed, shut his mouth and fell to rolling another cigarette, waiting indifferently for silence. He hated to raise his voice. But the noise outside continued, grew louder. I made out Miss Morgan's expostulating voice; Hanrahan, the doctor's big orderly, rumbled placatingly :

"Here, here, ma'am! Do ye be quiet, now; ye'll disturb himself."

A shrill, insistent feminine protest drowned him out. "Get outa my road, you big, ugly brute!" A long and quite unprintable exposition of Mr. Hanrahan's ancestry, habits and personal appearance followed. Then a wild scream. "A-a-a-a-a-h! Take your dirty hands off me! I'll clean house with the whole lot of you! I want to see Doctor Bentiron! I will see the doctor! I will! I will! Doc-tor Bent-iron!"

A swift, confused shuffling ensued, punctuated by the sound of a blow.

Doctor Bentiron remained undisturbed. "One waits without—rather importunately, what? Oh, well—"

He pushed one of the series of buttons set in the arm of his chair. At once the door swung open; Hanrahan appeared, flushed and panting, a scratch across his broad, red face.

"Well, Hanrahan, come in."

"Yes sir, doctor." He turned, but this insistent visitor waited no permis- sion to enter. She strode in a conqueror, shaking off nurses like flies, a tall, blond woman, threatening as Boadicea. She advanced with a curious, lurching gait, for her left foot wore only a sleazy near-silk stocking; I noticed a large hole in its toe. Her tight hand grasped a high-heeled shoe by the vamp, a very effective weapon in the hands of the right person. O'Malley muttered something at the sight of her and crouched instinctively. June Titus made a little moan and shrank back in her corner, covering her face once more.

But Doctor Bentiron lay back in his chair immobile and yawned. "Annie," he said, "behave yourself."

Big Bad Annie crowed triumphantly, nodding her brassy head until the draggled blue plumes of her hat wagged again. "I told 'em," she declared exult- ingly. "I told 'em all what'd happen if they got fresh. Say, I've a good mind to make a ruin outa this place As f'r that big, thick Irishman, why I knocked him f'r a goal a'ready. Lookit 'is face! Ha!"

The chief yawned again. "Don't start anything here, Annie," he advised placidly. "What's the idea, anyhow?"

"W'y, nothing much. You see, doc"— and the lady's voice grew momentarily shriller, wilder, more  strident— "I croaked a guy las' night in the park."

"Humph!" Doctor Bentiron remained outwardly undisturbed.. But a high, thin scream cut him off. In her corner June Titus uprose, arms thrown abroad, her white face a mask of horror.

Big, Bad Annie looked at her threateningly. "That one o' your nuts, doc?" she demanded, gripping her shoe tighter.

I took one step forward, braced and ready, for I fancied that Annie meant to start hostilities at once. She was wildly maniac, careless of all consequences,

"That's the one! That's the one! My rival!" declared Doctor Titus.

"Say, you! Whaddaya mean, calling me names, huh?"

"Silence," said the chief. Then, as Bad Annie turned toward him: "You were telling us about a murder, weren't you ?"

"Murder? No, doc, just on'y a killing, that's all. Y'see I sat in th' park las' night an' a guy come up and says, 'Hello, Bright-Eyes,' says he. An' so we got to talking and kidding and sat down on a bench. An' then this poor fish, he tips my hat back an' says, 'Hello, Peroxide!' Gee, he was an awful fresh guy!"

"Exactly" murmured Doctor Bentiron. "Go on, Annie,"

"Yeah. Well, he made me mad, kinda; so I took and jabbed him with my hatpin to make him behave. He got it in the neck!" And she shook with maniacal laughter. "In th' neck, right!"

The chief blinked inscrutably at his blank wall.

"Well," went on Big Bad Annie, still chuckling, "he slumped over, kinda, and I seen I'd croaked him. Gee, it was funny! He got so limpsey, like he was drunk; couldn't make him sit up no more. An' so I beat it, because I seen another jane comin'. An' 'en I gets thinkin' 's mornin', after I seen you, an' I thought I'd slip up here an' tell you th' joke. Gosh, doc, it was awful funny! He got so limpsey! Ha!"

"And so you broke off a hatpin in his spinal cord," said the chief. "You're a rough little joker, Annie. Know his name ?"

"Ralph somepin 'r other; 'call me Ralph,' says he, an' so I hadda call 'im!"

