Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: 25 short stories in several genres, all in the Life + 70 public domain, gathered from newspapers and magazines and in many cases republished here for the first time. I have added thumbnail sized images of authors where I could find them. It is surprising that an author as prolific, and as long-lived, as Fred Merrick White, has but one picture on the internet, and not a very good one, while another, as well known as Owen Oliver, as none. That is because he was a career British Civil Servant, Sir Johsua Albert Flynn, KCB; but I couldn't find a picture of Flynn, either! 1: On the Film / Richard M

PAST MASTERS 123

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.

13 April 2023

Contents

1: On the Film / Richard Marsh

2: Narcotic Man / Frederick C. Painton

3: Vampire / Jan Neruda

4: A Castle in Spain / Katharine Tynan

5: The Last Expedition / Richard Dehan

6: Titbottom's Spectacles / George William Curtis

7: Sage-Brush Sally's Mother / Mulloy Finnegan

8: Billy / J. J. Bell

9: The Curtain / J. J. Bell

10: Retribution / "Propellor"

11: Easy Going / Bill Bowyang

12: Celia and the Ghost / Barry Pain

13: The Unfamiliar / Richard Connell

14: Fooled! / Herbert Jamieson

15: Confession / Lizzie C. Reid

16: Opium / Freeman Sandom

17: Partners / Owen Oliver

18: The Avenger / J. F. Tilsley

19: By the Queen's Orders / Anonymous

20: The Studio / Robert Blatchford

21: The Chinese Apple / Marjorie Bowen

22: Jean Achard / C. Lart

23: Blind Chance / Fred Merrick White

24: Another Johnnie / John Strange Winter

25: We'll Never be Rich! / Stephen Vincent Benét

________________

1: On the Film

Richard Marsh

1857-1915

Strand Magazine, March 1916

This is the only photograph of the author that I could find

I DO NOT WISH to say how far a man who is fond of his joke should go, but I do say this— that there is a limit; and when it comes between you and the young lady for whom you are beginning to have feelings of a certain kind then it ceases to be a joke, and the time has come to put your foot down and let them know it.

Look at what happened to Nora and me. I had been making up my mind for the better part of three months, and we had as good as agreed that it could be managed on thirty-five shillings a week, with the early prospect of another five, when, just at that moment, as we were, so to put it, almost within the sound of wedding bells, the blow fell.

It was at a picture-show that the bomb exploded. It costs something to take a young lady about to entertainments of that class, with chocolates to go on with, and maybe an ice to follow, but when the hidden spark in a man's breast bursts into a flame he looks upon sixpence, or even a shilling, practically as if it were nothing at all.

We were in the sixth row— fourpenny seats. We had just seen about a baby what fell over a cliff, and would have been drowned had it not been for what I should describe as a series of miraculous events. We were waiting for the next, and the screen was dark.

"What's coming?" asked Nora, in what you might call a half a whisper, as she put another chocolate into her mouth. It's wonderful how a girl can eat chocolates. I had nearly made up my mind that one day, if I could afford it, I would find out how much Nora really could eat— try it once, if never again. I am of an inquiring turn of mind, I am. I told her what I thought was coming.

"A comic," I said. "You wait and you'll see."

Then Nora did see. "The Kiss that Failed— being the Comical History of the Mistake which Bobby Made."

Of course, Nora fastened on the name immediately— she naturally would.

"Bobby! Your name! Do you see it?"

"Being able to read, and the print large size, I do not see how I can help it, though I'd have you know that my name's not Bobby."

As Miss Dickinson well knew, I was christened Robert. I can put up with Bob, but Bobby is softish, and when it comes to that I draw the line.

"But why?" she asked. "I never can understand. Bobby's as good as Bob; I'm not sure I don't like it better."

Before I could so much as open my lips to reply the picture began. There was thrown upon the screen a man's head, and I felt as if something must have happened to me. A little disturbed I suppose I was by what I will describe as Miss Dickinson's manner, which was perhaps why, directly I saw that head upon the screen, I felt as if someone had knocked the stuffing out of me.

Looking at me was my own face on the screen!

No larks, no humbug, no lies, no nothing— just the truth! There was me sitting in the sixth row of the fourpenny seats, and there was my face staring at me from the screen. No one knows what emotion can be like till a thing happens to him like that.

"Bob!" said Nora, with a gulp which I knew was caused by having swallowed a chocolate whole.

I said nothing. There was nothing to say. If there had been I couldn't have said it. There was a big, round face staring at me from the screen, and though it wasn't by any means a flattering likeness there was no mistaking who it was. I had on a bowler hat, worn a little on one side, as is the latest West-end fashion. I took it off, I tipped the audience a wink, I opened my mouth— widish— I put out my tongue—

I was shocked. I really was positively shocked— I might almost say horrified. I certainly thought Nora Dickinson would have been; instead of which, while I felt that I should have to get up and leave the hall because the manners of that face were so disgusting, she began to snigger, then to litter, then to laugh, and then to roar. But, mind you, so did everybody else. And just because, so far as I could judge, that great head on the screen was pulling the most disgusting faces I have ever seen. Suddenly the head disappeared.

"Oh, Bob!" gasped Nora— she seemed to be in trouble with her breathing. "Did you ever see anything so funny? Isn't it like you?"

The idea of her suggesting that she had ever known me behave as that head had done, especially considering the extra careful way I always had behaved in her presence, was a little too much. But before I could so much as tell her so the real picture began.

There was a sitting-room on the screen. I had a sort of horrid idea that I had seen it somewhere before. Into this sitting-room I came, my hat on my head again, and looking as if I was wondering where I was. Presently a young lady came into the room. She tiptoed to where I was, coming on me from behind. She put her arms round my neck, drew my head backwards, twisted my face round, and she kissed me.

No one who knows me can deny that delicacy is one of my strongest features. Therefore it will be understood how far it is from my wish to brag about the way in which that young lady kissed me. I will merely mention that her lips were still glued to mine when the door at the back of the room was opened again, and a male person entered. I write "male person" because, as will presently be seen, no one who witnessed his behaviour would describe him as coming within a hundred and fifty miles— and I may say farther— of being a gentleman. He was taller than I was, and broader. I may add that generally he was built on coarser lines. His conduct showed it. Instead of pausing, as a sensible person would have done, and asking for an explanation of what was taking place, he came striding; forward, right to the front, and without speaking so much as a single word he raised his hand and struck me full in the face. Once, and then again, and then a third time; at the third blow I went down like an ox that is felled. I never attempted to defend myself, not even by moving so much as a single muscle. That girl, she took her arms away and moved aside, and allowed that ruffian to take pot-shots at me as if I were a mechanical figure. Of course, I went down; anyone would have gone down. with a scoundrel hammering at his face like that. It was a horrible sight. I expected that. Miss Dickinson's blood would have turned cold. The people screamed— with laughter, mind you. as if there was anything funny in seeing a man knocked down as if he were a ninepin— and she screamed with them.

Directly I was down I raised my head and looked round, as if I was wondering where I was, and the people, including Miss Dickinson, screamed again, as if it were the funniest sight they ever had beheld. The young lady spoke to me as if she would offer me sympathy. So soon as she did that the brawny villain took me by the collar of my coat and lifted me on to my feet, and as soon as he had got me on my feet he picked me up with both hands and used me as if I were a football, kicking me through the air right from one side of the room to the other. And just as I got there the door opened a second time, and I came right in the face of another ruffian who thought proper to enter at a moment which was most inconvenient for me. He never stopped to ask me if I had done it on purpose, or how I happened to he there just then; he just let fly at me, first with one fist and then with the other. And he hit me back to the fellow who had kicked me there. That was a pretty game. They kept kicking me back from one to the other as if I were just a plaything. Then a third person entered. and I was thrown against him.

He didn't stop to hit me— nothing of the kind. He just caught me up somehow. dashed with me to the window and dropped me into the street. I came down on a coster's barrow which happened to be passing, face foremost, sending his stock of goods all over the place. He picked me up and threw me at a bus, landing me on the top, bang against a passenger just as he was getting up. He caught me and threw me on the top of a house which was just handy. Some workmen on the roof of the house, not seeming to care for my being there, threw me from one to the other— there seemed to be about a mile of them— till, in their excitement, they brought down the scaffolding on which they were supposed to be working with a crash, with me underneath and all the rest of the traffic— there was a tremendous lot of traffic— pan-technicons, and motorcars, and steam lorries— as well. On the top of the pile there seemed to be about two thousand people. They began to fight with each other, and to hunt for what was underneath. And by degrees they got me out. You never saw such a spectacle as I presented. Then after a second or two the people in the hall, including Miss Dickinson, began to see that it really was me.

There I was, all mud and bruises and blacking, with my clothes all anyhow. And there was the young lady who had kissed me laughing fit to split, as if I had been the cause of the trouble. Then the picture vanished, and just as it was vanishing she stooped forward and kissed me again.

I thought that was the funniest part of it all. When the film had come to an end the people clapped, but not Miss Dickinson. The lights went up and she sat silent. Then she turned to me, and she said, in her very iciest voice— she could be icy, could Nora Dickinson:

"I think, Mr. Parker, if you don't mind, I'll say good night."

She got up from her seat, and before I could stop her she walked down the row of seats in the other direction and left me sitting there. She went so quick that she was almost at the other end before I had a chance to move— and, between ourselves, for about two seconds I had half a mind not to try to move. A young lady who behaved like that was too much for me altogether. I had got to that stage when a man's feelings are too much for his common sense. I could not let her go like that. So up I jumped, and a gentleman beside me wanted to know whose foot I thought I was treading on, and an old lady behind made some remark about my having put my stick almost in her eye. When I reached the street there was no Miss Dickinson in sight, at least not till

I had looked about me for quite a while. Then I saw her about a hundred yards off, looking round as if she might be wondering what had become of me. Then she caught sight of me as soon as I had started after her. She was walking about as hard as ever she could. She gave me a chase. She jumped on a bus, and I got on another just behind her; but her bus went faster than mine, and by the time I reached her house she had gone in and all the lights were out.

I am, I hope, as good at taking a hint as anyone. I had no wish to force myself into a house in which the lights had been put out on purpose. I stood for some seconds at the bottom of the steps, and I what I should have described as glared with what I meant to be something more than scorn and contempt. I walked six times up and down in front of the house and then I went home. By the time I got there I had made up my mind that all was over between us and what was past was gone for ever.

All the next day I never had a word from her— not so much as half a line. When I got home, as I was having supper, my sister, who has not got a grain of what I call tact, must butt in with her silly remarks, and wanted to know what I had been doing to poor dear Nora Dickinson.

"Doing to Nora Dickinson!" I simply echoed her words. I shouldn't wonder if my glance went right through her when I stood up. "I've done with Nora Dickinson for ever. Don't let her name be mentioned in my presence in this house again."

Out into the street I went, full of that sort of scorn which turns a man's whole life sour. As soon as I set foot on the pavement a young lady came towards me from the other side of the way.

"Mr. Parker?" she said, and, mark you, though a perfect stranger to me, she smiled.

"Mr. Parker, junior," I told her, and I raised my hat, I dare say, a little more coldly than I quite meant.

"I have been requested to give you this letter." And she gave me a letter, in a pale blue envelope with a monogram at the back. I knew who it was from the moment I saw it. My impulse was to put it in my pocket, and without so much as a word stride off and leave her standing there. But she wasn't taking any.

"Won't you open that letter, Mr. Parker?" she inquired, when she saw what I was up to. "There may be an answer."

"Do you know who this letter is from?" I demanded.

"I do," she said, with her chin held up— she was not a bad-looking girl. "It's from a friend of mine."

"Then in that case you can tell her—"

I was on the point of observing that she could tell her that all was over between us, but I changed my mind— something in that young lady's attitude made me. I opened the envelope and I read what was in it. "If Mr. Parker has anything to say to Miss Dickinson he will find her waiting for him by the third lamp-post on the right." There wasn't much in it— that was every word there was inside that envelope— but what there was touched me to the heart. I knew Nora Dickinson, and I knew that every time she put pen to paper it cost her an effort to keep from filling the entire sheet. What it must have cost her to content herself with two lines! That was the first time I had ever had a communication from her for which she could find room on a single sheet of paper. I stood and I stared at those two lines, I dare say, longer than I thought, because presently the young lady asked:

"Well, Mr. Parker, is there any answer?"

I looked at her eye to eye— so far as I could see hers through a thick veil and in the gas-light— and I briefly replied:

"I will be there."

I turned on my heel as if to leave the girl once again, but she wouldn't let me. She put her gloved hand upon my sleeve.

"One moment, Mr. Parker," she said. "I will convey your message to my friend. You can follow in a quarter of an hour. I trust to your honour as a gentleman not to thrust yourself upon her until the appointed time. Remember, I— we— trust you."

I don't remember a quarter of an hour in which the fifteen minutes seemed longer. It was rather awkward her asking me to stay where I was. I looked at my watch perhaps a dozen times, and walked off three minutes before the appointed time, going extra slow to make up for it. It was our habit to meet each other in Palmerston Road, at the third lamp-post on the right, and, sure enough, when I got in sight of it I saw her standing there. I perceived that she was not alone, but that another young lady was with her.

"What is the meaning of this?" I asked myself. "Who can the stranger be?"

I strolled slowly forward, and at the proper distance I removed my hat. Miss Dickinson bowed, as did the stranger, but not a word was spoken on either side. It is all very well to stand upon your dignity, but I had soon had enough of that. I held out the note I had received.

"I believe," I remarked, "that you sent me this?"

"I may have done," Miss Dickinson replied, still an iceberg for coolness. "However, I do not wish to act on what I have no doubt are your feelings of remorse. I have asked you to come here because I wished to introduce to you Miss Anderson."

She referred to the young lady at her side. who I now perceived was the one who had brought me her letter. Miss Anderson? Until she lifted her veil I could have declared that I had never seen her in my life before, but when she did that I had a shock— a frightful shock. It was a thick veil, and hung so that it quite hid her face from me. When she lifted it with the fingers of both hands I was amazed.

"Don't say," she remarked, as her veil was going up, "that you have never seen me before. That would be a little too much, Mr. Parker, after all that has passed between us."

The girl's impudence! 'Pon my word, I hardly knew if I was standing on my head or on my heels. The way in which girls do behave nowadays! When I saw who she was it was all I could do to look her in the face. She just smiled at me as if she thought I was a kind of a joke, and she held out her hand. But I didn't take it; I only took off my hat.

"Good evening, Mr. Parker," she said, still all smiles. "I hope you're feeling very well. When I saw you last you were so full of fun."

"Was I?" I told her. "That isn't my recollection. I may have been full of something, but I'll swear it wasn't fun."

"Where," asked Miss Dickinson, in an acid tone, even for her, "did you meet Miss Anderson before? I was not aware that you knew her."

As I looked at one of those young ladies, and then at the other, it came upon me with a sort of flash that there was something up between them. What it was I could not guess. But I had had more than enough of being made the victim of a conspiracy, so I got some of my feelings off my mind then and there.

"Miss Dickinson," I said, "I expect you know as much about this young lady as I do, and perhaps more, since I as good as know nothing about her at all."

"Oh, Mr. Parker!" chipped in Miss Anderson. "After our most romantic meeting, how can you speak like that? After such a chain of interesting adventures!"

"Interesting adventures, you call them!" I exclaimed. "That beats the band! Almost murdered I was, and now you're making fun of me."

"Mr. Parker," asked Miss Dickinson, speaking 'as if something had turned her sour, "what is there between you and this young lady?"

A question like that— from her!— was too much. I did let myself go.

"There is nothing between us— less than 'nothing, as she knows— and I believe you know too. I only saw her once in my life, and then only for a few seconds— and I don't want to see her again. Yes, Miss Anderson, you must pardon me if I say so to your face. What took place between us two was not of a kind to cause me to desire to continue your acquaintance. I'm sorry, but there it is." Then I turned to Nora and let her have it. "As for you. Miss Dickinson, I can't help feeling that there is a conspiracy against me. Good evening. Miss Dickinson— and goodbye."

I swung round on my heels and off I started. Just as I was starting I heard Miss Dickinson's voice.

"Bobby!" Then "Bob!" But I paid not the slightest attention either to one name or the other. Then Miss Anderson said, as if she were trying not to speak too loud:

"Mr. Parker! Oh, how can you?"

But I still paid no attention, and off I went.

Then there came Miss Dickinson's voice again:

"Bob! Oh, Bob, I do want to speak to you!"

She nearly shouted, and it sounded to me as if she wasn't far off crying. That did go through me, the idea that she wasn't far from that. I went so far as to turn and put to her a question.

"Did you speak to me, Miss Dickinson?"

There was nothing sour about the way in which she answered, and nothing could have been milder.

"Yes, Bob. I did. If you wouldn't mind, there are a few words I'd rather like to say to you."

For a moment— for one harrowing moment— I, as it were, swung in the balance. Then I caught sight of Miss Anderson's face and I saw the grin which was on it, and that settled the question. I was not going to stop there. After what she had done already I wasn't going to let her take another rise out of me, so I lifted my hat, I stood up straighter, and I crushed Miss Dickinson.

"If, as you say, there are a few words which you wish to say to me, I shall be obliged if you'll put them into writing and let me have them in the form of a letter, which shall have my due consideration."

That was a stinger. I realized as I walked away that it was perhaps more of a stinger than I had meant it to be— that is, as far as Miss Dickinson was concerned, though I should have liked to have had it twice as much of a stinger for Miss Anderson. Every time I thought of her, as they say in the books, I saw red. And that Miss Dickinson should have got herself into a conspiracy with her— that was too much— it really was.

That was a troubled night, that one, for me— the second troubled night. And it was worse than the first. I thought of Nora Dickinson left there standing beneath the lamp-post, calling out to me as if she were very nearly crying, and me marching off like a statue of scorn, with my head in the air, as hard as the nether millstone. She was in my head a good part of the next day, and her presence there didn't seem to make my temper sweeter.

Just as I was thinking of going out to lunch, who should come in but Nora's brother Fred. He was all right— I am bound to admit that Fred Dickinson always is— talking as if, so far as he knew, there was nothing the least bit wrong with anything in the world.

"Halloa, Bobby! Whoa, old war-horse! Who goes a-hunting today? About time for the grub stakes, isn't it? Suppose you enter for them along o' me? I don't know where you take your little bit of corn, but I know one which leaves it at the post. I'll have a tanner on it, and leave it to you to say whether I win or lose."

A regular sportsman, Fred is. That's the way he goes on talking all the time. The sound of his voice does me good. We went out together. We both had boiled beef with dumplings. A better bit of meat, tender and juicy, I never want to put my teeth to. We were having some cheese when Fred came, in the way of conversation, to what I knew he had been getting to all the while.

"Bob," he began— he put both elbows on the table, with a piece of cheese in one hand and a crust in the other— "what's up between you and Nora? Mind you, I don't wish to interfere in your affairs or anyone's, but I have been hearing stories which made me think that you haven't been so well treated as you might have been."

"No, Fred," I said, "I have not. You can take that from me."

"What's this I'm told about Tommy Bashford?"

"Can't say, Fred. Couldn't say positively what you've heard. But I can tell you this— that one day, before the world is very much older, Mr. T. Bashford will get his nose pulled."

"Got more than your nose pulled, didn't you, Bobby?"

When Fred Dickinson said that I could have got up out of my chair and, having paid the bill— one-and-eightpence my share came to— more than I usually spend— walked out of the restaurant and left him there.

"Don't be shirty, Bob; don't let yourself be put out by little things, but play the man. It isn't everyone who has the same ideas as you have." Then he leaned forward, and he looked at me. "I went to the Walham Green movies last night— you know what I mean."

I did know what he meant. It was at the Walham Green picture palace that I had seen that ridiculous picture, "The Kiss That Failed." I said to Dickinson— I spoke earnestly, as it were from the bottom of my heart:

"Tell me what you think of it; that's what I ask you to do. Speaking as one man to another, what did you think of it?"

I wasn't altogether pleased to see the way Fred Dickinson took my question. A grin spread all over his face.

"Funniest thing I ever saw," he said.

That took me a little aback. It wasn't at all the sort of thing I expected from him, considering that there was something like tragedy in my very voice, to say nothing of my manner. I leaned back and I looked at him— steady.

"Funny, is it? And that's your idea of funny!"

"Think what you looked like. Think of some of those faces you pulled. And, mind you, it was you— to the life. Bob, I thought I should have died; I never thought you had it in you. Every time I think of it, it starts me off again."

He proved his words by nearly choking himself with a mouthful of bread and cheese. Everyone looking at him must have thought there was something wrong. He hadn't properly got his breath back when he started off again.

"And when you come into that sitting-room, looking as if you had no more sense than a rabbit, and that girl comes in and kisses you, your face— the look which is on it— to one like me who knows you— my boy, it's a screamer!"

He made that plain by "screaming"— I suppose he would have called it "screaming"— right then and there. I called it disgusting behaviour in a public restaurant, that's what I called it. One gentleman in a black frock-coat, who I take it was the proprietor, came towards us. I thought he was going to put us out— straight, I did; I shouldn't have been a bit surprised either. But I had expected something better of Fred Dickinson.

"Oh, Bob!" he went on, as it were between his gasps. "The way the girl kissed you, and you not expecting it, and not knowing what to do— oh, lor, oh, lor! I shall have a pain in the side every time I think of it. And then when Bill Mulholland turned up?"

"Who's Bill Mulholland?" It was I who put that question.

"That's the bloke that came into the room while the girl was kissing you. Didn't you know him?"

"No, I did not know him. And I didn't want to know him. Is it likely?"

"Why, I thought from the style in which he treated you that he was an old pal of yours. When, without asking any questions, he started by knocking you down, and treated you as if you were a football, and the other chap threw you out of the window—"

I stopped Fred Dickinson, and I made one point clear to him before the misunderstanding went any farther.

"One moment, Fred, before you go any farther, if you please. Do you suppose that was me he threw out of the window?"

"I don't suppose it can have been, but it was jolly well done."

"Well done! Do you imagine I would have allowed anyone to throw me out of a window? The whole thing was a fake, a common bare-faced fake."

"Maybe, but it's a jolly funny fake all the same."

"That's a question of opinion. Some people have their own ideas of what is funny, and there's no discussing them. But don't you sit there and imagine for a single moment that it really was me who was handled as I seemed to be handled in that rotten film. I was never knocked down in my life, either by Bill Mulholland or anyone else. You know me, Fred Dickinson. Do you think I'm the sort of man who would let himself be treated like that?"

"Well, it did seem to be a bit of a staggerer, I admit; but if it wasn't you—"

"If! There's no 'if' about it. That's where the fake began. No one laid so much as a finger on me. How it was done I can't tell you, but I'm going to find out before I've finished. I never saw your Bill Mulholland in all the days of my life."

I leaned right over the table so that he could hear my words quite clearly without my having to raise my voice.

"Fred, I admit to you, as between man and man, that that young lady kissed me; before I had a chance to ask what the deuce she meant by it, she ran for her life, and I've never seen her again till last night, when— goodness knows how it came about— she was with your sister. They must have had a dummy to take my place. I don't know what kind of a dummy, but they must have had some kind of a one. It was a dummy they threw out of the window. It was a dummy which came down on the coster's barrow. I suppose it was a dummy they picked up and threw on the top of a bus. Was it likely to be me? If it wasn't a dummy I don't know what it was that was on the roof of the house. And what do you imagine it was that the workmen threw from one to the other till they brought down the scaffolding, and it got buried in a whole streetful of traffic? Do you mean to sit there and tell me you thought it was me? I look as if I'd been at the bottom of a 'pile' like you saw on the film, don't I?"

"I don't know what you look like. I know what I saw with my own eyes, or what I thought I saw."

"What you thought you saw!" I rose from that table, walked out of the restaurant, and left him still sitting. At the door, just as I was going out, I met Jack Hammond. I suppose what had happened between Fred and me had put my back up enough already, because the sight of him was the finishing touch. He addressed me as if we were on terms of the greatest intimacy. Considering all things, that was about the top brick.

"Halloa, Bob, my squire of dames! What's the time of day in your part of the world?"

I made no reply; I opened the door of the restaurant; he went in and I went after him.

"You'll find Fred Dickinson sitting over there," I told him, "and I expect he'll be pleased to see you." Fred Dickinson hailed me as I reached his table with Hammond.

"Halloa, Bob Parker, you're back again! Have you asked Hammond what he thinks of that picture?"

"It was because of Hammond that that picture was taken. I'm going to give him something which will help him not to forget it."

I up with my fists and I gave Jack Hammond first the left and then the right on the tip of his nose. If anyone had told me, only that morning, that I should have behaved like that in any circumstances whatever I should have told him that he did not know Bob Parker. I didn't know him myself, and I'm sure it was a surprise to Hammond. He stepped backwards against a gentleman who was having his sweets. He got mixed up with him, and he came down backwards with his head in his rice-pudding. Then there was a pretty to-do. Hammond sang out something, Dickinson jumped up— pretty nearly everyone jumped up.