"Yes, exactly," said the chief, and he lapsed into smoky silence.

June Titus broke out! "No, oh, no!" she wailed. "It wasI! It was I! I killed Ralph!"

"A bit of competition," murmured Doctor Bentiron.

O'Malley scratched his rusty head. "I better take 'em both," he decided and advanced upon Big, Bad Annie, fumbling for handcuffs.

The lady took one step back, shifted her shoe to the left hand and plucked at her big hat. "I gotta 'nother pin," she declared. "C'm on, youse!"

The police officer advanced steadily enough, though she was rather a fear- ful sight. "Come awn, now," he in- vited. "Y'r under arrest."

"C'm on y'rself!" invited the lady hopefully. "Arrest me? Not with all the reserves f'om two houses, you can't, you ugly cop! I'll clean house with you!"

"Under arrest, charged with murder,"repeated O'Malley and came steadfastly on. Big, Bad Annie whooped with laughter and wiped her streaming eyes, "Murder? W'y, you fool cop, you can't do nothin' t' me, just f'r a killing. I'm crazy, I am! Now then, let's go!" She poised, both hands armed.

Doctor Bentiron sighed, took one last pull upon his cigarette and laid it carefully aside. "She has good insight," he murmured apathetically. "Wait a minute, O'Malley; I hate my room mussed up."

The policeman stopped obediently; Annie half turned. Doctor Bendiron heaved himself sluggishly up, yawned, stretched and advanced toward the fiercely staring woman. He came crab-like, left shoulder and hip forward. His shoulders sagged; he bent forward from the waist, thumbs loosely hooked in his belt. He seemed to slouch nervelessly, but an anatomist's eye could see how the lean, lithe muscles bunched and crept beneath his loose robe. He balanced daintily upon the balls of his feet. His chin was dropped; he looked fixedly at Big, Bad Annie from beneath heavy, overhanging brows.

The lady waited, murderously alert. As he came within reach, she even made one abortive jab with a long hatpin. But she could no longer withstand the cold, merciless fire of that gray stare. Suddenly she dropped shoe and hatpin and burst into noisy sobbing. "Oh, doctor, dear, I didn't mean no harm!"

"Umphf," said the chief imperturbably, covering up like a boxer, as she would have embraced him. "Get away," he said again. "Be ashamed, Annie."

Loud wails. "Oh, I yam! I yam!"

"Exactly! Go, call the Bellevue bus, O'Malley. Tell them to bring a strait- jacket. Miss Reilly, Miss O'Hare."

He had not raised his voice, but, "Yes, Doctor!" chorused two nurses from the hall.

"Look after Annie till the bus gets here. She'll have to go from court to the prison ward, O'Malley. It'll be Matteawan this time, Annie."

Big, Bad Annie departed meekly enough, between two watchful nurses, The chief clambered back into his chair and sighed. "Now, Miss Titus. You were saying?"

The girl came forward. "I killed him, doctor," she repeated earnestly. She was only my instrument. I went to meet Ralph in the park, and I saw him with this coarse, common woman. I burned with jealous rage, and all my dreams came back. So I killed him with a hatpin. It was done by thought transference, doctor. I only am guilty!"

"Umphf," drawled the doctor. "Yes, exactly!" He rolled another cigarette. "You will stay here for the present, June. Miss Manley will find you a room."

When she had gone, he turned to me. "She may readjust herself yet, Blakely. She really owes Bad Annie a debt of thanks. Such women ought never to fall in love. Yes, it's quite the best thing for her, this killing. Whether or not it was for Ralph, is doubtful, judging from what we know of his habits. Oh, well!' He sighed profoundly.

"There's a triangle for you, Freddy, my son: One dead and the other two crazy. It's a jolly life we lead, we alienists."

_________________

21: A Michigan Man

Elia W. Peattie

1862-1935

Lippincott's Monthly Magazine March 1891

A PINE forest is nature's expression of solemnity and solitude. Sunlight, rivers, cascades, people, music, laughter, or dancing could not make it gay. With its unceasing reverberations and its eternal shadows, it is as awful and as holy as a cathedral.