"Bob," cried Fred, "whatever do you mean by doing a thing like that?"

"Hammond knows what I mean. Jack Hammond pretends to be a friend of mine. It was through him that I went to that picture studio, where they take the films they are going to exhibit. It was just an ordinary room, with nothing in it, only some cameras about. 'You stand up there, Bob,' said Jack to me, 'and take your hat off; we'll get some pictures of you.' So I stood up, and then he said, 'Pull faces; it will make it funnier.' I didn't know what he meant, but I did as he said. 'That'll do,' he presently remarked. 'Now stand still and keep your eyes front.' I had no idea what the game was, and I had no idea that he was playing a low-down dirty trick on me. So I stood up and I stared. I was still at it when someone came up behind, and— I can only say to my amazement— a lady's arm was put round my neck, and before I knew what was going to happen a lady started kissing me. She had got her arm so tight round my neck that I couldn't get away. When I did wrench myself loose I looked round and caught my first glimpse of her; and when she saw me look at her she turned tail and ran away. That, Fred Dickinson, you can tell your sister, was the beginning and the end of that picture, and I personally had nothing to do with whatever happened afterwards. For further particulars apply to Mr. Jack Hammond. Perhaps when he has recovered from his little accident he may be able to explain to you how it came to be developed into the 'Giant Comic' which you saw last night. If Mr. Hammond has anything which he wishes to say to me, he knows where I am to be found, either today or at any other time he chooses."

I tell you I made a bit of a sensation— what do you think? As for Hammond, he seemed too surprised to do anything, even to speak. And the same with Fred Dickinson. He was just helping Hammond to pick himself up when I took myself off— that time for good.

That was one of the days of my life, I don't mind admitting it. The story got about how I had knocked Jack Hammond's head into a gentleman's rice pudding. I fancy Dickinson said something to him, and he said something to Dickinson. I did hear that the gentleman made him pay fourpence for the rice-pudding— and that's how it began. I am told that before the day was through the whole air was full of tales which were being told about me— all because I had knocked Hammond's head into that gentleman's rice-pudding.

How things like that get about so quickly I don't know. They knew at the office; the people there treated me with a civility which did them credit. But the thing must have got farther than the office, because, when I got home, the first thing after I'd set my nose inside the door Louisa gave me an envelope, with what I should describe as very nearly a wink.

"She brought it herself this afternoon, and she asked me to give it you the very first moment you came in. So you've been knocking people's heads into other people's rice-pudding. Nice goings-on, I must say; you're a pretty sort, Bob Parker."

I took the envelope up to my bedroom, where I could count on being alone, and I opened it. This is what I found inside:

My Dear Bob— Do, do forgive me, please. I can't tell you how ashamed I am of treating you so badly— I am a wretch. But I'm so glad you knocked Jack Hammond into the rice-pudding. I don't deserve that you should ever speak to me again, but if you would try to meet me tonight, as usual, just for five minutes, I would beg your pardon. I know what a generous heart you have, and I will try to show you that I have been more sinned against than sinning. May I sign myself, once more, if for the last time, my dear Bob, yours, N. D.

That was what was inside the envelope. I call that a letter which would move any man who was a man to the very depths of his being. If I ever moved more quickly towards that third lamp-post on the right, I don't remember when.

She was there, though I was in advance of the usual time. I scarcely like to say more. There have been little gives and takes since then, I own it, but that was of the nature of a sacred meeting, and, as such, it lingers in my mind. We settled everything that night— every blessed thing. In six months it was to be, that we finally arranged. Thirty shillings, or thirty-five shillings, whichever it might be, that made no difference— the actual date was practically fixed.

To show what a practical nature she has, in the midst of our most romantic moments, I may mention that just after there had been passages between us of what I might describe as an unusually private nature she switched off without the least apparent effort to what was quite a different theme.

"Do you know, Bob," she said, "I've been wondering if you couldn't get anything out of those picture people— damages, I mean."

"It's an extraordinary fact," I told her, "but I've been wondering the same thing myself. It shows how minds, when they're in true sympathy, move in unison."

"Oh, Bob!" she whispered. It happened that she had her hand in mine, and— well, there was a passage. Then the conversation went on, she, as it were, picking up the ball which she had started.

"I've been thinking things over. Jack Hammond owns that when you went to that studio you never went meaning to be taken."

"Of course I didn't. I had no more idea of it than a babe unborn. Jack said to me, 'I know a place where they take pictures. A pal of mine is one of the operators. Come in and have a look at it.' So in I went, innocent as a child."

"So when he asked you to stand up and pull faces you had no idea he meant to make a picture of you?"

"Of course I hadn't; is it likely? Am I the sort of person who might be expected to make a fool of myself for a lot of silly idiots to look at? What was I going to get out of it, do you think?"

"That's it— what were you going to get out of it? And then that girl came in— Miss Anderson— bold-faced thing!"

"She did, and she kissed me. There's no blinking the fact."

"I say it was assault. You didn't ask her to kiss you, did you?"

"Nora! Am I the sort of person who would be likely to do a thing like that?"

"Then I say it was an outrage. I believe she could be punished. I remember reading about a gentleman who kissed a lady in the street, a perfect stranger to him, and got three months' hard labour."

"I don't know about three months' hard labour," I said. Nora's tone was more positive than mine was.

"I dare say you don't, but I do. Hussy! She deserves to smart. Anyhow, the film people could be made to pay damages, I feel sure of it, for turning the disgusting exhibition into a picture, without asking your permission. I expect they made heaps of money out of it themselves. I do think you ought to get some."

"That's what I can't help thinking myself."

"Bringing you into contempt, being kissed in a place of public entertainment, and making you look like a fool."

"What followed was what I object to most." I was warming up to the thing like she was. "Making out that I allowed myself to be knocked down as if I were a ninepin, as if I didn't dare to try and defend myself."

"As if you were a coward." Again Nora pressed my hand. "The way you knocked Jack Hammond's head into that man's rice-pudding proves how much truth there is in any suggestion that you're wanting in proper spirit."

"And then the idea of me being thrown out of a window!"

"I call that nothing else than libellous."

"And being knocked about in a public thoroughfare as if I were something less than a bag of straw— me, whose sense of dignity is as strong as any man's! These film gentlemen have tried their hands on me, so I'll try mine on them, and we'll see what we shall see."

Nora stood still facing me; she put both her hands upon my shoulders— there didn't happen to be much light there— and she said:

"I do believe there's more in you than anyone ever dreamt. Look at the way you treated Jack Hammond. If only you could make those picture people smart, wouldn't it be splendid?"

That was on the Thursday evening. On the Tuesday evening following, when I met Nora as usual, the first remark I made to her was— or very nearly the first remark, after, of course, the usual preliminaries:

"Nora, I've had an offer from the British Cinematographic Polyscopic Company."

She turned to me, and she stared.

"Bob, whatever are you talking about? The British— what did you call the company? Whatever is that?"

"That's the film people, that's who that is. This afternoon, just as I was back from dinner, a friendly young fellow came into the office. He said, 'Mr. Parker?' and before I could stop him he was shaking my hand as though he'd like to shake it off. 'Pleased to have the pleasure of meeting you,' he said. 'I'm Godfrey King. I represent the British Polyscopic Company. That picture of yours is the finest stroke of humour I ever met. It made me laugh, Mr. Parker.'  'Glad to hear it, Mr. King,' I told him. 'Have you brought damages as requested?'  'Damages!' he sniggered. 'You really are too funny, Mr. Parker.— Because your own friend had a little joke with you.'  'Everyone has their own ideas of joking,' I told him. 'I'll see the fun of this joke when I see the colour of your money.' I went on to explain that it was my business time, and I'd be obliged if he'd take himself off if he wasn't going to talk business. 'But,' he wanted to know, 'what damages can you possibly claim?'  'For one thing,' I told him, 'I nearly lost my young lady.'"

"Oh, Bob, did you really tell him that? What a dear you are!"

"I did tell him that, straight out, and that brought him to the point. That showed him I was in earnest. The long and the short of it was that before he went he made me a firm offer for five-and-twenty pounds."

"Five-and-twenty pounds? Bob! Have you got the money?"

"No, I have not got the money, and that for the simple reason that I wouldn't accept his offer. I told him that I wouldn't accept a farthing less than fifty, and that before twelve o'clock tomorrow morning. And, mind you, I shall get it, or he'll be sorry. Raymond Wilson, the chap who sits at the next desk to me, was once in a solicitor's office himself. He told me that the firm he was with would take my case up on spec, and he felt sure they'd guarantee me a hundred pounds. I gave Mr. Godfrey King a hint of what Wilson had told me, and you should have seen his face, I shall be surprised if that fifty pounds isn't in my hands before the time I mentioned."

"Fifty pounds! Do you really and truly mean it? Why, that will very nearly buy us a home."

"It will buy us enough of a home to start with. I'll get some catalogues from the furniture people. I saw only the other day something about a home being fully furnished for fifty pounds."

"It's too good to dream of. I shan't dare to think of it before everything's settled."

"That's the proper way to look at it, Nora. I can only say I hope to let you have the news in the morning."

IN THE morning Miss Dickinson had a telegram:

FIFTY POUNDS PAID. HAVE GOT THREE CATALOGUES. – BOB PARKER

________________

2: Narcotic Man

Frederick C. Painton

1896-1945

Popular Detective March 1936

Frederick C Painton

Painton served in WW1 with the US Expeditionary Force; his son, also Frederick C Painton, was a war correspondent in WW2.

1:  Florida Night

IN the utter blackness that preceded moonrise, a small ship's dinghy with muffled oars rowed silently from the flat green key called Laudermer, halfway between Miami and Key West. A thousand yards off-shore the lights of a palatial yacht gleamed warm and friendly, and the man in the stern sheets eyed it enviously, and dreamed of a time he would own such a craft.

The Japanese sailor rowed steadily and presently brought the dinghy alongside the ladder. The passenger mounted swiftly and strode aft where cushioned chairs and lounges inside mosquito netting made a cool spot to rest. A tall arrogant man in spotless white flannels, clutching a drink in his left hand, stared with hard, flaming eyes at the newcomer.

"Anybody spot you, Speed?" His voice was hard, too, brazen with the note of command.

Speed Carstairs put back the hand he had held out.

"You oughta know better than ask that," he rejoined. Without being invited he sat down, and licked his lips. "I could do with a Tom Collins," he muttered.

Bleak Bonner summoned a Jap servitor and ordered the drink.

"All right," he said, "you got down here without being spotted. Swell! Did you have Mason Barr bumped off?"

"Sure, and Red, too." Speed Carstairs laughed thinly. "Geez, Bleak, Red was a scream. He never knew he was being taken for a ride until I put the heater under his nose."

The Jap came with the drink, and he waited until the man had retired.

Carstairs smiled again, his eyes slitted. "Red gives a yell and says, 'God, you ain't doin' this to me. I ain't never done anything but play straight with Bleak.' "

He sipped his drink. Bleak Bonner, lips flat and cruel, waved an impatient hand. "Get on with it."

"Well, like you said, I told him e was being bumped because he sold the junk to Mason Barr. And the dumb cluck didn't get it even then. I had to explain to him that you had him down here to go to Cuba and buy morphine and not to sell it. And selling it to a rich kid like Barr, uncut, was just like telling the G-men we were in the dope business."

Carstairs drank again and smacked his lips with relish. "Well, Red says, 'I only made one mistake like that.' And I says, 'one's enough,' and let him have it. I dumped his body out in Van Cortlandt Park and there was never a police kick-back."

STILL Bleak Bonner did not relax. In all his years of smuggling this was the first slip-up and his cunning mind wanted to be sure he was not involved. He had made two million dollars running dope and had yet to see the inside of a jail.

"Did the G-men get to him before you shut him up?" he asked.

"Hell, no! I glommed him the minute he stepped off the train from Miami."

"Good enough." Bleak Bonner permitted himself a mirthless smile. "Now, about Mason Barr— did you follow my orders?"

"Posilutely," grinned Carstairs in open admiration. "And there's another laugh. It's rich, I tell you. Mason Barr died while he was talking to that G-man, Duffy Kildare. The way I put it together is this: when Barr's mother got after him to lay off the drug, she learned that he had bought the stuff here. You knew that; that's why you wanted Barr bumped. Well, the kid sends for the G-man, Kildare, and he comes. The kid is nuts for a shot of junk. Like you told me I gave him the poison deck. So while the G-man is looking on, the kid loads his syringe and pushes the plunger."

Carstairs found that funny and laughed heartily. "And by God, with Kildare watching him, the cyanide of potassium kills him in five minutes. And those stupid clucks are wondering yet how we got to him."

To his surprise the joke didn't strike Bleak Bonner as funny. He jumped to his feet and began to pace the deck.

"There was a slip there," he muttered. "Carstairs, you didn't get at Barr soon enough. He told Kildare he bought that junk right here in Laudermer."

"Naw? On the level?"

"Do you think I'd rib at a time like this?" snarled Bonner. "Duffy Kildare is in Laudermer— has been here for a week."

Carstairs put down his drink with a crash. "My God, Kildare here— in Florida? That means he's onto our scheme." He turned pale.

"No, he isn't." Bonner shook his head. "But he suspects we're running morphine from Cuba in here. He doesn't know how. More important, he doesn't know how we get it north to New York." Bonner's arrogant eyes flashed contemptuously. "And he'll never know that. I defy any G-man to uncover that scheme."

"Right," said Carstairs. "But listen, Bleak, we ought to give him the works before he uncovers anything at all."

Bonner returned to his chair and sank back. "I'd thought about that," he went on in a calmer voice, "but it's no dice. Not yet anyway."

"Why?"

"I've been having him watched," said Bonner. "And if he gets too hot why, we'll put the heat on him and pull out. But listen"— he leaned forward tensely— "listen, Speed, I've got a half million bucks worth of morphine ashore tonight. The biggest lot I've ever shipped. If it gets through I stand to clean a million. And if I get that I'm stopping— quitting— going to the Riviera or some place and enjoy my dough."

"A half million," Carstairs repeated in awe. "Geez, you lay it heavy on the line."

"I'm running it out tonight," said Bonner. "So unless Kildare interferes with that shipment I'm letting him alone."

Carstairs drained his drink. He shivered and his face was slightly pale. "A big risk, Chief. Kildare's smart. He's the best the G's got."

"He isn't as smart as I am," said Bonner contemptuously. "He—"

He broke off sharply and again jumped to his feet. "Martha!" he cried. "What are you doing here?"

A girl, slim, dripping with water that made her thin dress cling softly to the lovely lines of her figure, came across the deck like some mermaid arisen from the sea. She had piles of yellow hair, straight blue eyes and even now she was beautiful enough to make Carstairs breathe appreciation.

Carstairs laughed. "Bleak, you sure supply all the comforts of home. If she's for me—"

"Shut up!" snapped Bonner. He smiled at the girl, trying to keep the hard mercilessness from his face. "Martha, you didn't swim through that water! Why the sharks, the barracuda—"

"I came that way because if any one in Laudermer knew I was on this yacht alone with you they'd kill you tomorrow," she rejoined calmly. She regarded him fearlessly, her rounded breast rising and falling with her swift breathing.

"Well," laughed Bonner, "at least let me get you a robe, and have your clothes dried."

"I'm warm enough, and I don't intend to stay," she told him. "I came to tell you that unless you let my brother alone I'm going to the police with what I know about you."

Mentioning her brother, Martha Harmon's voice faltered. She loved her brother, adored him. They were twins, and between them was a psychic bond that made one's happiness the other's. This trouble that made him fearful, made her fearful. To save her brother Billy from this unknown rich man who had threatened him, she had swum the perilous water.

The smile was wiped off Carstairs' face. And even the supremely arrogant Bleak Bonner grew grim.

"You know nothing about me, Martha," he said.

"I know you're a crook," she said,

"I know that you've got Billy involved in a most horrible business—  innocently involved. And when he found out the truth and wanted to quit, you threatened to murder him. He told me that today. He had just found out what a frightful beast you are. Selling drugs to people to kill them." She shuddered. "You're worse than a beast— you're not fit to live!"

Carstairs and Bonner exchanged glances. Carstairs' hand vanished inside his coat where a gun was hol- stered.

"And so," Bonner said softly— too softly, "you risked your life to swim out here and tell me you knew I was a narcotic smuggler and to leave your brother alone."

HER lips tightened. "Yes, I did just that. And to get your promise to let him go away tomorrow and not to harm him. If you do that I shan't say anything to the police."

"Considerate of you," said Bonner. "Very well, I promise to leave him alone after tomorrow. Does that suit you?"

Her tense lovely face did not relax. "Yes, that's all. I'll go now."

She turned silently toward the taff- rail over which she had clambered. Bonner's eyes found Carstairs' snake orbs and he nodded. Swift as a cat Carstairs leaped for the girl. He clapped one hand over her mouth, held her helpless with the other. Bonner disappeared for a second and returned with a rope and gag. He bound her thoroughly himself.

"I'm afraid, my dear Martha," he sneered, "that despite the conventions, you'll have to stay on this boat until tomorrow— perhaps many tomorrows after that."

The two men took the limp girl down to the main owner's cabin and locked her in. They returned to the deck with black looks.

Carstairs snarled: "You're in a jam, Bonner! This brother of hers — what does he do?"

"He's the front for running the junk," glumly said Bonner. "I in-tended to bump him before I left. Nothing rough. A chain tied to him and thrown overboard beyond Moccasin Reef. I'm not fretting about him. It's her."

Carstairs grinned evilly. "You could take her to Cuba. They like white girls there."

Bonner smiled. "So they do. But I"— he stared pensively at Carstairs—"I sort of like her myself." He stirred uneasily. "Met her when I took on her brother for a front. I played on the level. Speed. She's got what those other women haven't. Well," he sighed, "I'll have to think about how she can be arranged. She—"

A sharp yell rang out from amidships. A shot roared and a shrill scream followed.

Bleak Bonner leaped up, his face blanched yellow. Carstairs hit the deck with a snub-nosed automatic in his hand.

"What's that?" he snarled.

Bonner shook his hand. A pearl- handled automatic was gripped in his right hand.

"Something's screwy, Carstairs, but by God, I'm telling you I'll shoot my way to selling that half-million load of junk north! They'll not stop me! Come on!"

Stealthily they moved, yet hurriedly, toward the spot from whence the scream had come.

2: Midnight Attack

DUFFY KILDARE came down through the late afternoon sun to the Laudermer station of the Florida East Coast Railroad. On a siding were a dozen cattle cars and the air was furious with the sounds of baaing, as frightened sheep were forced from a corral into the cars. Three Negroes were urging them on with whips.

They glared suspiciously at Kildare as he passed them. So, too, did the young man in riding boots who apparently was supervising the loading. Even the stationmaster stared with dislike at Kildare as he asked for his telegram.

It had been that way during the entire week, an active yet passive hatred. It was making Kildare's mission doubly difficult, for he could get no aid from these crackers. They were all fishermen, native conchs, and they were all bootleggers of liquor from Bimini, Nassau, and Cuba when chance offered. They feared and hated any outsider.

"Yeah, they's a telegram," said the stationmaster, "but it don't make no sense to me."

"That's too bad," said Kildare, putting out a freckled, red-haired hand for it. "The next time I'll tell them to use words you know."

The stationmaster did not get the satire. He grunted, deliberately turned his back. Kildare stood for a space, holding the coded message. In three years four million dollars worth of dope had come through this section to be distributed around the United States, making crooks and suicides, murderers and broken hearts. He loathed narcotic runners. He had given all his clever brain to this task, and so far he had but one clue and that not a good one. One little clue and the presence of a palatial yacht named the Pledicum that should not be here in the hurricane season.

He sighed silently and mentally decoded the telegram. It was from Richard Carle, bureau chief of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in New York under whom Kildare was working.

RED BISHOP'S BODY FOUND VAN CORTLANDT PARK STOP TWENTY DECKS UNCUT HEROIN FOUND SEWN IN HIS CLOTHES STOP FLORIDA TAN AND TICKET STUB STOP LAUDERMER IS WHERE DOPE IS COMING IN STOP ARE YOU TAKING A VACATION OR WHAT I WANT RESULTS AND QUICK.

CARLE.

Kildare swore and ripped the telegram to pieces.

"Eight other agents tried to crack this case and flopped," he muttered, "and he wants me to walk in and break it in a week."

Nonetheless, he was disturbed. The murder of Red Bishop closed out the hope the G-men had of getting another clue to the head of the narcotic ring. It put the case right up to Kildare.

With no other clue his mind went back to the yacht. Bleak Bonner was aboard it. Rumors were thick about Bonner. His income tax statements showed money made in the stock market. But the stock market records showed money lost. Where, then, was he getting his money?

On a sudden impulse Kildare walked over to the youth in the white linens who was watching the loading of the cars.

"They tell me you've got an outboard motor and a row boat I can rent, Harmon," he said. "I'll pay you ten dollars a day."

The youth, good-looking in a sullen way, scowled. "I don't want to rent it," he said briefly.

Always this surly rebuff from the natives. Young Bill Harmon looked as if he had more sense than the rest, seemed hardly the type to be mixed up in rum running. But he, too, suspected an outsider. Why?

"Your sister has a boat— how about hers?" Kildare asked.

"You quit talking about my sister," cried the youth in sudden passion. "She don't want anything to do with you. I don't want her talking to you any more, or taking walks."

His sudden rage surprised Kildare, but only for a moment. Martha Harmon and this boy were twins. Between. them was almost jealous love and sensitiveness. He saw also the sullen unhappiness of the boy. Could he be mixed in this case somewhere?

It was something to speculate about, at any rate. At the moment, his mind made up to slip aboard the yacht and have a talk with Bleak Bonner, he went in search of a small boat. By the time he found one, it was after dark and the moaning wind presaged a storm.

The old conch said: "Twenty dollars a day, suh, and I don't care a damn if you rent her or not. What you-all want with her anyways. 'Tain't no time for fishin'."

"Maybe I want to look at the ocean in the moonlight," Kildare grinned.

"Well, you-all won't look twice, no suh. That wind don't sound like you'll go far."

"That's my business," said Kildare shortly. He took his seat in the stern, wound the cranking rope around the outboard motor top, and yanked it. The motor, for a wonder, caught at once, and with his hand on the tiller, he set off through the darkness toward Moccasin Creek off the mouth of which the yacht lay moored.

When he neared the key in the lee of which the yacht was anchored, he shut off the outboard, took the single oar and with that guided the boat along the tide flow so that presently the yacht's bow loomed over him.

HE floated to her as silently as the water itself. Just as silently, he made the painter fast to the anchor chain and let the boat drift until it bumped gently against the yacht's side. By reaching up he could just grasp the scuppers. He made some noise, drawing himself up, but it apparently went unheard, for when he stood, a moment later, on the deck, he could hear no sound save the soft music of a radio aft.

In the darkness he grinned at the temerity of his plan. Though he realized how desperate it was.

"I haven't got a thing on Bonner," he told himself, peering into the darkness. "He can shoot me dead for invading his privacy this way without a search warrant. But if my hunch is right he won't, and the last words that poor devil Mason Barr spoke may make this guy show his hand."

Those last words of Mason Barr, before he was murdered by pumping cyanide of potassium into his own veins, were Kildare's single clue. That and his knowledge that Bonner was arrogant, egotistical, a man believing fully in himself.

He went forward catlike, until, past the bridge, he found a companionway. Gun in hand, he stole softly toward midships. Abruptly, out of the galley, stepped the Jap valet. The Jap gave a startled yell.

Then, as Kildare raised his gun, the man, instead of putting up his hands, yelled and charged. Deliberately Kildare fired over the valet's head and as the Jap plunged at him he brought his left hand around in a pivoting hook that smashed the fist sharply against the Jap's jaw. The valet went down and never moved.

KILDARE pocketed his pistol and strode toward the owner's deck aft. He ran straight into Bleak Bonner and Carstairs, coming on the run with drawn guns.

"Raise 'em!" snarled Carstairs.

"Sure," Kildare grinned. "How are you, Speed? You, too, Bonner?"

Bleak Bonner's face was pale, and little muscles along his jaw line quivered.

"Duffy Kildare!" he muttered.

"Why not?" murmured Kildare. He held his hands up while Bonner, making sure not to get in the line of fire, took away the G-man's automatic.

It was a minute or so before Bonner regained his composure. Kildare stood there bland, impassive. He was making his bluff; it now remained to see who called.

"You've no right aboard here, you know that," snarled Bonner.

"Just looking for dope," said Kildare, easily. "By the Lord, Bonner, I've got to hand it to you. Whatever your scheme for running, it's foolproof. This was just a last desperate gamble I took— coming here to look over this yacht myself. I might have known that a guy with your brain wouldn't have junk aboard his own boat."

Bonner was rapidly regaining his confidence. He even smiled, but in a deadly way.

"Come on aft," he invited. "I'll buy a drink."

Carstairs stared at his boss, whispered in an aside: "God, Chief, have you gone nuts?"