Thirty good fellows working together by day and drinking together by night can keep up but a moody imitation of jollity. Spend twenty-five of your forty years, as Luther Dallas did, in this perennial gloom, and your soul— that which enjoys, aspires, competes— will be drugged as deep as if you had quaffed the cup of oblivion. Luther Dallas was counted one of the most experienced axe-men in the northern camps. He could fell a tree with the swift surety of an executioner, and in revenge for his many arboral murders the wood- land had taken captive his mind, captured and chained it as Prospero did Ariel. The resounding footsteps of Progress driven on so mercilessly in this mad age could not reach his fastness. It did not concern him that men were thinking, investigating, inventing. His senses responded only to the sonorous music of the woods; a steadfast wind ringing metallic melody from the pine-tops contented him as the sound of the sea does the sailor; and dear as the odors of the ocean to the mariner were the resinous scents of the forest to him. Like a sailor, too, he had his superstitions. He had a presentiment that he was to die by one of these trees— that some day, in chopping, the tree would fall upon and crush him as it did his father the day they brought him back to the camp on a litter of pine boughs.

One day the gang boss noticed a tree that Dallas had left standing in a most unwoodmanlike manner in the section which was allotted to him.

"What in thunder is that standing there for?" he asked.

Dallas raised his eyes to the pine, towering in stern dignity a hundred feet above them.

"Well," he said, feebly, "I noticed it, but kinda left it t' the last."

"Cut it down to-morrow," was the response.

The wind was rising, and the tree muttered savagely. Luther thought it sounded like a menace, and turned pale. No trouble has yet been found that will keep a man awake in the keen air of the pineries after he has been swinging his axe all day, but the sleep of the chopper was so broken with disturbing dreams that night that the beads gathered on his brow, and twice he cried aloud. He ate his coarse flap-jacks in the morning and escaped from the smoky shanty as soon as he could.

"It'll bring bad luck, I'm afraid," he muttered as he went to get his axe from the rack. He was as fond of his axe as a soldier of his musket, but to-day he shouldered it with reluctance. He felt like a man with his destiny before him. The tree stood like a sentinel. He raised his axe, once, twice, a dozen times, but could not bring himself to make a cut in the bark. He walked backward a few steps and looked up. The funereal green seemed to grow darker and darker till it became black. It was the embodiment of sorrow. Was it not shaking giant arms at him? Did it not cry out in angry challenge? Luther did not try to laugh at his fears; he had never seen any humor in life. A gust of wind had someway crept through the dense barricade of foliage that flanked the clearing, and struck him with an icy chill. He looked at the sky: the day was advancing rapidly. He went at his work with an energy as determined as despair. The axe in his practiced hand made clean straight cuts in the trunk, now on this side, now on that. His task was not an easy one, but he finished it with wonderful expedition. After the chopping was finished, the tree stood firm a moment; then, as the tensely strained fibres began a weird moaning, he sprang aside, and stood waiting. In the distance he saw two men hew- ing a log. The axe-man sent them a shout and threw up his arms for them to look. The tree stood out clear and beautiful against the gray sky; the men ceased their work and watched it. The vibrations became more violent, and the sounds they produced grew louder and louder till they reached a shrill wild cry. There came a pause; then a deep shuddering groan. The topmost branches began to move slowly, the whole stately bulk swayed, and then shot toward the ground. The gigantic trunk bounded from the stump, recoiled like a cannon, crashed down, and lay con quered, with a roar as of an earthquake, in a cloud of flying twigs and chips.

When the dust had cleared away, the men at the log on the outside of the clearing could not see Luther. They ran to the spot, and found him lying on the ground with his chest crushed in. His fearful eyes had not rightly calculated the distance from the stump to the top of the pine, nor rightly weighed the power of the massed branches, and so, standing spell-bound, watching the descending trunk as one might watch his Nemesis, the rebound came and left him lying worse than dead.

Three months later, when the logs, lopped of their branches, drifted down the streams, the woodman, a human log lopped of his strength, drifted to a great city. A change, the doctor said, might prolong his life. The lumbermen made up a purse, and he started out, not very definitely knowing his destination. He had a sister, much younger than himself, who at the age of sixteen had married and gone, he believed, to Chicago. That was years ago, but he had an idea that he might find her. He was not troubled by his lack of resources: he did not believe that any man would want for a meal unless he were "shiftless." He had always been able to turn his hand to something.

He felt too ill from the jostling of the cars to notice much of anything on the journey. The dizzy scenes whirling past made him faint, and he was glad to lie with closed eyes. He imagined that his little sister in her pink calico frock and bare feet (as he remembered her) would be at the station to meet him. "Oh, Lu!" she would call from some hiding-place, and he would go and find her.

The conductor stopped by Luther's seat and said that they were in the city at last; but it seemed to the sick man as if they went miles after that, with a multitude of twinkling lights on one side and a blank darkness that they told him was the lake on the other. The conductor again stopped by his seat.

"Well, my man," said he, "how are you feeling?"

Luther, the possessor of the toughest muscles in the gang, felt a sick man's irritation at the tone of pity.

"Oh, I'm all right!" he said, gruffly, and shook off the assistance the conductor tried to offer with his overcoat. "I'm going to my sister's," he explained, in answer to the inquiry as to where he was going. The man, somewhat piqued at the spirit in which his overtures were met, left him, and Luther stepped on to the platform. There was a long vista of semi-light, down which crowds of people walked and baggage-men rushed. The building, if it deserved the name, seemed a ruin, and through the arched doors Luther could see men— hackmen— dancing and howling like dervishes. Trains were coming and going, and the whistles and bells kept up a ceaseless clangor. Luther, with his small satchel and uncouth dress, slouched by the crowd unnoticed, and reached the street. He walked amid such an illumination as he had never dreamed of, and paused half blinded in the glare of a broad sheet of electric light that filled a pillared entrance into which many people passed. He looked about him. Above on every side rose great, many- windowed buildings; on the street the cars and carriages thronged, and jostling crowds dashed headlong among the vehicles. After a time he turned down a street that seemed to him a pandemonium filled with madmen. It went to his head like wine, and hardly left him the presence of mind to sustain a quiet exterior. The wind was laden with a penetrating moisture that chilled him as the dry icy breezes from Huron never had done, and the pain in his lungs made him faint and dizzy. He wondered if his red-cheeked little sister could live in one of those vast, impregnable buildings. He thought of stopping some of those serious-looking men and asking them if they knew her, but he could not muster up the courage. The distressing experience that comes to almost every one some time in life, of losing all identity in the universal humanity, was becoming his. The tears began to roll down his wasted face from loneliness and exhaustion. He grew hungry with longing for the dirty but familiar cabins of the camp, and staggered along with eyes half closed, conjuring visions of the warm interiors, the leaping fires, the groups of laughing men seen dimly through clouds of tobacco smoke.

A delicious scent of coffee met his hungry sense and made him really think he was taking the savory black draught from his familiar tin cup; but the muddy streets, the blinding lights, the cruel, rushing people, were still there. The buildings, however, now be- came different. They were lower and meaner, with dirty windows. Women laughing loudly crowded about the doors, and the establishments seemed to be equally divided between saloon-keepers, pawnbrokers, and dealers in second-hand clothes. Luther wondered where they all drew their support from. Upon one signboard he read, "Lodgings 10 cents to 50 cents. A Square Meal for 15 cents/" and, thankful for some haven, entered. Here he spent his first night and other nights, while his purse dwindled and his strength waned. At last he got a man in a drug store to search the directory for his sister's residence. They found a name he took to be his brother-in-law's. It was two days later when he found the address— a great, many-storied mansion on one of the southern boulevards— and found also that his search had been in vain. Sore and faint, he staggered back to his miserable shelter, only to arise feverish and ill in the morning. He frequented the great shop doors, thronged with brilliantly dressed ladies, and watched to see if his little sister might not dash up in one of those satin- lined coaches and take him were he would be warm and safe and would sleep undisturbed by drunken, ribald songs and loathsome surroundings. There were days when he almost forgot his name, and, striving to remember, would lose his senses for a moment and drift back to the harmonious solitudes of the North and breathe the resin-scented frosty atmosphere. He grew terrified at the blood he coughed from his lacerated lungs, and wondered bitterly why the boys did not come to take him home.

One day, as he painfully dragged himself down a residence street, he tried to collect his thoughts and form some plan for the future. He had no trade, understood no handiwork: he could fell trees! He looked at the gaunt, scrawny, transplanted specimens that met his eye, and gave himself up to the homesickness that filled his soul. He slept that night in the shelter of a stable, and spent his last money in the morning for a biscuit.

He traveled many miles that afternoon looking for something to which he might turn his hand. Once he got permission to carry a hod for half an hour. At the end of that time he fainted. When he recovered, the foreman paid him twenty-five cents. "For God's sake, man, go home," he said. Luther stared at him with a white face and went on.