"Shut up," snarled Bonner, "I'm handling this."

He led the way to the soft divans so luscious in the cool of the evening breeze.

Kildare sank down on one. "You do yourself well, Bonner," he murmured. "I wonder how many murders, suicides and robberies your morphine caused that you can afford to live like this."

"I suppose," said Bonner, easily, "that you are acquainted with the word, 'libel'?"

"Yeah?" Kildare lit a cigarette. He glanced up. "By the way, Bonner, that was a clever way you had to kill Mason Barr. And Carstairs, your chief gun, did a good job on Red. No clues at all."

"Who says anything like that?" snarled Bonner. He sat, watchful, but Kildare, looking into the man's eyes, read an uncertainty. Bonner didn't know how to take this, he couldn't make up his mind what should be his next move. Kildare decided to help him.

"Too bad you didn't kill Barr earlier. He gave the play away."

"That's a lie! He couldn't give away anything that isn't so."

"No?" Kildare leaned suddenly forward, mouth flat, eyes flaming.

"All right," he ripped. "He didn't know anything, eh? Well, what did he mean by crying, as he was dying, 'Wool! Wool!' He should have given that cyanide by mouth, Bonner, not by hypodermic. That was a slight error— he could speak two words."

Bonner bounded from his chair. The gun in Carstairs' hand wobbled.

"He said that?" cried Bonner.

"I'm telling you."

Kildare leaned back nonchalantly. He had pulled his bluff and he hadn't been called. Young Barr, in his dying tremors had cried, "Wool," but the word had meant nothing to Kildare. It didn't mean anything to him now. But it meant something to Bonner! And Kildare was certain these two rats suspected him of nowing more than he did. His bluff had worked.

Bonner's fingernails drummed on the chair. "Then you were lying when you said you didn't know how I ran the dope— eh? This is a pinch?"

"It's a pinch," nodded Kildare. "Narcotic smuggling. Life for you in Atlanta instead of on this yacht, Bonner. I've got a boat moored forward. We can all three go in that."

He rose to his feet, grinning at Carstairs. "Shooting a G-man is hanging, Speed. Better put up the rod."

Calmly he backed toward the short steps that led to the forward runway, wondering what he would do if they actually did tamely surrender.

He had no proof except their tacit admissions.

Helplessly Carstairs looked at Bonner, his finger quivering on the trigger. But Kildare had guessed right. Bonner broke.

He came bounding out of his chair, seized Kildare's arms and held them tightly.

"Tie him, Speed," he panted. "By God, I know what we can do."

Kildare struggled, but the two men, both powerful and desperate, bore him down. A moment later he was securely bound. They picked him up by head and heels and carried him down to the cabin.

"Tell Mike to get under way at once!" shouted Bonner.

"Why? Why not give it to him now?" cried Speed Carstairs.

"You sap! Do as I say! We'll drop him on one of the uninhabited keys the way the smugglers used to do with the Chinese when the coast guard cutters caught them. He'll die there quickly enough."

Bonner stepped back, smiling very cruelly. "You spoke your piece, Kildare. You know what wool means. Well, tell it to the sea gulls on a lonesome key." He laughed. "There isn't even fresh water on some of those keys and you'll be a few days dying."

3 Kildare Moves

KILDARE was stuffed into a berth in a lall cabin. His bonds hurt, and he was bitterly aware of the capstan forward taking up the anchor. He had time now to weigh what he had discovered. Bonner, of course, was the king dope smuggler of the United States, something the F.B.I. had wanted to know for years. Kildare also knew now exactly how the dope was ingeniously distributed to peddlers up north. But he had to get ashore to prove it. And he knew his chances of ever doing that were slim. Bonner was a killer. But, somehow, he must escape.

Struggling with the ropes that bound him, he became aware of a sobbing breathing from across the darkened cabin.

"Hello," he said, "Who's there?"

He heard a muffled sound. "Gagged," he muttered, "and a female or I'm a liar."

He gave a sudden lurch of his body that tumbled him off the built- in berth. He rolled over and over on the floor finally to come up on his knees alongside the opposite berth.

"Listen, whoever you are," he said. "Your hands, like mine, are bound behind you. Swing around and .get your back to me. Twist your hands so your fingers are free. Good. Now — feel my hands? Get working on those knots. As soon as I'm free we'll give these rats a going over."

Something in his voice, cheer-y in despite of danger, galvanized the girl. Her nimble fingers worked on the knots better than a man's could have done. Kildare could feel them, warm, sure, picking, pulling while he contracted his muscles to give her as much room as possible. It was arduous work. His knees hurt. He ached all over. Every second he expected Bonner or his chief gun, Carstairs, to come in and ruin the last chance But they were getting the ship under way, and the two prisoners were left alone. At the end of ten minutes, just as the yacht began to quiver to the thud of the engines, the last knot fell away, Kildare had his fingers free. He unloosed his legs, felt over the soft, still damp form of the girl, took off the gag and her bonds.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Martha Harmon," came the low thrilling voice. "Who are you?"

Duffy Kildare felt a sweep of joy warm him. For five days he had watched and talked to this lovely girl, and had liked her better than any he had known until now.

Now they were sharing a common peril. Every ounce of his courage was brought to the crisis.

He said simply, "I'm Duffy Kildare— you called me a tourist."

"But what are you doing here?" she hesitated, went on with a rush: "You— you— are you a detective?"

"Federal Bureau of Investigation. How did you get here?"

For a moment she did not answer, then suddenly a sob tore her. "I can't tell you! I must not! It would mean—" She stopped short.

But Kildare could guess. Her brother, then, was a part of the drug syndicate, as he had surmised. A minor tool, perhaps, but still guilty of the heinous crime of smuggling narcotics. Kildare was hurt, hurt clear through at that realization. But G-men have to take heartbreaks along with danger of death. He stiffened as he helped her off the berth, and felt around in the darkness for some kind of a weapon. His lips set grimly.

"You mean your brother is mixed in this— smuggling business?" he said.

She clung to him, hands gripping his arms. "He didn't know!" she whispered fiercely. "He thought they —  he —  Bonner —  just wanted to back him in raising sheep. He never knew what they wanted to use him for until lately. Then he tried
to break away and Bonner threatened to kill him. That's why I came here tonight— to beg for Billy's safety."

Kildare continued to grope for the weapon. Martha pulled at him. "If I help you, please don't take Billy! Promise me— promise! Please, for my sake—"

He pushed away her arm. "My job is to catch dope smugglers," he muttered harshly. "Let the courts decide Billy's innocence."

She fell away, a sob in her throat. His hand discovered a walking stick, light, but some sort of a weapon at last. He whispered to her:

"Let's go— we can swim ashore. My boat's cut adrift by now."

She followed him, begging no more, but somehow dangerous in her very silence. They moved along the companionway, and so to the amidships stairway to the deck. They encountered no one; apparently the crew were getting the ship turned about. By the sound of the engines Kildare knew the ship was barely under way. His hopes mounted. Tonight he would break this case and amaze Carle. This yacht could not put to sea so far that a revenue cutter could not overhaul it, take the smugglers.

Kildare had reached the deck, preparatory to slipping over the side. He turned to aid the girl. Suddenly the lights on the deck blazed high; a voice shouted. Some one else yelled.

"Kildare! He's getting away!" howled Carstairs.

HE fired above from the bridge wenty feet away. The sheet of flame lit his face, savage with hatred and fear. But his bullet ricocheted bluely off the taffrail.

Kildare never knew how Carstairs missed. But he did. Swiftly the G-man seized the girl, threw her into the water. Carstairs fired again and a swift burn of pain swept Kildare's legs midway between his hips and knees.

"Get him!" Carstairs yelled.

His gun roared four times in quick succession, but Kildare wasn't there. With all his strength he had leaped as a broad-jumper leaps, squarely out into the night. He struck the water all of a heap. He went down, straightened out, swam downward, knowing that his life depended on staying under as long as possible.

The salt water burned in the wound across his legs. His lungs began to swell; his ears to roar; he was suffocating. He had to have air. Blindly he fought downward through the soft, warm water. His arms refused to carry him any farther. He had to have air. His body screamed for it. And almost without his volition his head popped out and his agonized lungs exhaled with a hiss as he gulped in air. He was yards away from the yacht, but the outgoing tide was sweeping Kildare toward it. He saw faces at the taffrail. Heard a yell: "There he is!"

A rifle cracked and the slug hit the water, only a few feet away. He went down again. Came up after a lesser period. They were yelling for a boat to be lowered. They were coming after him.

He heard Bonner's shout; "We've got to get him, if we run him to Key West!"

He dove and swam under water a few strokes, emerged, and paddling with one hand got off his shoes, got out of his coat, tore off his shirt, stripping himself to shorts.

While he was doing this a form came out of the darkness. He could follow it plainly by the phospores- cent glow of its movements, and knew, with dismay, that his own progress through the water could be similarly traced.

"Are you all right?" panted Martha's voice.

"Yes," he said. "Let's get going!"

She swam strongly, tirelessly, born to the water apparently, and man though he was, he could scarcely keep up with her strong breast stroke. Behind them the boats put off, and flashlights began to scan the water. Worse, the yacht's searchlight suddenly blazed and with a dazzling finger of radiance began to comb the water. Eventually every square yard of water near the yacht would be searched.

Kildare swam on, knowing the slimness of their chances, but not thinking of the risk. Here, under the shelter of the keys the pellucid water was flat as a mill pond. Twice he saw the phosphorus stirred by a swift long, torpedo-shaped body. Sharks! Or, what was as bad, barracuda! But the girl kept on, calling back: "Sand sharks. They'll not bother you."

"Let 'em!" Kildare said. "We've got to get ashore."

SHE made no reply. Their long strokes had taken them into the waters out of the range of the searchlight, but it was playing about, dangerously near. The small boats were searching about. He could hear the splash of oars.

Suddenly a small bulk loomed close ahead in the darkness, and Kildare heard a gasped ejaculation from the girl as she spurted ahead. He saw her white arm reach up and grasp the dark bulk, realized with a thrill of exultation what it was. His own small boat that had been cut loose from the yacht and was adrift! The girl had caught its gunwale and as he saw her draw herself up he exulted again, remembering he had shipped his oars.

The next minute he, too, was alongside, his hand reaching out, but Martha held him off with an oar.

"Duffy Kildare?" she said tersely.

"Yes," he muttered, realizing how he was tiring, wondering what the girl was about.

"I'm the only one who can get you to shore. You can't possibly swim the distance, and the wind's coming up strong."

"And so what?" he said, trying to make a grab at the oar that held him off.

"You promise to save my brother from jail, or I'll row away and leave you. Leave you to the barracuda or for that swine, Bonner, to kill."

Kildare kept his arms pushing the water. He said nothing. She dipped an oar, the small boat moved a little.

"Do you hear me?" Her voice was tense, frantic. "You'll die out here! They'll kill you or you'll drown. You can't get ashore without me. Promise, and I'll get you there and they won't get you. Spare Billy!"

Kildare swam on. His mouth was set; his eyes flashing.

"Answer me," she whispered passionately.

"Go on," he said grimly. "I'm an F.B.I. man. It's my job to crack a case, and not to pass judgment on who's guilty or innocent. Your brother is a party to this junk racket. And if I get ashore I'll pinch him."

"Then die, you fool," she panted.

"Well, a man can't live forever," he answered. "Go on, peddle your papers."

She rowed away in the darkness and left him alone.

4 Night Battle

HE was tiring fast. Only because the water was warm could he go on. But it was warm water that was dangerous, for the flesh wound I on his legs bled steadily. That was why he was so tired. He kept wondering why the small boats, hunting around, did not see him. He did not know that fish, feeding at night on the surface, also made bright phosphorus glows, and that he had never really been seen since he left the shipside.

His chief thought was that if he swam with the tide rip against his left cheek he would reach shore.

But that he would make it he began to doubt. A rotten shame, too, when he knew the secret of the greatest narcotic smuggling idea of the century.

Nor did he know that in swimming away from the small boats he was
heading for the Gulf of Mexico. The two boats, manned by a desperate, frantic Bonner and a cool killer, Carstairs, were going toward shore, hunting for him in that direction. So as the minutes passed he was heading for a thousand miles of empty ocean.

He swam less now, floating on his back, kicking his feet and waggling his hands. It was terrible how tired a man could get. And the warm water was lethargic.

Suddenly, floating on his back, he rolled over, alertly alarmed. A small splash had come from almost directly beside him. He raised a hand to lash out, stopped as the girl's face, framed with hair like sea weed was limned above the greenish unearthly glow of the water as she leaned over the gunwale of the small boat.

"I couldn't," she sobbed. "I couldn't leave you. Not even for Billy."

Kildare made a sound in his throat. She was a swell girl after all! His heart pitied her, too, while his brain told him he'd pinch her brother even if it meant life for the youngster. A G-man had to think that way. He let her help him as he clambered exhausted into the boat. Soundlessly dipping her oars, she set off in the opposite direction to which he had been swimming. But he thought he knew she had not been far away at any time, there in the darkness.

"Stout girl," he muttered. He knew then how much he could and did think of this girl. But it would do him no good. She'd never look at a guy who had sent her brother to Atlanta.

He was more tired than he had known. A deadly lassitude made him powerless to help Martha with the oars, know little until he felt the boat bump on the sands.

Kildare's arms were heavy as lead. He could not get from the boat. He heard the girl's voice coaxing him, urging him; then her strong arms hauled him from the boat into the shallow water. She grabbed him, limp as a log, she towed him until at last his outstretched hands groped along a shell littoral. He lay in the water, too exhausted to move. She crouched beside him.

"There they go," she whispered, "up the wharf. Oh, my God, they might kill Billy!"

The words were like a tocsin. He partly raised himself. He still had duty to do. But he had sense enough to stretch on the coral sand beach until the giddiness of exhaustion had entirely left.

"You saved me, kid," he muttered, "I won't forget it."

"Then you'll save Billy, and not let him go to prison?"

He stood up, tormented by temptation, torn by desire, suffering from the knowledge that he was about to be the all-time, all-American heel.

"Kid, the law has to take its course," he said grimly.

He got to his feet, his marvelous body recuperating swiftly from the strain upon it. He turned to where the lights of Laudermer gleamed through the black night.

"Where are you going?" she said. "You can't— you're worn out."

"Listen," he told her harshly, "I baited a trap tonight. Forced Bonner's hand. Now I'm going to get him and his gang."

"But you haven't even got a gun!"

"I'll get one. And I know where they're going— and why."

He knew where they were going— to the Laudermer House where he had a room, where they would wait to see if he had escaped the shark- infested waters. Where they'd shoot on sight. But he was going there, too. That's the kind of a man he was.

He went up the beach, paying no attention to the girl. Presently he came to the palm-lined street, and, hugging the darker shadows of the palmettos and the hibiscus, made his way to the kitchen entrance to the hotel. He went to the third floor to his room and sank heavily onto the bed, aware for the first time that he was nearly naked. Blood still dribbled from the creases across his legs.

"God, I'm tired," he muttered. He found a bottle of Bacardi and took two huge drinks. Then he got on linen trousers and a coat, found his small Browning gun and two clips. He went back out the door and again encountered no trouble.

THIS puzzled him. He had been expecting to be ambushed. Why hadn't he been? He walked through the small town, and slowly along the side road that led up to the Harmon farm. And suddenly he knew why Bonner and Carstairs had passed up the immediate chance of killing him.

"By God, they're destroying the evidence!" he muttered.

He realized that instantly. Without the evidence to present in court, Bonner, with his money and his record of no arrests could beat the charge. There would only be Kildare's charge— and accusation, unsupported. He knew where they were— at the railroad station. He turned back and broke into a run.

It was long after midnight and Laudermer slept. He encountered no one in that dash. Once or twice he wondered where Martha was— then dismissed her in the immediate peril to his case.

He slowed down when he reached the railroad track, considerably above the station. Even here he could hear the baaing of the sheep that filled the freight cars, waiting for the morning accommodation to take them to Miami and points north. He saw a brief flashlight glow that instantly vanished, but it located the two crooks. With all his skill he stalked the light.

But all his skill went in vain, for he suddenly came around the edge of the loading platform and his outstretched hand struck yielding flesh. He jerked back, as his gun flashed up, but was not swift enough. A flashlight spat a sword of radiance.

The light struck him. A voice yelled : "Kildare!"

Partly blinded, he threw himself prone. That saved his life. The bullet that spat simultaneously went over his head while the spitting snake of flame burned his hair. He fired upward into it— three times—  with deadly intent to kill.

The flashlight dropped. And into its still shining arc Speed Carstairs collapsed.

Speed was clasping his stomach. "You got me! Damn you, you got me!" he muttered weakly. The death rattle cut off his words.

Kildare shot a glance ahead toward another light. At the far end of the the chute Bleak Bonner, dirty, his immaculate flannels ruined and greasy, was slitting throats of sheep.

The light advanced before Kildare could. Steve heard a voice— the voice of Bill Harmon.

"So you had my sister aboard your rotten yacht!" the boy raged. "Damn you, Bonner, isn't it enough what you've done to me, without you having to ruin her?"

"You rat!" snarled Bonner. "I didn't harm her. But by God, I'm done with you." In a flash his hand streaked out. His gun spat flame before it seemed leveled. Kildare fired twice, but he knew even as he threw his gun that he had missed. Too high.

YET to his surprise Bleak Bonner grabbed at his stomach, then at his chest. The gun dropped from his fingers, and he fell forward, sprawling in that punctured, all-in-a- heap attitude that spells death. Duffy Kildare raced toward him.

"How'd I get him?" he was muttering. "I'd swore I was high. Maybe this gun has started throwing low."

Then Martha Harmon's voice he heard. "Billy! You've killed him!"

"And I should have!" snarled the boy. "Even if I hang for it. The swine! The mean rat! He didn't deserve to live."

The flashlight moved forward and Kildare saw Martha and the boy, bending over the dead body of Bleak Bonner.

Kildare came quietly alongside. Martha turned, and gave a frightened cry. "It's Kildare. Oh, Billy!" The boy turned in a flash, gun coming up. He gazed into the straight muzzle of Kildare's gun.

"Drop it, lad," said Kildare very softly.

He saw then that the boy was wounded in the left arm. Blood gleamed against the white of his shirt. Slowly Bill's fingers relaxed; the gun dropped with a thud. Kildare stooped, picked it up.

"A thirty-two," he nodded. "Not much of a gun."

"Good enough to kill that rat," said Billy.

Kildare bent over Bonner and then turned the crook over. "Hold the flashlight nearer," he ordered. He saw now that his gun had indeed fired high. These were the small punctures of a .32.

"So it is," he admitted.

"Oh, God!" gasped Martha. "You won't charge Billy with murder! He fired in self-defense— I swear it!"

"You don't have to. I know he did," growled Duffy Kildare.

Wearily he gazed around. Speed Carstairs was dead. So was Bonner. The biggest dope syndicate in the world was broken by death. There among those sheep not yet dead was the evidence to prove how the drug was distributed. His job was complete, the case cracked.

He turned to look at the girl, wan yet beautiful in the flashlight's cruel light.

"No," he said, "he won't have to stand trial for murder."

Swiftly now, he bent down and held the muzzle of his gun close so that he could not miss the two blue punctures in Bonner's flesh, and pulled the trigger twice. The heavier .45 slug tore the .32 bullet holes and out the back, the corpse jumping to the impact.

"If they ask you," he said, straightening, "I killed Bleak Bonner. There is the proof of it."

He moved on to where Bonner and Carstairs had feverishly prepared a pile of Florida pine lightwood, commonly called fatwood because it burned like fat. On top of this were stacked the slaughtered bodies of the sheep they had destroyed and had ntended to burn. He examined one or two, but did not find what he sought.

He came back to where Martha and Billy were watching him with the steady stare of hopelessness. "Catch me one of those sheep," Kildare ordered.

SILENTLY, Billy Harmon obeyed.

As he brought it back he said:

"I didn't know, Kildare. I had a few sheep here— Martha and I had them and Bonner came and said I ought to go into the business in a big way what with all the tourists in Florida and the meat markets and all. He offered to back me. I imported special sheep from Cuba, and some from up north. I— I didn't really guess what was going on until I discovered he was shipping the sheep north, and not to Miami at all. That looked funny, and I began to ask questions, to snoop around a little, and—"

"Yes, I know," said Kildare. He bent over the sheep that Billy had brought while Martha held the flashlight. The sheep was unsheared and seemed fat and well kept. He plunged his fingers into the fleece.

"That's what poor Barr meant by wool," he muttered.

For his expert fingers had shown that sheep had been seared in swathes underneath. That is to say, the outside fleece had been left the way it grew while underneath clever pockets had been cut out. In each of these Kildare found a small oblong tin, itself covered with glue to which fleece had been stuck. More glue affixed the tin to the short fleece of the sheep's skin. Kildare tore off a tin, forced it open, and smelled of the white powder inside.

"Pure heroin," he said, "on its way to New York and other points—  wherever you shipped sheep, there to be cut with sugar and sold for twenty dollars a deck." He paused. Then: "Where did you ship to?"

He was not surprised at Billy Harmon's reply. Every big city in the United States was a market, I found out. Bonner's agents in each city bought them, plucked out the tins and sold the sheep for what they could."

"Nearly a foolproof scheme," Kildare muttered. "Only Barr must have been sold— when he was here—  a tin of uncut stuff by Red and saw the wool stuck to the tin."

He sighed, and turned to Billy Harmon. "Can I trust you to watch these sheep for the night, and go with them to Miami tomorrow?"

The boy nodded. "I tell you I never knew, even when I guessed something was wrong, not until a sheep was running away and I grabbed for it and pulled loose a tin."

"I believe you," said Kildare. "Watch them, and tomorrow I'll do all I can for you."

He turned, shoulders sagging. "God, I'm tired."

Martha ran to him. "Then Billy won't have to be arrested? You'll save him?"

Kildare gently shook his head. "He's under arrest now, but I'll give evidence to clear him. Is that good enough, kid?"

Slowly she nodded. Her eyes gleamed with a new hope. Billy gave a little cry and they stood with locked hands, hope and happiness brightening them instantly.

"Oh," she said, "you're wonderful, Duffy Kildare."

Kildare straightened his sagging shoulders long enough to grin. "Tell me that next week in the moonlight," he chuckled and dragged himself off to the hotel to call Washington and make his report.

____________

3: Vampire

Jan Neruda

1834-1891

"Vampyr", Různí lidé, 1871 (in Czech)

Jan Neruda

This translation by Šárka B. Hrbková, 1878-1948.   "Různí lidé" translates as "Different People", the title of a collection of Neruda's stories.

THE EXCURSION steamer brought us from Constantinople to the shore of the island of Prinkipo and we disembarked. The number of passengers was not large. There was one Polish family, a father, a mother, a daughter and her bridegroom, and then we two. Oh, yes, I must not forget that when we were already on the wooden bridge which crosses the Golden Horn to Constantinople, a Greek, a rather youthful man, joined us. He was probably an artist, judging by the portfolio he carried under his arm. Long black locks floated to his shoulders, his face was pale, and his black eyes were deeply set in their sockets. From the first moment he interested me, especially for his obligingness and for his knowledge of local conditions. But he talked too much, and I then turned away from him.

All the more agreeable was the Polish family. The father and mother were good-natured, fine people, the lover a handsome young fellow, of direct and refined manners. They had come to Prinkipo to spend the summer months for the sake of the daughter, who was slightly ailing. The beautiful pale girl was either just recovering from a severe illness or else a serious disease was just fastening its hold upon her. She leaned upon her lover when she walked and very often sat down to rest, while a frequent dry little cough interrupted her whispers. Whenever she coughed, her escort would considerately pause in their walk. He always cast upon her a glance of sympathetic suffering and she would look back at him as if she would say: "It is nothing. I am happy!" They believed in health and happiness.

On the recommendation of the Greek, who departed from us immediately at the pier, the family secured quarters in the hotel on the hill. The hotel-keeper was a Frenchman and his entire building was equipped comfortably and artistically, according to the French style.

We breakfasted together and when the noon heat had abated somewhat we all betook ourselves to the heights, where in the grove of Siberian stone-pines we could refresh ourselves with the view. Hardly had we found a suitable spot and settled ourselves when the Greek appeared again. He greeted us lightly, looked about and seated himself only a few steps from us. He opened his portfolio and began to sketch.

"I think he purposely sits with his back to the rocks so that we can't look at his sketch," I said.

"We don't have to," said the young Pole. "We have enough before us to look at." After a while he added, "It seems to me he's sketching us in as a sort of background. Well— let him!"

We truly did have enough to gaze at. There is not a more beautiful or more happy corner in the world than that very Prinkipo! The political martyr, Irene, contemporary of Charles the Great, lived there for a month as an exile. If I could live a month of my life there I would be happy for the memory of it for the rest of my days! I shall never forget even that one day spent at Prinkipo.

The air was as clear as a diamond, so soft, so caressing, that one's whole soul swung out upon it into the distance. At the right beyond the sea projected the brown Asiatic summits; to the left in the distance purpled the steep coasts of Europe. The neighboring Chalki, one of the nine islands of the "Prince's Archipelago," rose with its cypress forests into the peaceful heights like a sorrowful dream, crowned by a great structure— an asylum for those whose minds are sick.

The Sea of Marmora was but slightly ruffled and played in all colors like a sparkling opal. In the distance the sea was as white as milk, then rosy, between the two islands a glowing orange and below us it was beautifully greenish blue, like a transparent sapphire. It was resplendent in its own beauty. Nowhere were there any large ships— only two small craft flying the English flag sped along the shore. One was a steamboat as big as a watchman's booth, the second had about twelve oarsmen, and when their oars rose simultaneously molten silver dripped from them. Trustful dolphins darted in and out among them and dove with long, arching flights above the surface of the water. Through the blue heavens now and then calm eagles winged their way, measuring the space between two continents.

The entire slope below us was covered with blossoming roses whose fragrance filled the air. From the coffee-house near the sea music was carried up to us through the clear air, hushed somewhat by the distance.

The effect was enchanting. We all sat silent and steeped our souls completely in the picture of paradise. The young Polish girl lay on the grass with her head supported on the bosom of her lover. The pale oval of her delicate face was slightly tinged with soft color, and from her blue eyes tears suddenly gushed forth. The lover understood, bent down and kissed tear after tear. Her mother also was moved to tears, and I— even I— felt a strange twinge.

"Here mind and body both must get well," whispered the girl. "How happy a land this is!"

"God knows I haven't any enemies, but if I had I would forgive them here!" said the father in a trembling voice.

And again we became silent. We were all in such a wonderful mood— so unspeakably sweet it all was! Each felt for himself a whole world of happiness and each one would have shared his happiness with the whole world. All felt the same— and so no one disturbed another. We had scarcely even noticed the Greek, after an hour or so, had arisen, folded his portfolio and with a slight nod had taken his departure. We remained.

Finally after several hours, when the distance was becoming overspread with a darker violet, so magically beautiful in the south, the mother reminded us it was time to depart. We arose and walked down towards the hotel with the easy, elastic steps that characterize carefree children. We sat down in the hotel under the handsome veranda.

Hardly had we been seated when we heard below the sounds of quarreling and oaths. Our Greek was wrangling the hotel-keeper, and for the entertainment of it we listened.

The amusement did not last long. "If I didn't have other guests," growled the hotel-keeper, and ascended the steps towards us.

"I beg you to tell me, sir," asked the young Pole of the approaching hotel-keeper, "who is that gentleman? What's his name?"

"Eh— who knows what the fellow's name is?" grumbled the hotel-keeper, and he gazed venomously downwards. "We call him the Vampire."

"An artist?"

"Fine trade! He sketches only corpses. Just as soon as someone in Constantinople or here in the neighborhood dies, that very day he has a picture of the dead one completed. That fellow paints them beforehand— and he never makes a mistake— just like a vulture!"

The old Polish woman shrieked affrightedly. In her arms lay her daughter pale as chalk. She had fainted.

In one bound the lover had leaped down the steps. With one hand he seized the Greek and with the other reached for the portfolio.

We ran down after him. Both men were rolling in the sand. The contents of the portfolio were scattered all about. On one sheet, sketched with a crayon, was the head of the young Polish girl, her eyes closed and a wreath of myrtle on her brow.

__________________

4: A Castle In Spain

Katharine Tynan
c1859-1931

The Handsome Quaker and other Stories, 1902

Katharine Tynan

MISS HONORA DESMOND was very proud of her arched foot, her little ears and her long slender hands, because those features of hers were especially patrician.

The people shook their heads over Honora's pride, calling her by her name behind her back, as only the most vulgar had ever presumed to before her face. By and by it would be "ould Honora"; but though Miss Desmond would never see thirty-eight again, there was something of youth and grace about her that forbade the cruel adjective except to the least sensitive.

Honora was still a very pretty woman. Milky skin with a few golden freckles on it. Dark blue eyes. Bronze-coloured hair with a ripple where it was drawn back from the temples. Fine haughty little features and a stately carriage. These had often made the sjrmpathetic stranger curious over the post-mistress of Coolafin; for Honora filled this not veiy magnificent position.

The peasants, to give them their due, admitted that Honora had a right to hold her head high.

Sure every one knew that she was descended in a straight line without a break from one of the great Munster Fitzmaurices who had lost everything in the Desmond rebellion. Only the ill-natured ventured to say that Honora's grandmother had sung and sold ballads in the streets of Cork. What if she had then? She wasn't the first lady who had come low in the world, aye, and died in that terrible place, the poor-house, for the matter of that.

Yet for all her pride Honora was not one to swing uncomfortably between heaven and earth. She had no hankerings after fine society. The only resident gentry within miles were Sir John Moffat and his lady, a prosy elderly couple without children. Lady Moffat was very fond of Honora, and occasionally had her company to tea. Honora was very fond of her in return— she was the only one who ever called Honora "my dear"— and was not elated by her friendship, always remembering that the first Moffat to take root in Irish soil was a Cromwellian trooper.

None had ever sought Honora's hand in marriage. Some had looked and longed no doubt, for Honora was an inviting morsel of feminine humanity; but there! the people among whom she lived would as soon have thought of aspiring to Lady Moffat's daughter, if she had had one, and would have had about as much chance of an alliance in the one direction as in the other.

Yet Honora was not at all averse from visiting about at the houses of those who in the ordinary course of things would have been her social equals. She liked her tea and a quiet game of cards at Miss Doran, the shopkeeper's, or Andrew Kerrigan's, the farmer's, quite as well as she did her visits to Lady Moflfat But she carried her own atmosphere with her wherever she went, and it was very seldom that any one was rough or violent in her presence.

"Stuck-up " she might be, but it was only those who had not the natural good-breeding who found her refinement irksome. To her poor neighbours she was very good, and especially in any case of sickness, and more especially in the case of a sick child. Honora's passion was for children. The cry of a child was like a sword in her heart. The laughter of children was the sweetest music in the world to her ears.

Many a time while she washed and dressed the child of a poor neighbour, the mother, looking at her from her pillow with admiring helplessness, would murmur:

"Sure 'tis a thousand pities you haven't got a house-full of them."

Perhaps it was a dispensation of Providence in favour of the children of Coolafin that Honora did not have a house-full of them. Still, as the women had dimly divined, it was one of the tragedies of life that a born mother like Honora should remain a spinster while the unworthy and the unloving entered into the kingdom.

Her little house was outside the village, with a long, narrow grass-field sloping up to the door. The field pastured a goat who gave Honora milk for her tea, and afforded a deal of nourishment as well to the children of Coolafin.

The troubled moments of Honora's life were when a careless visitor to the post-office would leave the little gate ajar that divided the goat's pasture firom Honora's little flower and vegetable garden. Then Honora would desert her post of duty and fly to the rescue of her sweet-peas and pinks, and since Nannie had a most elusive way with her, it was a task of some difficulty to get her within bounds again, especially if Honora had to do it unaided.

It was a soft summer day strayed into December, and Honora was very busy with her Christmas parcel-post, when Nannie was discovered cropping the wallflowers and the little winter aconites outside the post-office window. Honora dropped her sealing-wax and string and flew to the rescue.

As she rushed through the doorway she nearly collided with a tall stranger entering.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said. "Will you please to wait a minute till I drive the goat out of the garden. She will not leave me a single wallflower."

"Allow me to assist you," said the stranger, turning with her.

He was a tall, lean, dark man, and he seemed to move with such a dignified slowness that Honora had very little hope of his proving a useful ally. Indeed, Nannie was very aggravating that day, and it was quite a long time before they succeeded in chasing her out of the garden, and back to her own domain, where Honora secured her by a penitential stake and chain which Nannie had no difiBculty at all in pulling out of the earth when it suited her.

"Oh dear," sighed Honora, as they re-entered the house, "it is half-past three, and the mail-car will be here in a second."

"Can I help ?" asked the stranger.

His voice had a rich sweetness, and though the English came readily enough to his tongue, it was plainly to be seen that it was not his own language.

Honora looked at him and hesitated. The rattle of wheels coming up the hill-side was heard in the quiet air.

"If you would be so good as to secure this bag for me. There seems so many of them. Dear, dear, who would ever believe there could be so much present-giving in a poor place like this!"

The stranger tied the neck of the bag securely while Honora held it. His long hands were not unlike her own, although they had the masculine strength and size. He watched her as she sealed it, bending over it, while the high north light shone as in a mirror on her hair rippled like water. He was ready to tie the next bag for her. They were too busy for conversation, except for the moment when Honora lifted her eyes to his face, and he had a sense of looking into beds of violets. "Have you a letter to post, sir?" she asked him.

"No," he answered. " I came here to obtain some information if I could."

The foot of the mail-car driver was heard crunching the gravel outside.

"Please step inside and wait till I can speak to you," said Honora, hastily indicating the door by her side. Perhaps she had a sudden thought that the presence of the stranger behind, and not in front, of the little counter, might seem to need explanation.

He passed within the little parlour. A handful of fire burned in the grate. One little window looked down the hill, and to a distance which the mild sun and the diamond haze had turned to the gates of heaven. The other looked over a flower and vegetable and fruit garden, which in summer had an undue preponderance of flowers, thought the neighbours.

Over the chimney-piece was a very old engraving of a gentleman, long-faced, aquiline-featured, with a little pointed beard and serious gentle eyes. His hand on his sword-hilt gave him a warlike air, despite his eyes and his sensitive mouth. The stranger started when he saw it. He peered closely at the inscription beneath it, which set forth that it represented the most excellent Sir James Fitzmaurice.

"So they are not forgotten," he murmured to himself, and then glanced impatiently towards the door, at the other side of which Honors was still engaged in her official duties.

He looked around the room while one foot tapped the clay floor. A canary, on whose cage the sun fell, was singing shrill and sweet, stopping now and again between little love-calls, as though he waited for an answer; then, none coming, he himself feigned the returning call. He had intuitions of the days before the captivity of his race.

The furniture in the room was very old, but every piece beautiful, even while it crumbled. The comer cupboard with its few ancient pieces of glass and china, the old piano with its red satin back to the ceiling, the Sheraton table, the old tall clock in the comer— all had a delightful air of austere beauty. Winter violets grew in a pot on the table, and penetrated the air with their subtle message of spring. On the mantel-shelf were the quaintest ornaments, and a few old daguerreotypes. The Lady Poverty here wore her very sweetest aspect.

Then Honora came in at the doorway, coloured like a flame, and the naked, beautiful room was all at once transformed. She was wearing a kind of sacque, bunched over a scarlet petticoat. It was the feahion of twenty years ago in the world outside Coolafin, but it recalled a greater age. The lady of Sir James Fitzmaurice might have worn her stately garments somewhat after the same fashion.

"Now, sir," said Honora, briskly, "how can I help you?"

The stranger bowed profoundly.

" I have come from Spain," he said. Why, he had the very eyes and beard of Don Quixote! "Three hundred years ago my people left this place. Spain has owned us for so long. Ah, yes, when the history of Spain is written, there is always one of us on the page. But the race dwindles. There is only now myself, Miguel Fitzmaurice, and my children, little ones. Something impelled me to come back to see if here in the cradle of my race I might discover some of my kin."

Honora went quite pale with excitement.

"Don Miguel," she said. By sheer accident she had given him his proper title. "Don Miguel, I think we must be cousins. I am Honora Desmond, and I too am alone in the world."

"Ah," he said, "I commended myself to St. James of Compostella before I started. How well he has guided me. Allow me to kiss your hands, my cousin."

He took the two work-worn, yet beautiful hands in his, and imprinted the most reverent of kisses upon them. Honora smiled and blushed. It did not occur to her to think that he had not noticed the poverty of her surroundings, the humility of her position.

"And you are alone, dear friend," he said, leading her to a chair as though he took her out in some stately dance. "Alone, as I am, except for the little ones. How does it come that you are alone?"

"My mother died ten years ago. I was the only child. She was the only child of the Lady Fitzwalter of Desmond." This was the ballad-singing lady, "Since we have become poor we gave up using the title. Ah!"

There was a tapping as with a coin on the little counter outside, and with a murmur of apology Honora left him. Some one required a penny stamp, a very young lady apparently, who having made the enormous purchase was inclined to give the postmistress the history of all the family of nine, younger than herself.

While Honora was gently releasing herself, her newly-found relation in the inner room was fretting and fuming, muttering rolling words between his teeth, for which may St. James of Compostella obtain him forgiveness I

At last she came in, sparkling and smiling.

"It was a little child," she said. "She wanted to tell me about the others. I have nursed most of them through their little illnesses."

"But you should not have to obey when they come knocking, knocking," he said gloomily. "You are a Fitzmaurice of Desmond."

" I have to do it to live," she answered.

His eyes leaped at her. Then he averted them as though he had placed a strong control over himself.

" My wife," he said, " Donna Mercedes, has been dead these three years. She prayed when she was dying that St. James might send me a good wife, a good mother to her children."

"Ah! You have children? What a comfort that must be!"

"Yes, they help. But even with them it is lonely. I have their pictures, if you would wish to see them."

He took from his pocket ai little case and opened the lid. There was the wife, a handsome, smooth-skinned Spaniard, ripe as a ripe peach.

Honora glanced at her, and touched the glass above the pictured face, as though she caressed the living. Then she looked at the children side by side; two little boys with close-cropped black heads and round black eyes, and a baby in a white frock on the lap of a be-ribboned Spanish nurse.

"Ah!" she sighed, "how hard for her to leave them!"

Again she touched the glass over the pictured face of the dead woman tenderly, but her eyes travelled on to the children and were hungry.

"I have never seen any one since, till I saw you, to whom I would give Mercedes' children in trust. You, alas, dear friend, if you were not so young and beautiful— you might rule my house. As it is the conventions forbid it."

"Young and beautiful!" Honora lifted her hand to the wave of her hair, and laughed, and blushed. "Where are your eyes, Don Miguel? I am nearly forty, and there are grey hairs in my head."

"I do not see them," said Don Miguel, looking at her seriously. "And if they were there they would but make you more beautiful, very beautiftil to a Spaniard, who is not accustomed to golden beauty like yours."

Honora's hand still held the case with the portraits. Her eyes went back to the little faces. Alas, the woman who had had to leave them! Was it because they were of her kin that she yearned over them, even more than she was used to do with children?

"I am commended to a gentleman here. Sir John Moffat, but I have lodged myself meanwhile at the inn in your town. I shall make a little stay, I think, now that I have found you, my cousin. There is so much to see— their castles, their abbeys, the graves that hold their precious dust. I want to carry it all back to Spain in my heart."

"They are not likely to be forgotten," said Honora. "Their castles are on every crag, and Time deals gently with them."

A day or two later Don Miguel Fitzmaurice transferred his belongings from the Desmond Arms to Sir John Motfat's house.

Such a devout pilgrim to the shrines of his ancestors never was. His piety towards his race extended to the living as well as the dead, for it was plainly to be seen that from the very beginning he thought Honora Desmond peerless among women.

At first he had not so much of her society as he desired. Her official duties claimed her to his deep indignation. Then there came a day when a pallid young woman from Dublin arrived to take Honora's place, and learn the duties of the position.

Coolafin was rather perturbed by it. it was not accustomed to changes, but gradually it leaked out that Honora was to accompany the Spanish gentleman to Seville to look after his children.

"You'll like your new place. Miss Honora?" asked one of the gossips a little curiously. Miss Desmond, who had never confided in Coolafin, seemed likely to leave it without being more outspoken. "It's the grand wages they'll be giving you to make it worth your while to go from the post-office."

Honora dimpled delightfully.

" 'Tis the grand wages, Mary Shea," she repeated. "Grander wages than I ever looked to get in all my life."

"Still, it wouldn't be them that 'ud be takin' you out of it." Mary Shea's curiosity was yet unslaked. "Of course you're goin' to your own people in a manner o' spakin'; yet 'tis a new place after all, an' you've been in Coolafin all your days, an' the post-office is a terrible stirrin' place. Maybe 'tis the childher is takin' you?"

"I thought at first it was, Mary," replied Honora enigmatically, "but after all it was the wages. The wages were something I couldn't do without."

"See that now, an' you a single woman too, with none but yourself to do for, Miss Honora," commented the gossip, rather scandalized.

A little later, when the news came to Coolafin that Miss Desmond had married her cousin, Mary Shea shook her head over her own dulness.

"Sure, 'twas a different kind o' wages altogether was in our minds," she said. "I can see now, 'twas the fondness the Don had for her she was thinkin' about. They say that he thinks there was never the likes of her for beauty, for all that she's but five years younger than my own mother. An' 'tis the grand lady she is, with a castle in Spain, an' th' ould Fitzmaurice Castle above that he bought for a weddin' present for her. Yet they say 'twas the thought of havin' the childher to herself drew her first to say yes to him."

_________________

5: The Last Expedition

Richard Dehan

Clotilde Graves, 1863-1932

Off Sandy Hook and other stories, 1915

Clotilde Augusta Inez Mary Graves

SUPPOSE that you see Captain Arthur Magellison, late of His Majesty's Royal Navy, with the eyes of the writer's remembrance, as a thick-set, fair man of middle height, neat in appearance and alert in bearing. His skin was a curious bleached bronze, and his wide-pupilled pale gray eyes, netted about with close, fine wrinkles, had looked on the awful desolation of the Arctic until something of its loneliness and terror had sunk into them and stamped itself upon the man's brain, never to be effaced, or so it seemed to me. For his wife, once the marble Miss Dycehurst, who had not married a semi-Celebrity for nothing, took her husband much with her into London Society, and at gossipy dinner-tables and in crowded drawing-rooms; on the Lawn at Ascot and in a box on the Grand Stand at Doncaster, as on a Henley houseboat, and during a polo tournament at Ranelagh, I have seen Magellison, to all appearance perfectly oblivious of the gay and giddy world about him, sitting, or standing with folded arms and bent head, and staring out with fixed and watchful eyes, over Heaven knows what illimitable wastes of snow-covered land or frozen ocean....

I have described Captain Arthur Magellison as a semi-Celebrity. Erstwhile Commander of the Third-class Armored Destroyer Sidonia, he became, after his severance from the Royal Navy, and by reason of the adventures and hardships by him undergone as leader of the Scottish Alaskan Coastal Survey Expedition of 1906-1908, something of a hero. A series of lectures, delivered at the Edinburgh Hall of Science, in the course of which the explorer, by verbal descriptions as well as cinematographic effects, completely disposed of the theory regarding the existence of a range of active volcanoes to the north of Alaska, previously accepted by the illuminati, made a sensation among scientists, and induced, in the case of Sir Jedbury Fargoe, F.R.G.S., M.R.I., a rush of blood to the cerebrum, followed by the breaking out of a Funeral Hatchment over his front door, a procession in slow time, with wreaths, palls, and feathers, and a final exit per trolley into the Furnace at Croking Crematorium.

The Public, never having bothered about the volcanoes, remained unmoved by the intelligence of their non-existence, but the Professors and the Press shed much ink upon the subject. Upon a wave of which sable fluid Captain Arthur Magellison was borne, if not into the inner court, at least into the vestibule of the Temple of Fame. Then the wave, as is the way of waves, receded; leaving Magellison, by virtue of certain researches and discoveries in Natural History, Botany and Physiology, a Member of the Royal Institution, Associate of the Zoological Society, Fellow of the Institute of Ethnology, and the husband of the marble Miss Dycehurst.

Never was a more appropriate sobriquet bestowed. Down in Clayshire, her native county, the statuesque Geraldine, orphan heiress of a wealthy landholder not remotely connected with the Brewing interests of his native isle, dispensed, under the protective auspices of a maternal aunt of good family— Miss Dycehurst's mother's deceased papa had wedded a portionless spinster of noble blood— dispensed, I say, a lavish but stony hospitality. In London she went out a great deal, looking like a sculptured Minerva of the Græco-Latin school, minus the helmet but plus a tower of astonishing golden hair, received proposals from Eligibles and Ineligibles, petrified their makers with a single stare, and proceeded upon her marmorean way in maiden meditation, fancy free. Until she attended that series of lectures, delivered at the Edinburgh Hall of Science by the eminent Arctic Explorer, Captain Arthur Magellison.

Society in Clayshire and Society in London expressed ardent curiosity to know how the engagement had been brought about? All that is known for certain is, that after the lecture, when the Explorer held a little reception in a draughty enclosure of green baize screens, Miss Dycehurst, looking rather like a mythical goddess of the Polar Regions, her frosty beauty crowned with its diadem of pale golden hair, and her fine shape revealed in greenish-blue, icily-gleaming draperies, asked a local magnate to present the lecturer, and met him at a public dinner given in his honor upon the following night. Later on in London, where the lecture was, by invitation of the learned heads of the nation, repeated, Miss Dycehurst with a large party occupied the second row of stalls. Later still, Magellison dined with the heiress at 000, Chesterfield Crescent, her town address, and later still the couple were Hanover-Squared into one flesh. It was in May, and the sacred edifice was garlanded with white Rambler roses and adorned with lilies and smilax and palms. A Bishop tied the knot, and the choir rendered the anthem with exquisite effect, as well as "Fight the Good Fight" and "The Voice that Breathed—." And the Bride, in dead white, with a swansdown train and a Malines veil, and ropes of pearls and brilliants, and a crown of diamond spikes that might have been sparkling icicles, gleaming and scintillating on the summit of her wonderful tower of hair, looked more like the Lady of the Eternal Snows than ever.

No one knew whether the Magellisons' married life was happy or the other thing. Suffice it, as the popular three-volume novelist used to say when not compelled to pad, that, to all outward seeming, the couple agreed. But I think that when the high tide of Fame receded (as during 1909, when the thrilling adventures of the dauntless explorer, Blank, were electrifying the newspaper-reading world, it certainly did, leaving nothing but a vague halo of heroism and adventure hanging about the name of Magellison, and a sedimentary deposit of honorary letters at the tail of it) the woman who had married Magellison knew disillusion. As for Magellison, he had always been a silent, absorbed and solitary man. And that strange look in those wide-pupilled pale gray eyes of his, the eyes of one who has lived through the half-year-long twilight of Arctic nights, and seen the ringed moon with her mock moons glimmer through the ghostly frost-fog, and the pale pink curving feathers of the Aurora Borealis stream across the ice-blue sky, and the awful crimson of the Polar Day rush up beyond the floe and strike the icy loneliness into new beauty and new terror— never changed. Perhaps, in discovering the true nature of his Geraldine, the Explorer found himself traversing a colder and more rugged desert than he had encountered when he led the Scottish-Northumbrian Polar Expedition in quest of those volcanic ranges proved to be non-existent— in Alaska to the North.

I believe he really loved the woman he had married. I know that, while he acted as the unpaid steward of her estates, he spent nothing beyond his half-pay, eked out by articles which he wrote now and then for the kind of Scientific Review that rewards the contributor with ten shillings per page of one thousand words, plus the honor of having contributed. In his own houses— his wife's, I should say— he was a pathetic nonentity. At 000 Chesterfield Crescent, and at Edengates in Clayshire, the recent Miss Dycehurst's country seat, he hugged his own rooms, about which, arranged in cases and hung upon the walls, were disposed native weapons, stuffed birds, geological specimens, dried algæ, water-color sketches, and such trophies of the Survey Expedition as had not been presented by Magellison to needy museums. When his name appeared in newspaper-paragraphs as the writer of one of the articles referred to, or as the donor of such a gift, his wife would pluck him from his beloved solitude, and compel him to tread the social round with her. But as the slow years crept on, the man himself, long before the ebbing tide of Fame left a desolate stretch of seaweedy mud where its waters had heaved and whispered, was so rarely seen, in his wife's company or out of it, that her all-but-newest friends believed Mrs. Arthur Magellison to be the wife of an incurable invalid, and the most recent were convinced that she was a widow. Proposals of marriage were sometimes made to the lady, who by the way was handsomer and stonier than ever, by Eligibles or Ineligibles laboring under this conviction.

"I am extremely sensible of the honor you have done me," said Mrs. Magellison upon one of these occasions, "but as a fact, my husband is alive. Which relieves me of the necessity— don't you think?— of coming to a decision!"

The man who had proposed, a barely middle-aged, extremely good-looking, well-made, well-bred Hawting-Holliday of Hirlmere, sufficiently endowed with ancient, if embarrassed, acres, and a sixteenth-century Baronetcy, to have tempted the marble Geraldine, had her frosty hand been disengaged, to its bestowal on him, was, though impecunious enough to be strongly attracted by the lady's wealth, yet honestly enamored of her sculpturesque person. Consequently as the final syllable of the foregoing utterance fell from the lady's lips, he assumed, for a fleeting instant or so, the rosy complexion of early adolescence, and stared upon the conquering Geraldine with blank and circular eyes. Then he said:

"By— Jove! that does let me out, doesn't it? My dear lady, I entreat you to consider me as prostrate in humiliation at your feet. With"— he felt over the surface of an admirably thought-out waistcoat for his eyeglass, which was still in his eye— "with sackcloth and ashes, and all the appropriate trimmings. Let me retrieve my character in your eyes by saying, that if it— ahem!— gives you any gratification to have a live husband at this juncture— I will endeavor to share the sentiment. But you really have run him as a Dark Horse, now haven't you?"