There came days when he so forgot his native dignity as to beg. He seldom received anything; he was referred to various charitable institutions whose existence he had never heard of.

One morning, when a pall of smoke enveloped the city and the odors of coal-gas refused to lift their nauseating poison through the heavy air, Luther, chilled with dew and famished, awoke to a happier life. The loneliness at his heart was gone. The feeling of hopeless imprisonment that the miles and miles of streets had terrified him with gave place to one of freedom and exaltation. Above him he heard the rasping of pine boughs; his feet trod on a rebounding mat of decay; the sky was as coldly blue as the bosom of Huron. He walked as if on ether, singing a senseless jargon the woodmen had aroused the echoes with:

Hi yi halloo!

The owl sees you!

Look what you do!

Hi yi halloo!

Swung over his shoulder was a stick he had used to assist his limping gait, but now transformed into the beloved axe. He would reach the clearing soon, he thought, and strode on like a giant, while people hurried from his path. Suddenly a smooth trunk, stripped of its bark and bleached by weather, arose before him.

"Hi yi halloo !" High went the wasted arm— crash!— a broken staff, a jingle of wires, a maddened, shouting man the centre of a group of amused spectators! A few moments later, four broad-shouldered men in blue had him in their grasp, pinioned and guarded, clattering over the noisy streets behind two spirited horses. They drew after them a troop of noisy, jeering boys, who danced about the wagon like a swirl of autumn leaves. Then came a halt, and Luther was dragged up the steps of a square brick building with a belfry on the top. They entered a large bare room with benches ranged about the walls, and brought him before a man at a desk.

"What is your name?" asked the man at the desk.

"Hi yi halloo!" said Luther.

"He's drunk, sergeant," said one of the men in blue, and the axe-man was led into the basement. He was conscious of an involuntary resistance, a short struggle, and a final shock of pain— then oblivion.

THE chopper awoke to the realization of three stone walls and an iron grating in front. Through this he looked out upon a stone flooring across which was a row of similar apartments. He neither knew nor cared where he was. The feeling of imprisonment was no greater than he had felt on the endless, cheerless streets. He laid himself on the bench that ran along a side wall, and, closing his eyes, listened to the bab- ble of the clear stream and the thunder of the "drive" on its journey. How the logs hurried and jostled! crushing, whirling, ducking, with the merry lads leaping about them with shouts and laughter. Sud- denly he was recalled by a voice. Some one handed a narrow tin cup full of coffee and a thick slice of bread through the grating. Across the way he dimly saw a man eating a similar slice of bread. Men in other compartments were swearing and singing. He knew these now for the voices he had heard in his dreams. He tried to force some of the bread down his parched and swollen throat, but failed; the coffee strangled him, and he threw himself upon the bench.

The forest again, the night-wind, the whistle of the axe through the air! Once when he opened his eyes he found it dark. It would soon be time to go to work. He fancied there would be hoar-frost on the trees in the morning. How close the cabin seemed! Ha!— here came his little sister. Her voice sounded like the wind on a spring morning. How loud it swelled now! "Lu! Lu!" she cried.

The next morning the lock-up keeper opened the  cell door. Luther lay with his head in a pool of blood. His soul had escaped from the thrall of the forest.

"Well, well!" said the little fat police justice, when he was told of it. "We ought to have a doctor around to look after such cases."

End

Table of Contents

- 1: Devil's Fire / Albert Snow
- 2: The Mask of Midas / G K Chesterton
- 3: The Young Earl / Anonymous
- 4: The Voyager / Roy Bridges
- 5: The Oak / Roy Bridges
- 6: The Desk / Roy Bridges
- 7: Once An Outlaw— / Edwin Truett Long
- 8: Rain in Dahomey / Edwin Truett Long
- 9: A Golden Grave / Allan Stephens
- 10: The Two Looks / John Galsworthy

- 11: Pistol-Packin' Gran'ma / Laurence Donovan

- 13: The Cat of the Stars / Sinclair Lewis
- 14: Paper Ladies / Sumner Locke
- 15: Kiwi / Raoul Whitfield
- 16: At Twilight / Ethel Lina White
- 17: Crocodile Tales / Anonymous
- 18: A Model Crime / W. Pett Ridge

- 19: The Hunting of Chilton Sahib / Dolf Wyllarde

- 20: Big, Bad Annie / Ernest M. Poate

- 21: A Michigan Man / Elia W. Peattie