He lifted his eyebrows in interrogation, and the eyeglass leaped into the folds of his well-chosen cravat, the kind of subdued yet hopeful thing in shades a man of taste and brains would put on to propose in.

"My dear Sir Robert," Mrs. Magellison said, in well-chosen language and with an icy little smile, "I am not an adept in the use of sporting phraseology. Captain Magellison is of studious habits, retiring nature, and— shall I say?— an indolent disposition. It would not very well become me if I insisted on his society when he is not disposed to bestow it upon me, and therefore I generally go out alone. When, unless I give a formal dinner, upon which an occasion my husband must necessarily take his place at the other end of the board— when I entertain intimates—"

"You put your people at a round table," said Hawting-Holliday of Hirlmere. "And a round table is the very deuce— and— all for obliterating a husband!" He found his eyeglass and screwed it firmly in.

"I do not altogether blame the table," said Mrs. Magellison coldly. "Because, upon nine occasions out of ten my husband prefers a cutlet in his rooms. Pray do not suppose that I find fault with the preference. He is not by nature sociable, as I have said, and prefers to follow, at Edengates and in Scotland and in Paris, as well as here in town, his own peculiar bent. And what that is you are probably aware?" She turned her head with a superb movement, and her helmet of pale hair gleamed in the wintry sunshine that streamed through the lace blinds of the Chesterfield Crescent drawing-room.

"I had a general idea," said the man she addressed, who, hampered in early life by the fact of being born a Hawting-Holliday of Hirlmere, had not succeeded in being anything else, "that the late— I beg your pardon!— the present Captain Magellison was— I should say is— a Scientific Buffer— of sorts!"

Mrs. Magellison smiled coldly and rose.

"The term you employ is slang, of course," she said, "but it is quite appropriate and really descriptive. My husband was once a famous man, he is now a Scientific Buffer— and as you say— of sorts. Would you like to see him?"

She moved to the drawing-room door and turned her head with another fine movement, and Hawting-Holliday's eclectic taste was charmed with the sculpturesque pose. He followed her and they crossed a landing, and Mrs. Magellison knocked at the door of one of a suite of rooms that had been thrown out over what had been a back-yard. And as nobody said "Come in," she entered, followed by the visitor.

ii

THE ROOM was long, carpeted but uncurtained, and lighted by that most depressing of all forms of illumination, a skylight. Dwarf bookcases ran round it, and the walls were covered with frames and glass cases, primitive weapons, and a multitude of quaint and curious things. There was a low couch, covered with seal skins and feather rugs, and a leather writing-chair was set at the table, which had on it a fine microscope and many scientific instruments, of which the uses were unknown to the head of the Hawting-Hollidays of Hirlmere. Piles of dusty papers there were, and a couple of battered ship's logs, stained and discolored by sea-water and grease. And in the writing-chair, with his feet on a magnificent Polar bear-skin and the receiver of a telephone at his ear, sat the Scientific Buffer of sorts, staring fixedly before him, apparently over an illimitable waste of frozen drift-ice covering uncharted Polar seas.

"Arthur!" said Mrs. Magellison, with a cold kind of impatience, rattling the handle of the door as if to attract his attention. He came back with a start and hung up the receiver, and rose. He had a simple, courteous manner that won upon the suitor who had just proposed to his wife; and oddly enough, the appearance of a servant with a message that summoned the lady to an interview with her modiste was not greatly regretted by Hawting-Holliday.

"I have seen you before, of course," said his host, making him free of a rack of Esquimaux pipes and pushing over a jar of Navy-cut.

"Have you though?" rose to the visitor's lips, but the words were not allowed to escape. Looking round he saw that there were piles of receipted accounts, and orderly piles of tradesmen's books upon the table with the reams of dusty MSS., and as servants came in for orders and went away instructed, and messages were telephoned to various purveyors, Hawting-Holliday arrived at the conclusion that Mrs. Magellison's husband was regarded less in that capacity by Mrs. Magellison and her household than as major-domo, head-bailiff and house-steward.

THE TWO MEN chatted a little, and presently one spoke while the other listened. The capacity for hero-worship is quick in every generous nature, and the extravagant, impoverished, high-bred county gentleman and man-about-town was conscious that this modest, absent-minded little ex-naval Commander was of the stuff that went to build great heroes. Franklin and Nansen were brothers to this man, and that the justly-honored names of Shackleton and Peary, and the cognomen of Cook (King of terminological inexactitudinarians), were hot upon the public's mouths just then, mattered nothing to Hawting-Holliday, as he heard how in the year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Six, ten men sailed from San Francisco for Bering Sea on board a sixty-ton schooner, to settle the question of the existence of Undiscovered Ranges of Volcanic Origin in Alaska to the North. And how great storms and awful blizzards hindered the Coastal Survey Expedition, and sickness crippled its members, yet they struggled gamely on.

"Good God!" said Hawting-Holliday, whose pipe had long since gone out. He heard next how the Expedition suffered the loss of their ship and all their stores, and how their leader sent his crew home by a passing whaler and, for the enlargement of his own experience, chose to journey back to civilization along the Alaskan coast, three thousand miles of solitary sledge-traveling, aided only by the Esquimaux he chanced on in his terrible journey. And as he went on narrating in his calm and even voice, enforcing a point by a modest gesture of the hand that had lost the top-joints of the first and second fingers, and sometimes looking through and beyond the face of the listener with those strange, sorrowful, far-away eyes, what he related the other man saw, and—

"Good Lord!" said Hawting-Holliday again, "what an Odyssey the whole thing is! And so you got back to Ithaca after eighteen months of tramping it on your lonesome along a frozen coast and sleeping in holes dug in the snow, and living on blubber and seal-meat or boiled skin-boots when you couldn't get anything else; and gathering knowledge and experience when there wasn't even reindeer moss to scrape off the rocks!" He got up and held out his hand. "As a perfectly useless and idle kind of beggar, I don't know that my sincere admiration and respect are worth having, Captain, but if they were!—"

HE GULPED, and went, quite clumsily, away, but came back again, and so a friendship grew between the "perfectly useless and idle kind of beggar," Hawting-Holliday, and the hero of the three-thousand-mile tramp back to Civilization. Perhaps Hawting-Holliday had really never been seriously attached to the handsome piece of statuary that bore Magellison's name. It is certain that her cold neglect and open contempt of her husband eventually kindled the wrath of Magellison's newly-won champion to boiling-point. Not that the Captain gave any perceptible sign of suffering under the icy blizzard of his wife's scorn. Endurance was the lesson he had learned best of all, and he agreed with her in regarding himself as a Failure.

"A beautiful and gifted woman has a right to be ambitious for the man she marries," he said once to Hawting-Holliday. "And if he has no power to keep at high-level, if he makes no more way than a schooner frozen in the floe, it is natural that she should feel keenly disappointed and— and manifest the feeling by a— a certain change of attitude as regards him."

"The schooner may be frozen in the floe, Captain," said Hawting-Holliday, lounging in the window-seat of the Captain's big, bare room at Edengates, that was— only barring the skylight— exactly like the Captain's other big bare room at 000, Chesterfield Crescent. "But the floe is traveling all the time. That's a bit of scientific information that I got from you. And I rather pride myself on applying it neatly."

The Captain looked hard at him, and Hawting-Holliday noticed for the first time that the curly fair hair that topped the deep-lined pale-bronze face was growing white. Then Magellison said, with a queer smile:

"You have found me out, I see! And yet I thought I had kept the secret— or rather, the arrangement, quite closely. But on the whole I'm rather glad you guessed. For I like you, young man"— Hawting-Holliday was at least thirty-five— "and I shall give you the parting hand-shake with sincere regret— with very sincere regret, when the ice breaks up and the little engine helps the hoisted sails, and the floe-bound vessel that never really stopped, although her journey was only of inches in the month— moves on not North but South, along the thawed and open sea-lanes—"

He stopped, for Hawting-Holliday dropped his pipe and got off the window-seat, and caught the maimed right hand and wrung it until its owner winced.

"You gave me credit for too much perspicuity, Captain. I hadn't seen as much as the cat's tail until you let her out of the bag. Where are you going, man, and when do you go?"

Briefly, Magellison told him.

"All right, Captain," said Hawting-Holliday. "You're going to take charge of the Steam and Sail Antarctic Geological Research Expedition, financed by the Swedish Government, sailing from Plymouth for King Edward Land in April, so as to get the summer months of December, January, and February for exploration, botanizing, deep-sea-dredging, and scientific observations. You calculate on being away not quite three years. Very well, but remember this! If you don't turn up in three years' time and no definite news has reached us as to your whereabouts, the most useless and idle dog of my acquaintance— and that's myself— will take the liberty to come and look for you. I swear it— by the Great Barrier and the Blue Antarctic Ooze!"

They shook hands upon it, laughing at the humorous idea of the Captain's not coming back, and a little later the news of her husband's impending departure was imparted, per the medium of the Press, to the marmorean lady to whom the explorer had frozen himself some few years previously. She was radiant with smiles at the revival of newspaper interest in Magellison, and postponed her spring visit to the Riviera for the purpose of giving a series of Departure Dinners in honor of the Captain. All the leading scientific lights of the day twinkled in turn about the board. And Geraldine wore all her diamonds, and was exceedingly gracious to her Distinguished Man. She saw him off from Plymouth, one balmy April day, and shed a few discreet tears in a minute and filmy pocket handkerchief as the Swedish oak-built, schooner-rigged steamship-sailer Selma ran up the Swedish colors and curtsied adieu to English waters at the outset of the long South Atlantic voyage, and the petrol steam-launch containing the friends and relatives of the Expedition rocked in her wake, and the red-eyed people crowding on the oily-smelling little vessel's decks raised a quavering farewell cheer. Two men stood together at the Selma's after-rail: a short, square man of muscular build, with a slight stoop that told of scholarly habits, and thick, fair hair, streaked with white, and a deeply-lined, clean-shaven face, with pale, far-seeing eyes that were set in a network of fine wrinkles. The other man was Hawting-Holliday, who had announced his intention, at the last minute, of accompanying the Expedition as far as Madeira for the sake of the sea-blow.

"Tell Geraldine I shall mail home from the Cape and Melbourne," the leader of the Expedition said, three days later, as the boat that was to convey Hawting-Holliday ashore bobbed under the Selma's side-ladder in a clamoring rout of tradesmen's luggers and Funchal market-flats. "Tell her I shall certainly communicate from Lyttelton, and after that she must trust to luck and homeward-bound whalers for news of me." He wrung Hawting-Holliday's hand, and added, "And in case— anything should happen to me— not that such a chance is worth speaking of!— I know that I can rely upon you to act towards my— my dear girl as a friend!" The Captain's voice shook a little, and a mist was over those clear, wide-pupilled, far-away-gazing gray eyes.

"I promise you that, faithfully," said Hawting-Holliday, and gripped the maimed right hand of the man he loved as a brother, and went down over the side of the Selma with a sore heart.

That was in April, 1910, and news of the loss of the Selma, in the ice of the Antarctic Circle was cabled from Honolulu at the beginning of last month. An American Antarctic Expedition, having concluded a mission of exploration in the summer season of 1910, finding upon the coast of King Edward Land the few survivors of the Swedish Steam and Sail Antarctic Research Expedition making preparations to winter in a wooden hut built out of the wreckage of their teak-built sailing-steamer— rescued and carried them on their homeward route. The saved men, later interviewed at San Francisco, were unable to give news of their leader, save that the Captain, taking a dog-sledge and a little stock of provisions and instruments, and a hearty leave of all of them, turned that lined bronze face of his and those eyes with the far-away look in their wide pupils, to the dim, mysterious, uncharted regions lying South, in the lap of the mysterious Unknown, and with a wave of a fur-gloved hand, was lost in them.

"HE IS DEAD, Arthur is dead!" moaned Geraldine Magellison, in the depths of conjugal anguish and a lace-covered sofa-cushion, when the Press and Hawting-Holliday broke the news between them. "Dead!— and I loved him so— I loved him so!"

"It is a pity, under the circumstances," said Hawting-Holliday, carrying out his promise of being a friend to Magellison's wife by telling that wife the truth, "that you were so economical in your expressions of affection. For I do not think that when the Captain left you he had any remaining illusions as to the nature of your regard for him."

"How cruel you are— how cruel!" gasped Geraldine, as her maid bore in a salver piled with the regrets of Learned Societies and the sympathy of distinguished Personages and private friends.

"Let me for once use the trite and hackneyed saying that I am cruel only to be kind!" said Hawting-Holliday, emphatically, "and that I speak solely in the interests of— a friend whom I love."

Mrs. Magellison flushed to the roots of her superb golden hair, and consciously drooped her scarcely-reddened eyelids as she held up a protesting hand.

"No, no, Sir Robert!" she pleaded. "If I— as you infer— have gravely erred in lack of warmth toward poor, poor, dearest Arthur! let me at least be ungrudging in respect of his great memory. Forget what you have said, carried away by a feeling which in honor you subdued after the rude awakening of many months ago, and do not revert to— the subject for— for at least a year to come!"

At that Hawting-Holliday got upon his legs, and thrusting his hands deep into his trouser-pockets, made the one and only harangue of his existence.

"Mrs. Magellison, when you suggest that in the very hour when the intelligence of grave disaster to your husband's vessel has reached us, I am capable of addressing you in what the poetic faculty term— Heaven knows how idiotically and falsely!— the language of love, you gravely err. The friend in whose interests I spoke just now, was— your husband. Is your husband— for I do not accept by any means the theory that because he has been lost sight of, he is dead. I believe him to be living. I shall go on believing this until I see his body, or meet with some relics of him that supply me— his friend!— with the evidence that you, his wife, are so uncommonly ready to dispense with."

His eyes burned her with their contempt. She gasped:

"You— you mean that you are going South to try and find him?"

"You comprehend my meaning perfectly," said Hawting-Holliday, and bowed to Mrs. Magellison with ironical deference and left her.

He was, though not a wealthy man, far from being a poor one. He chartered a stout vessel that was lying in Liverpool Docks, the Iceland Coast Survey Company's steam-and-sail schooner Snowbird, and equipped and provisioned and manned her with a speed and thoroughness that are seldom found in combination. The Snowbird's own skipper goes in charge of his ship, but Hawting-Holliday is the Leader of the Expedition.

And yesterday the Snowbird sailed, in search of that man who has been swallowed up by the great Conjecture. And of this I am sure, that whether Hawting-Holliday succeeds or fails, lives or dies, he will grasp the hand of his friend again Somewhere. Either upon this side of the Great Gray Veil that hangs in the doorway of the Smoky House, or upon the other....

________________

6: Titbottom's Spectacles

George William Curtis

1824-1892

Putnam's Monthly, December, 1854.

George William Curtis

IN MY mind's eye, Horatio.

Prue and I do not entertain much; our means forbid it. In truth, other people entertain for us. We enjoy that hospitality of which no account is made. We see the show, and hear the music, and smell the flowers of great festivities, tasting as it were the drippings from rich dishes. Our own dinner service is remarkably plain, our dinners, even on state occasions, are strictly in keeping, and almost our only guest is Titbottom. I buy a handful of roses as I come up from the office, perhaps, and Prue arranges them so prettily in a glass dish for the centre of the table that even when I have hurried out to see Aurelia step into her carriage to go out to dine, I have thought that the bouquet she carried was not more beautiful because it was more costly. I grant that it was more harmonious with her superb beauty and her rich attire. And I have no doubt that if Aurelia knew the old man, whom she must have seen so often watching her, and his wife, who ornaments her sex with as much sweetness, although with less splendor, than Aurelia herself, she would also acknowledge that the nosegay of roses was as fine and fit upon their table as her own sumptuous bouquet is for herself. I have that faith in the perception of that lovely lady. It is at least my habit— I hope I may say, my nature, to believe the best of people, rather than the worst. If I thought that all this sparkling setting of beauty— this fine fashion— these blazing jewels and lustrous silks and airy gauzes, embellished with gold-threaded embroidery and wrought in a thousand exquisite elaborations, so that I cannot see one of those lovely girls pass me by without thanking God for the vision— if I thought that this was all, and that underneath her lace flounces and diamond bracelets Aurelia was a sullen, selfish woman, then I should turn sadly homewards, for I should see that her jewels were flashing scorn upon the object they adorned, and that her laces were of a more exquisite loveliness than the woman whom they merely touched with a superficial grace. It would be like a gaily decorated mausoleum— bright to see, but silent and dark within.

"Great excellences, my dear Prue," I sometimes allow myself to say, "lie concealed in the depths of character, like pearls at the bottom of the sea. Under the laughing, glancing surface, how little they are suspected! Perhaps love is nothing else than the sight of them by one person. Hence every man's mistress is apt to be an enigma to everybody else. I have no doubt that when Aurelia is engaged, people will say that she is a most admirable girl, certainly; but they cannot understand why any man should be in love with her. As if it were at all necessary that they should! And her lover, like a boy who finds a pearl in the public street, and wonders as much that others did not see it as that he did, will tremble until he knows his passion is returned; feeling, of course, that the whole world must be in love with this paragon who cannot possibly smile upon anything so unworthy as he."

"I hope, therefore, my dear Mrs. Prue," I continue to say to my wife, who looks up from her work regarding me with pleased pride, as if I were such an irresistible humorist, "you will allow me to believe that the depth may be calm although the surface is dancing. If you tell me that Aurelia is but a giddy girl, I shall believe that you think so. But I shall know, all the while, what profound dignity, and sweetness, and peace lie at the foundation of her character."

I say such things to Titbottom during the dull season at the office. And I have known him sometimes to reply with a kind of dry, sad humor, not as if he enjoyed the joke, but as if the joke must be made, that he saw no reason why I should be dull because the season was so.

"And what do I know of Aurelia or any other girl?" he says to me with that abstracted air. "I, whose Aurelias were of another century and another zone."

Then he falls into a silence which it seems quite profane to interrupt. But as we sit upon our high stools at the desk opposite each other, I leaning upon my elbows and looking at him; he, with sidelong face, glancing out of the window, as if it commanded a boundless landscape, instead of a dim, dingy office court, I cannot refrain from saying:

"Well!"

He turns slowly, and I go chatting on— a little too loquacious, perhaps, about those young girls. But I know that Titbottom regards such an excess as venial, for his sadness is so sweet that you could believe it the reflection of a smile from long, long years ago.

One day, after I had been talking for a long time, and we had put up our books, and were preparing to leave, he stood for some time by the window, gazing with a drooping intentness, as if he really saw something more than the dark court, and said slowly:

"Perhaps you would have different impressions of things if you saw them through my spectacles."

There was no change in his expression. He still looked from the window, and I said:

"Titbottom, I did not know that you used glasses. I have never seen you wearing spectacles."

"No, I don't often wear them. I am not very fond of looking through them. But sometimes an irresistible necessity compels me to put them on, and I cannot help seeing." Titbottom sighed.

"Is it so grievous a fate, to see?" inquired I.

"Yes; through my spectacles," he said, turning slowly and looking at me with wan solemnity.

It grew dark as we stood in the office talking, and taking our hats we went out together. The narrow street of business was deserted. The heavy iron shutters were gloomily closed over the windows. From one or two offices struggled the dim gleam of an early candle, by whose light some perplexed accountant sat belated, and hunting for his error. A careless clerk passed, whistling. But the great tide of life had ebbed. We heard its roar far away, and the sound stole into that silent street like the murmur of the ocean into an inland dell.

"You will come and dine with us, Titbottom?"

He assented by continuing to walk with me, and I think we were both glad when we reached the house, and Prue came to meet us, saying:

"Do you know I hoped you would bring Mr. Titbottom to dine?"

Titbottom smiled gently, and answered:

"He might have brought his spectacles with him, and I have been a happier man for it."

Prue looked a little puzzled.

"My dear," I said, "you must know that our friend, Mr. Titbottom, is the happy possessor of a pair of wonderful spectacles. I have never seen them, indeed; and, from what he says, I should be rather afraid of being seen by them. Most short-sighted persons are very glad to have the help of glasses; but Mr. Titbottom seems to find very little pleasure in his."

"It is because they make him too far-sighted, perhaps," interrupted Prue quietly, as she took the silver soup-ladle from the sideboard.

We sipped our wine after dinner, and Prue took her work. Can a man be too far-sighted? I did not ask the question aloud. The very tone in which Prue had spoken convinced me that he might.

"At least," I said, "Mr. Titbottom will not refuse to tell us the history of his mysterious spectacles. I have known plenty of magic in eyes"— and I glanced at the tender blue eyes of Prue— "but I have not heard of any enchanted glasses."

"Yet you must have seen the glass in which your wife looks every morning, and I take it that glass must be daily enchanted." said Titbottom, with a bow of quaint respect to my wife.

I do not think I have seen such a blush upon Prue's cheek since— well, since a great many years ago.

"I will gladly tell you the history of my spectacles," began Titbottom. "It is very simple; and I am not at all sure that a great many other people have not a pair of the same kind. I have never, indeed, heard of them by the gross, like those of our young friend, Moses, the son of the Vicar of Wakefield. In fact, I think a gross would be quite enough to supply the world. It is a kind of article for which the demand does not increase with use. If we should all wear spectacles like mine, we should never smile any more. Oh— I am not quite sure— we should all be very happy."

"A very important difference," said Prue, counting her stitches.

"You know my grandfather Titbottom was a West Indian. A large proprietor, and an easy man, he basked in the tropical sun, leading his quiet, luxurious life. He lived much alone, and was what people call eccentric, by which I understand that he was very much himself, and, refusing the influence of other people, they had their little revenges, and called him names. It is a habit not exclusively tropical. I think I have seen the same thing even in this city. But he was greatly beloved— my bland and bountiful grandfather. He was so large-hearted and open-handed. He was so friendly, and thoughtful, and genial, that even his jokes had the air of graceful benedictions. He did not seem to grow old, and he was one of those who never appear to have been very young. He flourished in a perennial maturity, an immortal middle-age.

"My grandfather lived upon one of the small islands, St. Kit's, perhaps, and his domain extended to the sea. His house, a rambling West Indian mansion, was surrounded with deep, spacious piazzas, covered with luxurious lounges, among which one capacious chair was his peculiar seat. They tell me he used sometimes to sit there for the whole day, his great, soft, brown eyes fastened upon the sea, watching the specks of sails that flashed upon the horizon, while the evanescent expressions chased each other over his placid face, as if it reflected the calm and changing sea before him. His morning costume was an ample dressing-gown of gorgeously flowered silk, and his morning was very apt to last all day.

"He rarely read, but he would pace the great piazza for hours, with his hands sunken in the pockets of his dressing-gown, and an air of sweet reverie, which any author might be very happy to produce.

"Society, of course, he saw little. There was some slight apprehension that if he were bidden to social entertainments he might forget his coat, or arrive without some other essential part of his dress; and there is a sly tradition in the Titbottom family that, having been invited to a ball in honor of the new governor of the island, my grandfather Titbottom sauntered into the hall towards midnight, wrapped in the gorgeous flowers of his dressing-gown, and with his hands buried in the pockets, as usual. There was great excitement, and immense deprecation of gubernatorial ire. But it happened that the governor and my grandfather were old friends, and there was no offense. But as they were conversing together, one of the distressed managers cast indignant glances at the brilliant costume of my grandfather, who summoned him, and asked courteously:

" 'Did you invite me or my coat?'

" 'You, in a proper coat,' replied the manager.

"The governor smiled approvingly, and looked at my grandfather.

" 'My friend," said he to the manager, 'I beg your pardon, I forgot.'

"The next day my grandfather was seen promenading in full ball dress along the streets of the little town.

" 'They ought to know,' said he, 'that I have a proper coat, and that not contempt nor poverty, but forgetfulness, sent me to a ball in my dressing-gown.'

"He did not much frequent social festivals after this failure, but he always told the story with satisfaction and a quiet smile.

"To a stranger, life upon those little islands is uniform even to weariness. But the old native dons like my grandfather ripen in the prolonged sunshine, like the turtle upon the Bahama banks, nor know of existence more desirable. Life in the tropics I take to be a placid torpidity. During the long, warm mornings of nearly half a century, my grandfather Titbottom had sat in his dressing-gown and gazed at the sea. But one calm June day, as he slowly paced the piazza after breakfast, his dreamy glance was arrested by a little vessel, evidently nearing the shore. He called for his spyglass, and surveying the craft, saw that she came from the neighboring island. She glided smoothly, slowly, over the summer sea. The warm morning air was sweet with perfumes, and silent with heat. The sea sparkled languidly, and the brilliant blue hung cloudlessly over. Scores of little island vessels had my grandfather seen come over the horizon, and cast anchor in the port. Hundreds of summer mornings had the white sails flashed and faded, like vague faces through forgotten dreams. But this time he laid down the spyglass, and leaned against a column of the piazza, and watched the vessel with an intentness that he could not explain. She came nearer and nearer, a graceful spectre in the dazzling morning.

" 'Decidedly I must step down and see about that vessel,' said my grandfather Titbottom.

"He gathered his ample dressing-gown about him, and stepped from the piazza with no other protection from the sun than the little smoking cap upon his head. His face wore a calm, beaming smile, as if he approved of all the world. He was not an old man, but there was almost a patriarchal pathos in his expression as he sauntered along in the sunshine towards the shore. A group of idle gazers was collected to watch the arrival. The little vessel furled her sails and drifted slowly landward, and as she was of very light draft, she came close to the shelving shore. A long plank was put out from her side, and the debarkation commenced. My grandfather Titbottom stood looking on to see the passengers descend. There were but a few of them, and mostly traders from the neighboring island. But suddenly the face of a young girl appeared over the side of the vessel, and she stepped upon the plank to descend. My grandfather Titbottom instantly advanced, and moving briskly reached the top of the plank at the same moment, and with the old tassel of his cap flashing in the sun, and one hand in the pocket of his dressing gown, with the other he handed the young lady carefully down the plank. That young lady was afterwards my grandmother Titbottom.

"And so, over the gleaming sea which he had watched so long, and which seemed thus to reward his patient gaze, came his bride that sunny morning.

" 'Of course we are happy,' he used to say: 'For you are the gift of the sun I have loved so long and so well.' And my grandfather Titbottom would lay his hand so tenderly upon the golden hair of his young bride, that you could fancy him a devout Parsee caressing sunbeams.

"There were endless festivities upon occasion of the marriage; and my grandfather did not go to one of them in his dressing-gown. The gentle sweetness of his wife melted every heart into love and sympathy. He was much older than she, without doubt. But age, as he used to say with a smile of immortal youth, is a matter of feeling, not of years. And if, sometimes, as she sat by his side upon the piazza, her fancy looked through her eyes upon that summer sea and saw a younger lover, perhaps some one of those graceful and glowing heroes who occupy the foreground of all young maidens' visions by the sea, yet she could not find one more generous and gracious, nor fancy one more worthy and loving than my grandfather Titbottom. And if in the moonlit midnight, while he lay calmly sleeping, she leaned out of the window and sank into vague reveries of sweet possibility, and watched the gleaming path of the moonlight upon the water, until the dawn glided over it— it was only that mood of nameless regret and longing, which underlies all human happiness,— or it was the vision of that life of society, which she had never seen, but of which she had often read, and which looked very fair and alluring across the sea to a girlish imagination which knew that it should never know that reality.

"These West Indian years were the great days of the family," said Titbottom, with an air of majestic and regal regret, pausing and musing in our little parlor, like a late Stuart in exile, remembering England. Prue raised her eyes from her work, and looked at him with a subdued admiration; for I have observed that, like the rest of her sex, she has a singular sympathy with the representative of a reduced family. Perhaps it is their finer perception which leads these tender-hearted women to recognize the divine right of social superiority so much more readily than we; and yet, much as Titbottom was enhanced in my wife's admiration by the discovery that his dusky sadness of nature and expression was, as it were, the expiring gleam and late twilight of ancestral splendors, I doubt if Mr. Bourne would have preferred him for bookkeeper a moment sooner upon that account. In truth, I have observed, down town, that the fact of your ancestors doing nothing is not considered good proof that you can do anything. But Prue and her sex regard sentiment more than action, and I understand easily enough why she is never tired of hearing me read of Prince Charlie. If Titbottom had been only a little younger, a little handsomer, a little more gallantly dressed— in fact, a little more of the Prince Charlie, I am sure her eyes would not have fallen again upon her work so tranquilly, as he resumed his story.

"I can remember my grandfather Titbottom, although I was a very young child, and he was a very old man. My young mother and my young grandmother are very distinct figures in my memory, ministering to the old gentleman, wrapped in his dressing-gown, and seated upon the piazza. I remember his white hair and his calm smile, and how, not long before he died, he called me to him, and laying his hand upon my head, said to me:

"My child, the world is not this great sunny piazza, nor life the fairy stories which the women tell you here as you sit in their laps. I shall soon be gone, but I want to leave with you some memento of my love for you, and I know nothing more valuable than these spectacles, which your grandmother brought from her native island, when she arrived here one fine summer morning, long ago. I cannot quite tell whether, when you grow older, you will regard it as a gift of the greatest value or as something that you had been happier never to have possessed.'

" 'But grandpapa, I am not short-sighted.'

" 'My son, are you not human?' said the old gentleman; and how shall I ever forget the thoughtful sadness with which, at the same time he handed me the spectacles.

"Instinctively I put them on, and looked at my grandfather. But I saw no grandfather, no piazza, no flowered dressing-gown: I saw only a luxuriant palm-tree, waving broadly over a tranquil landscape. Pleasant homes clustered around it. Gardens teeming with fruit and flowers; flocks quietly feeding; birds wheeling and chirping. I heard children's voices, and the low lullaby of happy mothers. The sound of cheerful singing came wafted from distant fields upon the light breeze. Golden harvests glistened out of sight, and I caught their rustling whisper of prosperity. A warm, mellow atmosphere bathed the whole. I have seen copies of the landscapes of the Italian painter Claude which seemed to me faint reminiscences of that calm and happy vision. But all this peace and prosperity seemed to flow from the spreading palm as from a fountain.

"I do not know how long I looked, but I had, apparently, no power, as I had no will, to remove the spectacles. What a wonderful island must Nevis be, thought I, if people carry such pictures in their pockets, only by buying a pair of spectacles! What wonder that my dear grandmother Titbottom has lived such a placid life, and has blessed us all with her sunny temper, when she has lived surrounded by such images of peace.

"My grandfather died. But still, in the warm morning sunshine upon the piazza, I felt his placid presence, and as I crawled into his great chair, and drifted on in reverie through the still, tropical day, it was as if his soft, dreamy eye had passed into my soul. My grandmother cherished his memory with tender regret. A violent passion of grief for his loss was no more possible than for the pensive decay of the year. We have no portrait of him, but I see always, when I remember him, that peaceful and luxuriant palm. And I think that to have known one good old man— one man who, through the chances and rubs of a long life, has carried his heart in his hand, like a palm branch, waving all discords into peace, helps our faith in God, in ourselves, and in each other, more than many sermons. I hardly know whether to be grateful to my grandfather for the spectacles; and yet when I remember that it is to them I owe the pleasant image of him which I cherish, I seem to myself sadly ungrateful.

"Madam," said Titbottom to Prue, solemnly, "my memory is a long and gloomy gallery, and only remotely, at its further end, do I see the glimmer of soft sunshine, and only there are the pleasant pictures hung. They seem to me very happy along whose gallery the sunlight streams to their very feet, striking all the pictured walls into unfading splendor."

Prue had laid her work in her lap, and as Titbottom paused a moment, and I turned towards her, I found her mild eyes fastened upon my face, and glistening with happy tears.

"Misfortunes of many kinds came heavily upon the family after the head was gone. The great house was relinquished. My parents were both dead, and my grandmother had entire charge of me. But from the moment that I received the gift of the spectacles, I could not resist their fascination, and I withdrew into myself, and became a solitary boy. There were not many companions for me of my own age, and they gradually left me, or, at least, had not a hearty sympathy with me; for if they teased me I pulled out my spectacles and surveyed them so seriously that they acquired a kind of awe of me, and evidently regarded my grandfather's gift as a concealed magical weapon which might be dangerously drawn upon them at any moment. Whenever, in our games, there were quarrels and high words, and I began to feel about my dress and to wear a grave look, they all took the alarm, and shouted, 'Look out for Titbottom's spectacles,' and scattered like a flock of scared sheep.

"Nor could I wonder at it. For, at first, before they took the alarm, I saw strange sights when I looked at them through the glasses. If two were quarrelling about a marble or a ball, I had only to go behind a tree where I was concealed and look at them leisurely. Then the scene changed, and no longer a green meadow with boys playing, but a spot which I did not recognize, and forms that made me shudder or smile. It was not a big boy bullying a little one, but a young wolf with glistening teeth and a lamb cowering before him; or, it was a dog faithful and famishing— or a star going slowly into eclipse— or a rainbow fading— or a flower blooming— or a sun rising— or a waning moon. The revelations of the spectacles determined my feeling for the boys, and for all whom I saw through them. No shyness, nor awkwardness, nor silence, could separate me from those who looked lovely as lilies to my illuminated eyes. If I felt myself warmly drawn to any one I struggled with the fierce desire of seeing him through the spectacles. I longed to enjoy the luxury of ignorant feeling, to love without knowing, to float like a leaf upon the eddies of life, drifted now to a sunny point, now to a solemn shade— now over glittering ripples, now over gleaming calms,— and not to determined ports, a trim vessel with an inexorable rudder.

"But, sometimes, mastered after long struggles, I seized my spectacles and sauntered into the little town. Putting them to my eyes I peered into the houses and at the people who passed me. Here sat a family at breakfast, and I stood at the window looking in. O motley meal! fantastic vision! The good mother saw her lord sitting opposite, a grave, respectable being, eating muffins. But I saw only a bank-bill, more or less crumpled and tattered, marked with a larger or lesser figure. If a sharp wind blew suddenly, I saw it tremble and flutter; it was thin, flat, impalpable. I removed my glasses, and looked with my eyes at the wife. I could have smiled to see the humid tenderness with which she regarded her strange vis-à-vis. Is life only a game of blind-man's-buff? of droll cross-purposes?

"Or I put them on again, and looked at the wife. How many stout trees I saw,— how many tender flowers,— how many placid pools; yes, and how many little streams winding out of sight, shrinking before the large, hard, round eyes opposite, and slipping off into solitude and shade, with a low, inner song for their own solace. And in many houses I thought to see angels, nymphs, or at least, women, and could only find broomsticks, mops, or kettles, hurrying about, rattling, tinkling, in a state of shrill activity. I made calls upon elegant ladies, and after I had enjoyed the gloss of silk and the delicacy of lace, and the flash of jewels, I slipped on my spectacles, and saw a peacock's feather, flounced and furbelowed and fluttering; or an iron rod, thin, sharp, and hard; nor could I possibly mistake the movement of the drapery for any flexibility of the thing draped,— or, mysteriously chilled, I saw a statue of perfect form, or flowing movement, it might be alabaster, or bronze, or marble,— but sadly often it was ice; and I knew that after it had shone a little, and frozen a few eyes with its despairing perfection, it could not be put away in the niches of palaces for ornament and proud family tradition, like the alabaster, or bronze, or marble statues, but would melt, and shrink, and fall coldly away in colorless and useless water, be absorbed in the earth and utterly forgotten.

"But the true sadness was rather in seeing those who, not having the spectacles, thought that the iron rod was flexible, and the ice statue warm. I saw many a gallant heart, which seemed to me brave and loyal as the crusaders sent by genuine and noble faith to Syria and the sepulchre, pursuing, through days and nights, and a long life of devotion, the hope of lighting at least a smile in the cold eyes, if not a fire in the icy heart. I watched the earnest, enthusiastic sacrifice. I saw the pure resolve, the generous faith, the fine scorn of doubt, the impatience of suspicion. I watched the grace, the ardor, the glory of devotion. Through those strange spectacles how often I saw the noblest heart renouncing all other hope, all other ambition, all other life, than the possible love of some one of those statues. Ah! me, it was terrible, but they had not the love to give. The Parian face was so polished and smooth, because there was no sorrow upon the heart,— and, drearily often, no heart to be touched. I could not wonder that the noble heart of devotion was broken, for it had dashed itself against a stone. I wept, until my spectacles were dimmed for that hopeless sorrow; but there was a pang beyond tears for those icy statues.

"Still a boy, I was thus too much a man in knowledge,— I did not comprehend the sights I was compelled to see. I used to tear my glasses away from my eyes, and, frightened at myself, run to escape my own consciousness. Reaching the small house where we then lived, I plunged into my grandmother's room and, throwing myself upon the floor, buried my face in her lap; and sobbed myself to sleep with premature grief. But when I awakened, and felt her cool hand upon my hot forehead, and heard the low, sweet song, or the gentle story, or the tenderly told parable from the Bible, with which she tried to soothe me, I could not resist the mystic fascination that lured me, as I lay in her lap, to steal a glance at her through the spectacles.

"Pictures of the Madonna have not her rare and pensive beauty. Upon the tranquil little islands her life had been eventless, and all the fine possibilities of her nature were like flowers that never bloomed. Placid were all her years; yet I have read of no heroine, of no woman great in sudden crises, that it did not seem to me she might have been. The wife and widow of a man who loved his own home better than the homes of others, I have yet heard of no queen, no belle, no imperial beauty, whom in grace, and brilliancy, and persuasive courtesy, she might not have surpassed.

"Madam," said Titbottom to my wife, whose heart hung upon his story; "your husband's young friend, Aurelia, wears sometimes a camelia in her hair, and no diamond in the ball-room seems so costly as that perfect flower, which women envy, and for whose least and withered petal men sigh; yet, in the tropical solitudes of Brazil, how many a camelia bud drops from a bush that no eye has ever seen, which, had it flowered and been noticed, would have gilded all hearts with its memory.

"When I stole these furtive glances at my grandmother, half fearing that they were wrong, I saw only a calm lake, whose shores were low, and over which the sky hung unbroken, so that the least star was clearly reflected. It had an atmosphere of solemn twilight tranquillity, and so completely did its unruffled surface blend with the cloudless, star-studded sky, that, when I looked through my spectacles at my grandmother, the vision seemed to me all heaven and stars. Yet, as I gazed and gazed, I felt what stately cities might well have been built upon those shores, and have flashed prosperity over the calm, like coruscations of pearls.

"I dreamed of gorgeous fleets, silken sailed and blown by perfumed winds, drifting over those depthless waters and through those spacious skies. I gazed upon the twilight, the inscrutable silence, like a God-fearing discoverer upon a new, and vast, and dim sea, bursting upon him through forest glooms, and in the fervor of whose impassioned gaze, a millennial and poetic world arises, and man need no longer die to be happy.

"My companions naturally deserted me, for I had grown wearily grave and abstracted: and, unable to resist the allurement of my spectacles, I was constantly lost in a world, of which those companions were part, yet of which they knew nothing. I grew cold and hard, almost morose; people seemed to me blind and unreasonable. They did the wrong thing. They called green, yellow; and black, white. Young men said of a girl, 'What a lovely, simple creature!' I looked, and there was only a glistening wisp of straw, dry and hollow. Or they said, 'What a cold, proud beauty!' I looked, and lo! a Madonna, whose heart held the world. Or they said, 'What a wild, giddy girl!' and I saw a glancing, dancing mountain stream, pure as the virgin snows whence it flowed, singing through sun and shade, over pearls and gold dust, slipping along unstained by weed, or rain, or heavy foot of cattle, touching the flowers with a dewy kiss,— a beam of grace, a happy song, a line of light, in the dim and troubled landscape.

"My grandmother sent me to school, but I looked at the master, and saw that he was a smooth, round ferule— or an improper noun— or a vulgar fraction, and refused to obey him. Or he was a piece of string, a rag, a willow-wand, and I had a contemptuous pity. But one was a well of cool, deep water, and looking suddenly in, one day, I saw the stars. He gave me all my schooling. With him I used to walk by the sea, and, as we strolled and the waves plunged in long legions before us, I looked at him through the spectacles, and as his eye dilated with the boundless view, and his chest heaved with an impossible desire, I saw Xerxes and his army tossing and glittering, rank upon rank, multitude upon multitude, out of sight, but ever regularly advancing and with the confused roar of ceaseless music, prostrating themselves in abject homage. Or, as with arms outstretched and hair streaming on the wind, he chanted full lines of the resounding Iliad, I saw Homer pacing the AEgean sands in the Greek sunsets of forgotten times.

"My grandmother died, and I was thrown into the world without resources, and with no capital but my spectacles. I tried to find employment, but men were shy of me. There was a vague suspicion that I was either a little crazed, or a good deal in league with the Prince of Darkness. My companions who would persist in calling a piece of painted muslin a fair and fragrant flower had no difficulty; success waited for them around every corner, and arrived in every ship. I tried to teach, for I loved children. But if anything excited my suspicion, and, putting on my spectacles, I saw that I was fondling a snake, or smelling at a bud with a worm in it, I sprang up in horror and ran away; or, if it seemed to me through the glasses that a cherub smiled upon me, or a rose was blooming in my buttonhole, then I felt myself imperfect and impure, not fit to be leading and training what was so essentially superior in quality to myself, and I kissed the children and left them weeping and wondering.

"In despair I went to a great merchant on the island, and asked him to employ me.

" 'My young friend,' said he, 'I understand that you have some singular secret, some charm, or spell, or gift, or something, I don't know what, of which people are afraid. Now, you know, my dear,' said the merchant, swelling up, and apparently prouder of his great stomach than of his large fortune, 'I am not of that kind. I am not easily frightened. You may spare yourself the pain of trying to impose upon me. People who propose to come to time before I arrive, are accustomed to arise very early in the morning,' said he, thrusting his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and spreading the fingers, like two fans, upon his bosom. 'I think I have heard something of your secret. You have a pair of spectacles, I believe, that you value very much, because your grandmother brought them as a marriage portion to your grandfather. Now, if you think fit to sell me those spectacles, I will pay you the largest market price for glasses. What do you say?'

"I told him that I had not the slightest idea of selling my spectacles.

" 'My young friend means to eat them, I suppose,' said he with a contemptuous smile.

"I made no reply, but was turning to leave the office, when the merchant called after me—

" 'My young friend, poor people should never suffer themselves to get into pets. Anger is an expensive luxury, in which only men of a certain income can indulge. A pair of spectacles and a hot temper are not the most promising capital for success in life, Master Titbottom.'

"I said nothing, but put my hand upon the door to go out, when the merchant said more respectfully,—

" 'Well, you foolish boy, if you will not sell your spectacles, perhaps you will agree to sell the use of them to me. That is, you shall only put them on when I direct you, and for my purposes. Hallo! you little fool!' cried he impatiently, as he saw that I intended to make no reply.

"But I had pulled out my spectacles, and put them on for my own purpose, and against his direction and desire. I looked at him, and saw a huge bald-headed wild boar, with gross chops and a leering eye— only the more ridiculous for the high-arched, gold-bowed spectacles, that straddled his nose. One of his fore hoofs was thrust into the safe, where his bills payable were hived, and the other into his pocket, among the loose change and bills there. His ears were pricked forward with a brisk, sensitive smartness. In a world where prize pork was the best excellence, he would have carried off all the premiums.

"I stepped into the next office in the street, and a mild-faced, genial man, also a large and opulent merchant, asked me my business in such a tone, that I instantly looked through my spectacles, and saw a land flowing with milk and honey. There I pitched my tent, and stayed till the good man died, and his business was discontinued.

"But while there," said Titbottom, and his voice trembled away into a sigh, "I first saw Preciosa. Spite of the spectacles, I saw Preciosa. For days, for weeks, for months, I did not take my spectacles with me. I ran away from them, I threw them up on high shelves, I tried to make up my mind to throw them into the sea, or down the well. I could not, I would not, I dared not look at Preciosa through the spectacles. It was not possible for me deliberately to destroy them; but I awoke in the night, and could almost have cursed my dear old grandfather for his gift. I escaped from the office, and sat for whole days with Preciosa. I told her the strange things I had seen with my mystic glasses. The hours were not enough for the wild romances which I raved in her ear. She listened, astonished and appalled. Her blue eyes turned upon me with a sweet deprecation. She clung to me, and then withdrew, and fled fearfully from the room. But she could not stay away. She could not resist my voice, in whose tones burned all the love that filled my heart and brain. The very effort to resist the desire of seeing her as I saw everybody else, gave a frenzy and an unnatural tension to my feeling and my manner. I sat by her side, looking into her eyes, smoothing her hair, folding her to my heart, which was sunken and deep— why not forever?— in that dream of peace. I ran from her presence, and shouted, and leaped with joy, and sat the whole night through, thrilled into happiness by the thought of her love and loveliness, like a wind-harp, tightly strung, and answering the airiest sigh of the breeze with music. Then came calmer days— the conviction of deep love settled upon our lives— as after the hurrying, heaving days of spring, comes the bland and benignant summer.

" 'It is no dream, then, after all, and we are happy,' I said to her, one day; and there came no answer, for happiness is speechless.

"We are happy then," I said to myself, "there is no excitement now. How glad I am that I can now look at her through my spectacles."

"I feared lest some instinct should warn me to beware. I escaped from her arms, and ran home and seized the glasses and bounded back again to Preciosa. As I entered the room I was heated, my head was swimming with confused apprehension, my eyes must have glared. Preciosa was frightened, and rising from her seat, stood with an inquiring glance of surprise in her eyes. But I was bent with frenzy upon my purpose. I was merely aware that she was in the room. I saw nothing else. I heard nothing. I cared for nothing, but to see her through that magic glass, and feel at once, all the fulness of blissful perfection which that would reveal. Preciosa stood before the mirror, but alarmed at my wild and eager movements, unable to distinguish what I had in my hands, and seeing me raise them suddenly to my face, she shrieked with terror, and fell fainting upon the floor, at the very moment that I placed the glasses before my eyes, and beheld— myself, reflected in the mirror, before which she had been standing.

"Dear madam," cried Titbottom, to my wife, springing up and falling back again in his chair, pale and trembling, while Prue ran to him and took his hand, and I poured out a glass of water— "I saw myself."

There was silence for many minutes. Prue laid her hand gently upon the head of our guest, whose eyes were closed, and who breathed softly, like an infant in sleeping. Perhaps, in all the long years of anguish since that hour, no tender hand had touched his brow, nor wiped away the damps of a bitter sorrow. Perhaps the tender, maternal fingers of my wife soothed his weary head with the conviction that he felt the hand of his mother playing with the long hair of her boy in the soft West Indian morning. Perhaps it was only the natural relief of expressing a pent-up sorrow. When he spoke again, it was with the old, subdued tone, and the air of quaint solemnity.

"These things were matters of long, long ago, and I came to this country soon after. I brought with me, premature age, a past of melancholy memories, and the magic spectacles. I had become their slave. I had nothing more to fear. Having seen myself, I was compelled to see others, properly to understand my relations to them. The lights that cheer the future of other men had gone out for me. My eyes were those of an exile turned backwards upon the receding shore, and not forwards with hope upon the ocean. I mingled with men, but with little pleasure. There are but many varieties of a few types. I did not find those I came to clearer sighted than those I had left behind. I heard men called shrewd and wise, and report said they were highly intelligent and successful. But when I looked at them through my glasses, I found no halo of real manliness. My finest sense detected no aroma of purity and principle; but I saw only a fungus that had fattened and spread in a night. They all went to the theater to see actors upon the stage. I went to see actors in the boxes, so consummately cunning, that the others did not know they were acting, and they did not suspect it themselves.

"Perhaps you wonder it did not make me misanthropical. My dear friends, do not forget that I had seen myself. It made me compassionate, not cynical. Of course I could not value highly the ordinary standards of success and excellence. When I went to church and saw a thin, blue, artificial flower, or a great sleepy cushion expounding the beauty of holiness to pews full of eagles, half-eagles, and threepences, however adroitly concealed in broadcloth and boots: or saw an onion in an Easter bonnet weeping over the sins of Magdalen, I did not feel as they felt who saw in all this, not only propriety, but piety. Or when at public meetings an eel stood up on end, and wriggled and squirmed lithely in every direction, and declared that, for his part, he went in for rainbows and hot water— how could I help seeing that he was still black and loved a slimy pool?

"I could not grow misanthropical when I saw in the eyes of so many who were called old, the gushing fountains of eternal youth, and the light of an immortal dawn, or when I saw those who were esteemed unsuccessful and aimless, ruling a fair realm of peace and plenty, either in themselves, or more perfectly in another— a realm and princely possession for which they had well renounced a hopeless search and a belated triumph. I knew one man who had been for years a by-word for having sought the philosopher's stone. But I looked at him through the spectacles and saw a satisfaction in concentrated energies, and a tenacity arising from devotion to a noble dream, which was not apparent in the youths who pitied him in the aimless effeminacy of clubs, nor in the clever gentlemen who cracked their thin jokes upon him over a gossiping dinner.

"And there was your neighbor over the way, who passes for a woman who has failed in her career, because she is an old maid. People wag solemn heads of pity, and say that she made so great a mistake in not marrying the brilliant and famous man who was for long years her suitor. It is clear that no orange flower will ever bloom for her. The young people make tender romances about her as they watch her, and think of her solitary hours of bitter regret, and wasting longing, never to be satisfied. When I first came to town I shared this sympathy, and pleased my imagination with fancying her hard struggle with the conviction that she had lost all that made life beautiful. I supposed that if I looked at her through my spectacles, I should see that it was only her radiant temper which so illuminated her dress, that we did not see it to be heavy sables. But when, one day, I did raise my glasses and glanced at her, I did not see the old maid whom we all pitied for a secret sorrow, but a woman whose nature was a tropic, in which the sun shone, and birds sang, and flowers bloomed forever. There were no regrets, no doubts and half wishes, but a calm sweetness, a transparent peace. I saw her blush when that old lover passed by, or paused to speak to her, but it was only the sign of delicate feminine consciousness. She knew his love, and honored it, although she could not understand it nor return it. I looked closely at her, and I saw that although all the world had exclaimed at her indifference to such homage, and had declared it was astonishing she should lose so fine a match, she would only say simply and quietly—

" 'If Shakespeare loved me and I did not love him, how could I marry him?'

"Could I be misanthropical when I saw such fidelity, and dignity, and simplicity?

"You may believe that I was especially curious to look at that old lover of hers, through my glasses. He was no longer young, you know, when I came, and his fame and fortune were secure. Certainly I have heard of few men more beloved, and of none more worthy to be loved. He had the easy manner of a man of the world, the sensitive grace of a poet, and the charitable judgment of a wide traveller. He was accounted the most successful and most unspoiled of men. Handsome, brilliant, wise, tender, graceful, accomplished, rich, and famous, I looked at him, without the spectacles, in surprise, and admiration, and wondered how your neighbor over the way had been so entirely untouched by his homage. I watched their intercourse in society, I saw her gay smile, her cordial greeting; I marked his frank address, his lofty courtesy. Their manner told no tales. The eager world was balked, and I pulled out my spectacles.

"I had seen her, already, and now I saw him. He lived only in memory, and his memory was a spacious and stately palace. But he did not oftenest frequent the banqueting hall, where were endless hospitality and feasting— nor did he loiter much in reception rooms, where a throng of new visitors was forever swarming— nor did he feed his vanity by haunting the apartment in which were stored the trophies of his varied triumphs— nor dream much in the great gallery hung with pictures of his travels. But from all these lofty halls of memory he constantly escaped to a remote and solitary chamber, into which no one had ever penetrated. But my fatal eyes, behind the glasses, followed and entered with him, and saw that the chamber was a chapel. It was dim, and silent, and sweet with perpetual incense that burned upon an altar before a picture forever veiled. There, whenever I chanced to look, I saw him kneel and pray; and there, by day and by night, a funeral hymn was chanted.

"I do not believe you will be surprised that I have been content to remain deputy bookkeeper. My spectacles regulated my ambition, and I early learned that there were better gods than Plutus. The glasses have lost much of their fascination now, and I do not often use them. Sometimes the desire is irresistible. Whenever I am greatly interested, I am compelled to take them out and see what it is that I admire.

"And yet— and yet," said Titbottom, after a pause, "I am not sure that I thank my grandfather."

Prue had long since laid away her work, and had heard every word of the story. I saw that the dear woman had yet one question to ask, and had been earnestly hoping to hear something that would spare her the necessity of asking. But Titbottom had resumed his usual tone, after the momentary excitement, and made no further allusion to himself. We all sat silently; Titbottom's eyes fastened musingly upon the carpet: Prue looking wistfully at him, and I regarding both.

It was past midnight, and our guest arose to go. He shook hands quietly, made his grave Spanish bow to Prue, and taking his hat, went towards the front door. Prue and I accompanied him. I saw in her eyes that she would ask her question. And as Titbottom opened the door, I heard the low words:

"And Preciosa?"

Titbottom paused. He had just opened the door and the moonlight streamed over him as he stood, turning back to us.

"I have seen her but once since. It was in church, and she was kneeling with her eyes closed, so that she did not see me. But I rubbed the glasses well, and looked at her, and saw a white lily, whose stem was broken, but which was fresh; and luminous, and fragrant, still."

"That was a miracle," interrupted Prue.

"Madam, it was a miracle," replied Titbottom, "and for that one sight I am devoutly grateful for my grandfather's gift. I saw, that although a flower may have lost its hold upon earthly moisture, it may still bloom as sweetly, fed by the dews of heaven."

The door closed, and he was gone. But as Prue put her arm in mine and we went upstairs together, she whispered in my ear:

"How glad I am that you don't wear spectacles."

________________

7: Sage-Brush Sally's Mother

Mulloy Finnegan
fl 1910s

Munsey's Magazine May 1913

Dalby Herald (Qld) 16 Aug 1913

THEY LIVED in a dugout, Sage-brush Sally and her mother. There was no father— at least not since Sally was born; and even before that time he could hardly have been called a father— as far as Sally was concerned, anyhow. Her mother was reticent on the subject, as well as on other subjects ; for she was too busy a woman to talk much. Hard labour was written all over her— in the furrows of her face, in the knob of iron grey hair between her ears, in the bent shoulders and the hard, cracked hands. She wore a man's sweater and a man's shoes; but her skirt was feminine.

"Sally," she said, looking up from the tub where she was washing at the dugout door, "hadn't you better go and see about your dress?"

"After lunch, mother," called Sally from within, her voice carrying an aroma of fried ham and coffee. "That automobile yon see out on the desert won't be here for an hour yet. Come— lunch is ready!"

The mother wiped the suds from her arms with her burlap apron as she went in at the dugout door. The place was clean if it was a dugout. A door and window in the side that wasn't hill, and a hole to let out the pipe of the sheet iron stove, afforded ample ventilation for the one room that constituted their home. Bright bits of carpet covered parts of the rough board floor, and a flowered coverlet on the bed in a far corner added to its cheerfulness. The walls were pretty well covered with prints from newspapers and magazines, with a few calendars and brewery advertisements, in most instances fastened directly to the mud and rocks.

Sally's mother didn't say much as she ate her simple meal, but her eyes kept Poking out through the open door to what looked like a stream of water  in the distance, with a thread drawn taut across it. It wasn't water; it was sand— desert— and the thread was the automobile road. A tiny cloud of dust proclaimed that the express from Los Angeles was on its way.

"Sally," she said, when it disappeared behind a boulder, "I wouldn't wait to wash the dishes."

ii

WHEN Sally came back from the Wells-Fargo office with the suit box hugged under her arm, her mother was showing a newcomer a furnished room in a barnlike structure that stood within a few paces of the dugout door. He was a good-looking, well-dressed man of about 33. He was slightly bald; the hair that remained matched the short, black moustache and thick brows, and  lashes whose eyes might be any colour and still look black.  They followed the girl into the dugout, coming back to the mother as if for comparison.

"Your daughter?" The brows lifted.

"Yes; she's all I've got," said Sally's mother. Then, when she had the stranger settled in his room, and had seen that there was wood for the sheet iron stove; and water for the tin basin on the combination dresser and washstand, and oil in the lamp, she went in to the girl in the dugout.

Sally was holding the dress up for her mother to see. On the bed were the two halves, of the box it came in, with a lot of tissue wrapping paper. A pleased look came into the older woman's face as she took in the cloud of white chiffon and satin. It wasn't a smile, for Sally's mother was too busy a woman to smile.

"It's going to be becoming to you," she said— and went back to work at the tub by the door.

It wasn't because she wanted Sally to go to the dance that was going to be given in the big tent, to raise funds to buy pews for the new church, that she sent 60 dollars— every one of them earned with her hard, cracked hands over to Los Angeles for something for the girl to wear; but if Sally went, she was going to be dressed as well as any one. The burlap apron checked a suspicious moisture in one faded blue eye— and perhaps a little sniffle fell into the tub.

iii

Came the eventful night— and Sally was dressed and ready for the big dance. I don't know whether Sally would be called pretty, but she had good skin, hair, eyes, and teeth— and that is saying a good deal. She was 19, and youth has charms of its own. Also, she was slender, though tall enough, and neither light nor dark. Her hands weren't cracked like her mother's, either; for her mother would as  soon have thrown her into a den of rattle-snakes as let her help to make up the men's rooms or wash their shirts.

Not that the men in these places were different from any other men; but they were men. Asked where she was born, Sally might have told you that it was on the side of the Panamint Mountains, between the Lone Jackass mine and the Lucifer claim. Her education she gathered from the sage-brush, too, in the simple schools of the mushroom laming camps that lived long enough to have schools; or from people around her— for, after all, that is where we get most of our education.

Al Turner, coming by in final attempt to get Sally to go to the dance with him, thought nothing could look prettier. Perhaps, too, he thought the new suit he was wearing, ordered for the occasion, might have some bearing in the matter; but one look from her mother, busy at the ironing board, convinced  him that only under the protecting wings of fat Mrs. Bisley and her miner husband would the girl be allowed to go at all. She was a careful mother, and Sally an obedient daughter— so far.

Sally didn't notice Al Turner's new suit until the young prospector was making his ways under the strings of electric fights to ask her for the first dance. But he wasn't quick enough; and even as he was writing his name for one further down on the card the music struck up, and she was whirled away from him on the arm of the black-moustached stranger who had rented a room from her mother. Al waited till they got around his way— twice. Then he went out and took a drink. When he came back, Sally was dancing with some body else; and he wont out and took another.

Then, when his turn came, Sally wouldn't dance with him because he had been drinking; and he went out and took several more. She was in the arm of the dark-eyed stranger again when he returned and his fingers crawled around to the hip pocket of his new trousers. It isn't so easy to shoot a man who is dancing, for you never know which way a waltzer or a two-stepper is going to turn next— and Sally got the bullet in the leg!

The ball stopped— but not altogether, for there were plenty of people who didn't get shot in the legs, and they could still use them for dancing. They gathered up the limp bundle of chiffon, and carried her home to her mother. It was only a flesh wound, but serious enough for the man who did the shooting to make himself pretty scarce; and before he came back to Chuggins— well, lots of things had happened.

The man for whom the shot had been intended was attention itself. He sent all the way to Los Angeles for roses and violets, which converted the little dugout into a veritable fairy's cave. He ordered bon-bons and crystallised fruit, too for the fairy when she could sit in the doorway mending the rents in the chiffon gown. The stern guardian at the tub could hardly prevent his stopping to chat with both of them and leave his offering.

When Sally was getting around again, he would watch for her at the post office, or at the store; and one afternoon they came home together, he lending an arm for her support. The mother no disapprove of it that it didn't happen again.

Dick Cromly wasn't a miner. No use putting a tooth in it; he was a gambler. It wasn't for that— but because he was a man.

Then, one day, Sally's mother noticed something shining on Sally's hand when she was passing her coffee across the table. The piteous eyes travelled from the diamond to the girl's' face.

"Yes, mother," said Sally. "Dick wants me to marry him."

Her mother didn't say anything; but one little tear splashed in her coffee.

iv

THEY WERE married in the little church with the new pews, and Sally wore her white chiffon dress.

"Be good to her," said the mother to her new son, when the bride and groom were going away. Was it a prayer or a threat?

Sally never remembered her mother kissing her before— but this time she put her dry lips against the young cheek and held them there quivering.

"Good-bye, mother!"

The automobile jerked away. Two moist blue eyes watched for it to come from behind the shoulder again. Then they followed it over the thread across the desert till it was lost in the horizon— and the tub at the dugout door was forgotten for the first time.

A wire next day said they were on the train, going into Los Angeles. Then came post cards, with pictures of the wonders, of that city; and a letter said that Sally was happy. Then more picture cards and more letters— sometimes from near-by towns, where Dick had to go to make money: then from Los Angeles again, where they came hack to spend it and, when he had an extra streak of luck, he took Sally up to San Francisco and bought her pretty things.

Soon a lonely little letter from there told that he had gone on a trip without her; but he was back again in a few weeks, buying more pretty things. Rarer grew these missives. Sometimes he took her along and sometimes he didn't.

One day, when about a year had gone by since Dick Cromly and Sagebrush Sally were married in the church with the new pews. Sally's mother was washing in the tub at the dugout door. Now and then she paused in her work, to gaze across the desert. The thread didn't go all the way any more; a railroad was being built in to meet it.

She hadn't had a word from Sally in nearly two months!

Again she wiped the suds from her arms with her burlap apron, and patted each eye with it as she went into the dugout to her lonely meal.

She ate and watched the little cloud of dust go behind the boulder, hoping— though she knew that the mail for the day was already in.

She was clearing away the things, when a shadow fell across them— and Sally stood in the doorway with a little bundle. Sally's mother drew them in, put her strong arms about them together, and squeezed them tight to her. The little bundle began to cry.

"It's a girl,"  said Sally!

"Again!" breathed her mother. Then she knew. What she had been afraid of all these years had happened.

Sally hadn't heard from her husband in three whole months. All her pretty things had gone and, when she could get out of the hospital, she had parted with her wedding ring to come home to her mother.

"He must he dead, mother," she said. "Nothing but death would make Dick forget me!"

But the older woman did her own thinking.

v

SALLY didn't die, though there were, times when the sad-eyed woman watching her feared to take a breath lest it might blow, out the life in the frail body before her. Back in her native clime, with the whiff of the sage-brush and the creosote bushes in her nostrils, the daughter of the Nevada desert began to pick up; and she and little Sally grew strong together. There's something, too, in being where one's wanted. Even Al Turner came back, to Chuggins— "to work some claims," he said.

Sally's mother had changed her mind about Al. After all, so long as he kept sober and could shoot straight, he wasn't such a bad fellow to have around.

Little by little she gathered details.

Dick Cromly's last missive was from Seattle, and said that he was thinking of taking the boat to Alaska, and would send for Sally when he made the price. Sally wrote to several places where people thought they had seen her husband; but her letters were returned, marked "unclaimed" or "unknown."

Her mother compared notes and postmarks— most of which, she noticed, were the newer Nevada camps— and put two and two together.

"Where there is so much smoke there must be fire," she said:

Then one bright morning she told Sally that Mrs. Bisley— who wasn't so fat now, for her husband was out of work— was moving her tent over beside the dugout, and would look after the laundry part of the establishment; and when Sally was stronger she could help her with the rooms, the rents from which would keep her and little Sally.

"But, mother?" questioned Sally.

"I am going to find him," said her mother.

vi

WHEN she got around the hill she chopped off the knob of iron-grey hair, and put on a suit of man's khaki clothes. When she reached the town on the other side of it she went into a barber's shop, and got a real hair cut.

She dug into her wash-tub savings, a good chunk of which she had drawn that day, and bought a ticket for the place where most people thought they had seen her truant son-in-law. It was nearly deserted when she got there, those who could having struck out in all directions for other and newer diggings around for a week, making inquiries, but being careful not to be too direct in her questions, lest she might frighten away her prey. She chanced to meet a disgusted victim who was on his way back from one of the newer camps, after haying been fleeced of his all by a man answering Dick Cromly's description.

She went there. She found the man who did the fleecing, and he looked as much like Dick Cromly as she did.

Then she went to other places— no need to enumerate. She followed every possible clue. She travelled in trains and automobiles, by stage, on mule back, and on foot; father away, then nearer again— doubling on her tracks as often as she went ahead; with the crowd and alone; rushing into new places and creeping into ones where the excitement had died out; over sand and sage brush and rocks; through milky streams of alkali and pools of brackish poison; sleeping under the sky as often as anywhere else, and sometimes suffering for food and even water. She worked where she could, else her savings would long ago have given out; and a new mining camp is the worst place on earth to go into without money. We hear of what comes out; but we don't hear of all that goes in.

She saw many of the same faces in these different camps and met men whose shirts she used to wash. But nobody recognised her in the bent old man in mussed, khaki, with the slouch hat and knee boots.

At last she struck a town that Dick Cromly had just left. No use inquiring where he had gone! She had tried that before. If he mentioned destination it was because he was going somewhere else.

"But," said some one casually, "his wife is still here; he didn't take her with him this time."

His wife!

Having found the cabin where the woman lived, she pitched a tent near it. and solicited work among the neighbours, who found Pete, as they called him— or her, rather— accommodating and handy for running chores, splitting wood, carrying: in water, or even helping with the house work. she would offer to bring home the mail j when she wont down town in the morning.

Soon she wag rewarded by seeing some in the familiar hand writing. But always the post mark was different.

"Mrs. R. T. Cromly, Barrie, Nevada,"

She couldn't hide her pleasure when handed one of these missives; and. then; she would worry till she got another. She was a pleasant woman enough; larger and older than Sally, and handsome in a coarse way.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" bluffed Peter, when she was washing windows there one hot afternoon. "Over to Bull Dog, may be," when your husband had a club there about a year ago?"

"Oh, no," denied the other. "I didn't know Mr. Cromly then."

Didn't know him a year ago, and it was two years since he married Sally! Then came three letters in succession, with the same post mark— and Pete lit out for the name it spelled.

vii

BUCKSKIN was a new camp, as evidenced by the busy prospectors in the hills which were studded with the familiar monuments showing where they had staked out their claims. The open holes beside some of these suggested fresh graves ready for the hopes that so many would bury in them.

An old man was climbing out of the last hole she passed, ready to yell the  accustomed warning—"Fire! Three shots!"— after lighting the fuse at the bottom of it. But a different sound came out of his throat as he slipped back. But for Pete's aid in dragging him out with her strong arms he might have been blown to pieces. ?

"Thanks, old man!" he said.

"Old man yourself," she mumbled, and continued on into town.

She saw him again that afternoon among the loiterers who filled the street in front of the White House, a combination drink-emporium, mining exchange and gambling club. The old man had a coterie of his own around him, and was showing them some of the stuff the blast had blown up. Those who seemed to know agreed with him that it was pretty good stuff.

Something about the old man attracted Sally's mother. It wasn't his beauty. One shoulder was a little lower than the other, and one leg was a little shorter than the other; and he was so over-run with beard and shaggy grey hair that people called him "Whiskers," without even asking what his name was. But there was something about him that reminded her of something — something she had seen or known before— perhaps in some previous incarnation.

She got a job further down the street at the Palace, where she heard that Dick, Cromly was running a poker game. The Palace was the hotel of the place— a lot of rooms on one side of the hall, a saloon and gambling club on the other. Pete's job was to keep things clean on the saloon side.

Dick Cromly was there, sure enough; but he little thought that the old man who sprinkled sawdust on the floor was his mother-in-law, whom he had noticed very little at any time. She even waited on him, and took the tip he threw at herm or swallowed the oath that as often took its place.

Whiskers hung around there a good deal. His good fortune seemed to be turning his head— or perhaps it was the whisky. Everybody, was berating him, and even Dick Cromly condescended to engage him in a game of poker. The old man made five dollars, then 10 and 15: The next night he came back to do it over again. He made, some more, and then began to lose; and when he hadn't any more cash to lose, he put up his mine and lost it. Pete watched the unfortunate wretch stagger up from the table, while the lucky Dick gathered up the cards and stuck them in his inside vest pocket. Later, she slipped the old man a dollar to get something to eat. Still later, when it was near morning, and things were quiet, she went down the hall to visit her son-in-law in his room in the hotel side of the house.

She found Whiskers there, begging the price of a bed.

Dick Cromly sat at a table, writing, in his shirt sleeves; even his vest having been laid aside.  Finally, to get rid of the old man, he told him to take some clothes that were hanging on a peg and give them a good brushing, and. he would pay him a dollar for it.

A trail', she wondered what the grizzly individual reminded her of as he limped out of the room with the armful of clothes, the, discarded vest on top. Dick Cromly continued writing.

"Don't you know me ?" she said. ,

"Why, you're old Pete, who washes the spittoons around here," he answered without looking up.

"Worse than that," she corrected. Sally's mother talked so little that she was husky, so that eyen her voice didn't betray her.

"I let you marry my daughter."

Then he looked at her. "I didn't know Sally had a father," he said.

"She had; and he was a man like you. I'm her mother."

A short grunt escaped him as the ludicrousness of it struck him. He scrutinised her through his thick lashes.

"I thought there was something funny about you!" he said," striking a match and lighting a big cigar. He tried to make rings with it.

"Sally was a nice little, thing," he mused, watching them go up, "but I don't miss her any more. What do' you want?" She took something glistening out or her pocket and laid it on the table.

"Here," she added. "Do the right thing!"

"You mean," he replied, glancing from the gun to her face, "you want me to—"

"Get off the earth," she finished. "There are" too many of your kind on it."

"You're not afraid," he argued, "that I'd use it to blow your head off?"

"It  would make no difference to me," she answered; "and you'd only be taking another route down below. How long you think you'd last after those men out there found that you'd killed a woman?"

He twirled the cigar around in his mouth, and flicked with a thumb and middle finger at the gun on the table.

"Take the toy away," he said. "I want to finish my letter."

She didn't stir, except, that her cracked hands kept opening and shutting against her khaki-clad sides. One letter was already finished and enclosed in a long legal-looking envelope,  addressed to the county seat at Tonopah

Evidently he was losing no time in recording the mining property he had so recently acquired— while its former owner was brushing his-clothes for the price of a bed! She watched him finish the other letter and direct the envelope— a small-one, this time— which, even upside down, she could see he addressed to the woman at Barrie.

"Maybe you'd like to see the rest of it?" he said' sarcastically, noting her interest. He turned the letter around, to her while he hunted for a postage stamp. No sense of  propriety prevented , her reading

Sweetheart

I know I'm a bum letter writer, and keep you waiting sometimes when things go wrong; but I'm always thinking of you. To prove it, I had a little luck today, and am enclosing a hundred of it. Have patience, girlie, and if a deal I made to-day doesn't get away from me, we'll be together living on Easy-street. Love and kisses from yours only

Dick.

The taunt was still, in his face when the door burst open and Whiskers came through it, a loose deck of cards in one hand, a gun in the other!

"Cheat! Thief! Take your marked cards!" he cried, flinging them at Dick, while his other hand worked with the trigger

Like a flash Cromly snatched up the gun on the table— and his murderer dropped as quick as he did. Other men, quickly summoned by the firing, stepped over the dead body of Whiskers to get to the gambler. They picked him up out of the scattered cards that he had forgotten to take out of his vest-pocket, and laid him on the bed, but it was too late.

While they were busy with him, Sally's mother got down on her khaki knees beside the body in the doorway. The bullet from her gun, fired by the man for whom it had been intended, had gone straight to the old miner's heart.

Pitifully she lifted the shaggy head from the floor. It hung back limp over her arm; the thick hair tumbling away from the  forehead; but at sight of an old zig-zag scar it uncovered, she dropped a rattle-snake!

With one finger she felt along the scar, as if hating to touch it, but anxious to make sure that it was there. The nearest approach to a smile that could come there crawled into her furrowed face as she looked from one corpse to another and mumbled:—

"Two— birds— with— one— stone!"

Then she went out, and mailed, the letters— first changing the word "Barrie" on one of the envelopes to "Chuggins."

She turned her face that way, too— and the happy look in her eyes told of something which made the walk ahead of her seem not so long...

She was goings home— to tell Sally that her husband was dead; that after writing that loving letter, he had been killed by a very bad man— a man who had deserted a wife and little baby more than 20 years ago.

But Sally's mother wasn't going to tell Sally that she was that little baby!

________________

8: Billy

J. J. Bell

1871-1934

Observer (Adelaide) 7 Aug 1909

John Joy Bell

BOTH body and face belied his age. The former was much too slight, the latter much too wise for nine years. But sturdiness and fresh simplicity are not bred on poverty, hunger, and dirt, and this boy had known little else from his cradle, which had been an old soapbox. Probably he had been more in contact with soap then than since. The past, however, troubled him as little as did his personal experience; and as for the future, there was no necessity to consider it, seeing that the present contained food and warmth. In the summer sunshine he squatted on the doorstep of the shut-up mansion, and ate a thick slice of bread and jam.

Some weeks previously he had made a grand discovery. For the first time in his life he had left the city proper behind him, and after a pretty long walk had come to where there were neither shops nor factories, only great, beautiful houses, and fine gardens. Many of the houses were closed, but more than sufficient for his purpose were open; indeed, it gave him a comfortable feeling to realize that he would never be able to call at them all. It is true that every call did not result in a meal far nicer than he could get at home; its often as not he met with a rebuff; but he did not mind making two or three calls on the certainty of being once successful.

To-day the results had been even more encouraging than usual, for two maids had willingly responded to his appeals with a delicious beef sandwich, and the aforesaid bread and jam. And what with the blue sky, the bright sunshine, the warm step, the electric cars and motors and carriages flying past, not to mention his satisfied appetite. Billy was as happy as ever he had been in his life.

The closed house, whose bottom step provided him with rest, was one of a short terrace, standing on a carriage drive, well back from the main road. Broad square pillars flanked each end of the step; and when he saw the policeman strolling along the main road, Billy was wont to squeeze himself behind one of them. So far he had escaped observation, though once in his anxiety he had nearly fallen into the area, twelve feet below. Of ordinary pedestrians who were few and far between, he was not greatly afraid. On the contrary, since that happy day when a lady had given him a penny, he had regarded their approach more with expectation than apprehension, albeit, no more pennies had come to him. Still, one can hope on a full stomach.

Having swallowed the last morsel of the bread and jam, he licked his fingers and wiped them on the leg of his trousers. Then from his ragged jacket he produced a half-smoked cigarette and a wooden match. Presently he was leaning back against the pillar, puffing luxuriously. He felt perfectly comfortable.

And he would have felt perfectly happy, also, had he not begun to think of his brother. He missed his elder brother Bob very much. Bob, it is true, had never been particularly kind to him, but be had never failed to champion him against the other street boys who were inclined to make a butt of the younger. Billy had always been a solitary little soul, and since Bob had been taken away he had been lonelier than ever. As he sat on the step he wondered what Bob was doing, and what Bob was getting to eat, and how Bob was being treated, and whether Bob would ever come back again. He was sorry for Bob. He vividly remembered the day, a year ago, when Bob, struggling and scraming, had been taken away by two men who kept on smiling and saying it was all for Bob's own good. Billy would have kicked the men had not his mother restrained him. She had not seemed to mind much. Indeed, she had afterwards expressed the wish that there had been a vacancy for Billy too. Billy shuddered, and felt in his pocket for another "fag".

He was in the act of igniting it from the remains of his first smoke when a sound on the pavement startled him. Someone was coming along the terrace. Billy had gathered that ladies did not give pennies to boys who smoked, so he extinguished the second "fag," and replaced it in his pocket, at the same time dropping the first regretfully into the area. But when he peeped round the pillar he discovered that he had acted rather hastily.

An old gentleman was approaching, and Billy at once summed him up as quite harmless. For the old gentleman was hobbling laboriously with the assistance of two sticks, and was peering through uncommonly large dark glasses.

"He'll likely no' see me," thought the boy, "an' he couldna catch me onyway. I'll jist bide here." He drew in his bare legs and waited, regarding the newcomer not without interest.  There was something fascinating about the great black spectacles on the ruddy, white-moustached countenance.

"I wisht he wild gi'e me a penny," said Billy to himself. "But I doot he'll no' dae that."

The old gentleman did not appear to observe the lad until he reached the steps. Then he halted abruptly.

"Well, boy, what are you doing here?" The question was put in a somewhat gruff voice.

Billy's last faint hope of a penny evaporated.

"Naethin'."

"What were you doing five minutes ago?"

Billy began to feel uneasy. "Naethin'," he said again, and wriggled slightly,

"You were smoking, boy."

Billy made to rise.

"Sit still, boy."

Billy collapsed. He wanted to bolt, and yet be could not.

"I saw you from my window," the old gentleman continued. "You shouldn't smoke. You are much too young. You must stop it. You must promise me never to smoke again till you are— Ah!"

Here the old gentleman gave a queer grunt and seemed about to fall on Billy, who shrank into his corner; but recovering himself he tottered to the steps and with great difficulty seated himself on the step above Billy's.

"A spasm, boy," he said at last, the colour returning to his face. "Merely a spasm, but a— a dashed severe one. Enough to make one swear. But you must never do that. Do you hear, boy?"

Something compelled the boy to nod his head and mutter "Ay!"

"That's right. The old gentleman's voice was not so gruff, "and no more smoking— eh?"

This time Billy did not respond.

"Come, come!" said the old gentleman. "Surely you do not really enjoy smoking?"

"Fine!" said Billy off his guard.

"Well, I'm— er— surprised! But all the same, you must give it up. Do you hear, boy?'

Once more Billy made to rise.

"Sit still, sit still," said the old gentleman reassuringly. "I want to talk to you, boy, We'll drop the "question of smoking in the meantime. Where do you live?"

Billy gave the information grudgingly.

"Father and mother quite well?"

"They're fine!"

"That's right! And what does father do?"

Bill hesitated. "He's out to' work the noo," he replied at last, with a suspicious glance at the questioner.

"That's a pity. And mother— has she any work?"

"Ay; she washes."

The old gentleman sighed. "A hard life! And have you any brothers and sisters?" he enquired.

"Five leevin, an' five deid. What d'ye want to ken for?"

"Are your brothers and sisters at home?"

"Bob's awa'."

"Is Bob the eldest?"

"Ay."

"And where is Bob? At work?"

"What d'ye want to ken for?"

"Tell me where Bob is," said the old gentleman, with a quiet authority that Billy could not resist.

"They took him awa' to a home to be trained, an' I doot I'll never see him again." The boy's voice trembled.

"Oh, yes, you'll see him again. And you must remember it is a splendid thing for your brother, my lad."

"It's no! He didna want to gang."

"Yes, but he'll know better now."

Billy shook his head. "Bob'll never get ony fun whaur he is."

"Fun!" murmured the old gentleman. "Do you know what fun is?"

"Fine! What d'ye want to ken for?"'

The old gentleman became silent, and after a little while Billy got up.

"Stay, my lad. Don't you get. You haven't told me your name."

Billy retired a couple of paces, regarding his questioner with increased suspicion.

"Come, tell me your name."

"What d'ye want to ken for?"

"Don't be afraid. It's for your own good."

The words "for your own good" fell like a knell on Billy's ears. With all his suspicions. He had never imagined the old gentleman to be anything worse than sanitary inspector in plain clothes, wearing the extraordinary spectacles by way of disguise, and hobbling on two sticks to deceive people. But now!

Billy turned and fled, thankful that he had given a wrong address and incorrect details as to his relatives.

"Stop, Stop!"

But Billy fore along the carriage drive expecting momentarily to hear sounds of pursuit, and blind to the policeman awaiting him at the end of the terrace.

"I've had my eye on you for a long time," said the constable, who, as a matter of fact, had never seen the boy before;

Weeping bitterly, Willy was dragged to where the old gentleman still sat, unable to rise without assistance.

"Has he stolen anything, sir?" asked the constable, saluting.

"Fiddlesticks!" said the old gentleman, rather testily. "I seemed to frighten him— that's all. Help me up, will you? I think you had better bring him along to the house. Don't cry, boy! There's nothing to cry about. Good heavens! I'm not going to eat you, and neither is the policeman."

At the door of the big house the constable was dismissed with something for his trouble, and Billy, realizing the uselessness of flight, yet still sobbing and trembling, accompanied the old gentleman indoors.

"Stay here for a moment, my lad," said the old gentleman, indicating a chair in the hall. And Billy went and stood against the chair as though he had been stricken with catalepsy.

Softly the old gentleman opened a door, peeped in, made a remark to some one inside, waited a little as if listening, nodded his head several times, and finally beckoned to Billy.

"Come away, my lad," he said, and took off his dark spectacles, and the boy, as he obeyed, wondered if this was really the man who had sat on the steps with him.

Then Billy found himself pushed gently into a room, large and beautiful— far finer even than the Mission Hall at Christmas, though it seemed dark after the brilliant sunshine outside; and it was some time ere he caught eight of an old lady, with such white hair, lying on a couch.

"This is the young man, Mary," said the old gentleman. "See what you can, make of him. I seemed to put my foot in it. I'm afraid I've been too late in beginning this sort of work."

"Not a bit too late, John." Then she turned to Billy, who had taken off his cap as he did at the Mission Hall treat.

"Come nearer, my dear, and sit on that chair, and help yourself to those sweets on the table— but perhaps you are hungry.

Billy shook his head.

"Well, perhaps you'll have" an appetite later on," she said smiling. "Will you tell me your name, my dear?"

"Billy Martin," he mumbled.

"Well, I'm— surprised!" exclaimed the gentleman. "When I asked him that, he ran away!"

"But you won't run away from me, will you, Billy?"

"Naw, mistress." The old gentleman hobbled to the door. "I'll look in later," he said.

By the time he came back Billy had turned his little heart inside out, and the old lady had proved it to contain neither more nor less than the heart of a carefully nurtured child.

"Billy is going to think over it, John," she said to her husband. "He has told me about his brother, and I have been trying to tell him how well off his brother is. And I think it might be arranged— I'm sure you could arrange it, John—that Billy might go to the same home as his brother is in, and be beside his brother. And some day Billy will be a great, help to his mother, and— isn't that so. Billy?"

"Ay," said Billy, hastily swallowing a jujube.

"And Billy is going to tell his mother about this whenever he gets home, and he is not going to be alarmed if some one comes to see his mother about the matter in a few days— are you, Billy?"

"Naw, mistress."

"Because I've explained to Billy that he is not to go to the Home unless he likes. Still, it would lie nice to be beside your brother again, and get plenty of good food and become a fine, strong, clever man— wouldn't it, Billy? Have some more sweets. So you'll think over it. Billy? And— do you know?— I believe you'll choose to go to your brother!— And now its time you had something to eat. Ring the bell, John, please."

About an hour later, Billy left, laden with a parcel of good things for himself and his relatives. The old gentleman hobbled to the door with him, and at the last moment placed some pennies in his hand.

A lump came into Billy's throat. He fumbled in his jacket pocket.

"Ha'e!" he said huskily. "I thocht ye was coddin'."

The old gentleman held out his hand. Billy put something in it, and ran down the steps.

"Well, I'm— surprised!" muttered the old gentleman, staring at his palm, whereon reposed three "fags" and two wooden matches.

________________

9: The Curtain

J. J. Bell

The Pall Mall Magazine, Feb 1912

The Story of a Ghostly House

"IT is certainly an amazing collection of photographs," said the visitor, and closed the portfolio with something like a sigh of relief. "As studies of human emotions as reflected on the human countenance they are, I should imagine, unique. But I must confess that some of them were almost too much for me. Candidly, I don't know how you had the nerve— or the heart— to take some of them. The lunatic laughing, for instance— ugh! And yet that was less horrible than the woman weeping."

"They are equally true to life," said the professor, with a quiet smile on his thin lips. He rubbed his hands, making a dryish sound. "Equally true to life!" He bent forward and stirred the fire, for the night was cold.

"Some of these photographs cost me considerable sums of money," he continued; "but I grudge nothing in the interests of truth. The thing has grown on me, I admit— fascinated me, if you like. Long ago you used to say— or, at any rate, suggest— that I could take nothing really seriously. Now you will perhaps allow that—"

"Oh, willingly," said the visitor. "I apologised in spirit twenty-five years ago, when the Canadian papers reported your appointment to the Chair of Biological Chemistry in—"

"You need not have apologised in such a hurry, my friend. I resigned after a couple of years— when my aunt left me her little fortune. They still call me 'Professor'— why, I don't know. No; I never took anything seriously until seven or eight years ago, when I took up this— shall we call it hobby? But you may apologise now, if you like. What I have shown you to-night is by no means a proper sample of my work. I have some fine studies of children's expressions while at play, also some excellent examples of epileptics. Then, during my trip to Patagonia, I was so fortunate as to witness and record the torturing of a—"

"Man, man! how could you do it?" cried the visitor. "I've been through the Wiertz Gallery in Brussels—"

"Wiertz had great imagination; I have merely great patience. All the same, 1 believe Wiertz would have found inspiration in certain of my studies. There is one I would like to show you— the face of a man who fell from a great height. I had difficulty in securing the negative. It is not repulsive—"

"No, no. No more to-night, Drack, if you please. Indeed, it's time I was off."

"Help yourself first." The professor drew some lithia from a siphon.

The visitor took brandy, because he was feeling a little sick.

"By the way," Drack resumed, after a slight pause, "you are the first person who has seen my photographs. I do not say I have honoured you, but I have distinguished you. No other person shall see them during my lifetime. Afterwards— well, given a few more years, I shall leave my own monument. I have always had a great regard for you, Wilson. You did not rag me at school, and you stood by me at college. I am sorry we discovered each other again only on the eve of your return to Canada. It was good of you to give me this evening. I wonder if we shall ever meet again?"

"I'll be home in two years. But you should take a trip over to see me. You'd be right welcome. It would blow away morbid ideas, and all that, you know." Wilson laughed, but not freely. "Think over it, Drack; and bring your camera too— if you want some healthy snapshots."

"My dear fellow, you were always quick, but this time you've flown off with the wrong idea. I am not devoted to the more unhappy expressions of the human countenance— as you would admit, were I to show you my entire collection; but I confess they appeal to me by reason of the difficulty, not to mention the risk, in securing them. It is quite possible that a negative may yet cost me my life. But your adjective 'morbid' is quite out of place, apart from being commonplace. I simply want to make a collection of examples of every conceivable human emotion as betrayed by the human countenance. And, as I said, I do not exhibit the results. As regards the photographs which I have taken of you—"

"Of me!"

"—I promise to destroy prints as well as negatives after I have analysed them. Yes, I took you while you were examining the contents of that portfolio. Didn't you notice how I turned on the light? I took you five times. I fancy the most interesting negative will be obtained from the film exposed while you were looking at the weeping woman. Your expression was one, to put it conventionally, of mingled emotions. I shall analyse it, and let you know the percentages of pity, anger, disgust, etcetera."

"But how?"

"The clock on the mantelpiece contains a camera, electrically controlled from a point on the arm of the chair I am sitting in. You can, of course, rise up and destroy the clock, but I beg you to spare it. You have the promise that none save ourselves shall handle the negatives. Besides, I am trusting you."

Wilson, dropping his eyes, helped himself to a little more brandy.

"Hardly fair," he said, slowly. "I wonder how you got some of the photos you showed me.... No, no! I don't want to know."

"I don't want to tell you," said Drack, quietly. "But I don't want you to go off to Canada with any grudge against me." He rose and-went to the mantelpiece. "Look here!" He opened the side of the gilded clock and withdrew a roll of film. "So much for the face of my friend!" He tossed it into the fire, which devoured it speedily, and went back to his chair,

"Thanks," said Wilson, with an uncertain laugh. "But I would have trusted you, Drack."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," replied the professor. "I want to be able to come to see you in your healthy Canadian home with a clear conscience."

"Then you will come?"

"I will come— as soon as I have added one to my collection.... But I do not know when that may be. It's an extraordinary thing— the world is full of terror— yet thus far I've never been able to secure what you would call a terror-stricken expression— a face speaking pure, abject terror."

"Oh, stop it, man! You'll get it from me if you go on talking like that."

"But have you ever seen one?— could you describe it? Take, for instance, the case of a man who has made a bet that he will spend the night in a room reputed to be haunted; the case of a man who suddenly sees, or imagines he sees, the thing he declared impossible. Now, what—"

Wilson got up and drained his glass.

"You're the same old Drack," he said, "and yet now you give me the creeps. Hang it, man! Drop all this, and sail with me on Saturday. Let me book a berth for you first thing in the morning. What do you say?"

Drack shook his head, smiling kindly— more kindly than he usually smiled.

"I'll come as soon as I've caught and developed the Terror, Wilson. I've a plan for its capture in my mind now. It came a minute ago! I'll come to you then. If I don't come soon, you'll understand that— er— something has gone wrong. But I must capture it— I will capture it! ... Must you go?"

"It's half-past one. I can't stand late hours. I expect that is what has got on my nerves. Sorry if I've been rude, old man."

"Oh, that's all right," the professor replied, absently. "I'll 'phone for a cab."

"Thanks, I'll walk. Perhaps it's your excellent brandy, perhaps it's your equally excellent conversation, Drack—but there's something that wants to be walked off before I sleep to-night."

Having bidden his guest good-night, Professor Drack returned to his study, and halted on the hearthrug, gazing at the clock.

"Pity," he muttered—"a great pity! His composite expression of pain and disgust was worth having. But I can get that elsewhere... Now, that thought— that idea— that— why, it was an inspiration!" He dropped into a chair. "I've got it! By Heaven, I've got it! I'll capture Terror yet!"

ii

THE taximeter indicated 5s. 4d. when Professor Drack called through the tube: "House on the left— stop there."

"Thenk Gawd!" muttered the driver, for the night was black and bitter. "'Ouse is shut, sir," he added, as Drack opened the cab door and alighted. "Looks as if it 'ad been shut for a century, sir. Cold night, sir. 'Ope you'll find—"

"Thanks!" said Drack briefly. "It's a night for keeping the mouth shut, my friend." He turned to the interior of the cab.

"Here we are, Captain Inglis," he said, cheerfully.

"Where?" came the drowsy question.

"Somewhere beyond the radius." Drack laughed, and lowering his voice continued: "It's not too late to change your mind, Captain. Say the word, and we'll drive back to town now."

A laugh came from the cab. "My dear chap, I'm going to interview the ghost to-night— or may I go to— sleep. Shouldn't wonder if I do the latter."

"Sh! Quietly, man!" whispered Drack, gripping the elbow of the tall, heavily-built man who came not quite steadily from the cab.

Captain Inglis stared about him with eyes rather bleared. "I say, where are we?" he asked.

"At our destination."

"Are there no other houses?"

"It's a dark night. You'd see others in daylight at no great distance." Drack took a key from his pocket, and pointed to a large iron gate. "Try if you can unlock it, Captain," he said, handing over the key, "while I instruct the chauffeur."

The Captain stepped stiffly to the gate— some half-dozen paces.

Drack turned to the driver. Handing him a half-sovereign, he said, "Wait for ten minutes— no more. If we don't return in that time we shall spend the night there. If we decide to stay before the ten minutes are up, I shall close the front door loudly, and you can take that as your dismissal. Understand?" He looked steadily at the man. "I wired my servant to have the house ready, but it is possible he may not have received my wire, as he was on holiday."

"Very good, sir.... The gate seems to be locked sir. Looks as if—"

"My servant had only the key of the back entrance. Now you understand that you are to wait for ten minutes, or until you hear the door bang?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, in case we do not require you, further, good-night."

"Good-night, sir," said the man. "I understand." But, as a matter of fact, he was wondering. He had once been a witness in a burglary case, and nowadays it took little to raise his suspicions.

Professor Drack was already beside the Captain. "Sorry I gave you the wrong key," he said softly. "Allow me."

Inglis stood aside, chuckling. "I was was blaming that last brandy- and- soda," he remarked. "Now you've done the trick, Mr.—— Excuse me, but I've forgotten your name."

The gate opened.

"Come along," said Drack. "Take my arm. The avenue is very dark."

"You seem to know the way, old cock," the Captain observed.

"I've been here several times in daylight. Sure you wouldn't like to go back?"

"Rot!... Fifty pounds, you said, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Twenty-five when I leave you to-night— twenty-five when I call for you in the morning. As a matter of fact, I'll make it fifty in the morning, if you can then swear that nothing— er— troubled you."

"Guess I'll earn the fifty. Gad! that would just help me over the stile. I say! it was funny our meeting to-night, wasn't it—in that old restaurant where I was blueing my last sov.?" Inglis became garrulous over the recollection. "And," he concluded, "the whole thing means that you want to buy this house, provided you're satisfied that there's no ghost, or whatever the thing is?"

"Precisely. And as I explained to you, I'm too nervous to make the experiment myself. I chose you, Captain Inglis, after considerable search, because you appeared to me to be a man without nerves—"

"Devil a nerve," said the Captain cheerfully.

"—and without imagination."

"Never was bothered that way.... I fancy you'll buy the house, old cock. Has it a wine-cellar attached?"

"I'm afraid not.... Mind the steps, Captain Inglis."

They had come to the house, a square, old-fashioned building with shuttered windows. In the dark it loomed above them like a precipice.

Drack guided his companion up the broad steps, and inserted a key in the door, which opened easily.

"Go in." He put the door to behind them without closing it.

The next moment the hall was ablaze.

"Gad! This is civilised enough," cried the Captain. "Electric light and fully furnished!"

"I arranged for the light. As for the furniture, the previous owner, and all connected with him, left in a hurry. Come this way, please."

Drack crossed the hall, and opened a door on the left. Putting in his hand he touched a switch, and beckoned the other to follow him. He entered the room.

For an instant Inglis halted in the doorway. "Damned queer place," he said, looking up and down and about him. Then he laughed and followed the Professor.

"I'm sorry I could not arrange for a fire," said Drack, leaning against the mantelpiece of white marble. "But you'll find rugs on the couch there. Sorry, too, there's only one light available"— he nodded towards a metal-shaded reading lamp fixed to a small table beside an easy chair— "but you'll find illustrated papers and some books on the under shelf in case you can't sleep."

Inglis was still staring about him. "Damned queer place," he said again.

Drack went over to the small table. He opened a paper packet, and a stream of sovereigns tinkled into the lamplight.

"Perhaps you would prefer to return to town with me. The cab is waiting."

"And fifty in the morning?" said Inglis, eyeing the gold.

"Fifty in the morning— certainly."

"All right," said the Captain. "When shall you call for me?"

"Seven o'clock?— six? Say six? Very good."

"You don't happen to have a drink on the premises, old cock?"

"Sorry to be inhospitable, but I didn't think of that."

The Captain looked disappointed.

"By the way," said Drack, "how old are you?"

"Thirty-two."

"Heart all right?"

"What d'you mean?— Oh, of course it's sound enough. Trying to scare me— eh? Guess this damned queer place would scare some fellows. What..."

Captain Inglis was a trifle fuddled, and the numerous questions he was fain to ask became entangled. But he got out one distinctly.

"What's behind?" he asked, pointing at a curtain, or rather pair of curtains close-drawn, that stretched right across the room, a dozen feet from where he stood.

"This is a very long room, and the curtains divide it," was the reply.

"Yes; but what's behind?"

"That," said Drack, holding out his hand, "is— so I believe— just what the previous tenant wanted to know. Perhaps he did learn, but unfortunately he was unable to tell anything coherently."

"You mean—"

"I must get back to town, Captain Inglis. It is almost midnight. I wish you a good-night."

Inglis gave his hand a little unwillingly. "I could have done with a drink," he said sulkily. "Why is everything here black and white?"

"As I have said, the previous tenant was unable to tell anything. There is still time for you to change your mind, Captain Inglis." Drack spoke from the doorway.

"Oh, damn it! Beg pardon, old cock— good-night." The Captain was fingering the gold. "But you might bring a flask in the morning."

"I'll do so," said Drack, and went out, closing the door softly.

Inglis, his eves on the sovereigns, stood listening. He heard nothing from the hall, which he had noticed was covered with heavy rugs, but presently the front door clanged noisily, and a minute later came, faintly, the sound of a motor. "Old what's-his-name must have sprinted down the avenue," he reflected, and proceeded to pocket the coins.

That done, he procured a rug from the couch, and, wrapping it round his legs, seated himself in the easy-chair. He filled and lit his pipe. and took up an illustrated paper. But soon the pipe went out, and the paper slipped from his knees.

"A damned queer place," he said once more. "Guess the previous proprietor was dotty."

It was rather a queer place. Save for the blank walls, mantelpiece, and ceiling, which were a dead white, everything was a dead black— carpet, hangings, the few pieces of furniture, and even the rugs. And it was cold. Inglis got up and put a second rug round his shoulders. He was in evening dress with a light overcoat. Settling himself in the easy-chair again he made a bid for sleep. But he had taken either a drink too many or a drink too few— he declared for the latter—and though his eyes closed his brain remained stupidly restless. Ere long the utter silence began to make itself oppressive.

iii

HE had made up his mind not to look at his watch, but at the end of several hours, as it seemed, he did so. He stared at it, held it to his ear, and stared again. Ten minutes to one.

"Gad! this is slow work," he muttered with a laugh, which broke off abruptly.

Had the great black curtain moved?... Nonsense!

He produced his matches and prepared to relight his pipe, though he was horribly thirsty. The box slipped from his fingers.

Undoubtedly the curtain had moved— moved slightly towards him. "A draught," he thought. "A house like this would be full of draughts." He stooped to recover the scattered matches, but kept his eyes on the curtain. With half a dozen matches in his hand he sat up, and endeavoured to remove the shade from the lamp, so that the light might be dispersed through the shadowy space. But the shade was fixed. This annoyed him. He got out of the rugs, rose, and tried the several switches near the door; but, as the old man had said, they were not acting. It then occurred to him to open the door, and let in light from the blazing hall; after that he would examine the curtain and see what was behind it.

The door resisted him.

"Hadn't thought of that," he said to himself, "but I suppose it was fair enough." After some hesitation he crossed the thick-piled black carpet to what he took to be a window. The black curtain there he drew aside rather gingerly. Yes; it was a window right enough, but stoutly shuttered. He tried the shutters, and presently discovered that the cross-bar was padlocked.

"A damned queer place," he muttered, returning to the easy chair, and looking again at his watch. Four minutes to one. As he replaced it in his pocket he fancied that the great curtain bulged. Sitting straight, he glanced sidelong at the hearth. There were no fire-irons. Ere long he realised that there was nothing in the room available as a weapon— not even a light chair. He wished he had had the wit to provide himself with something in that way. He began to feel that the old man, had not treated him fairly in leaving him utterly defenceless. He regretted that he had not taken one drink less— or, rather, one drink more.

Not that he was afraid!...

The black curtain bulged quite distinctly.

"Who's there?" he called, hoarsely.

A minute later he sniggered. "Curse those draughts! It's infernally cold. Feel as if I were in for influenza." He put his hand to his head and found it wet.

Not that he was afraid!...

He picked up one of the tumbled rugs, and let it go again. Something was irritating his left hand. He opened it, and found several vestas sticking to the palm.

"Wits gone wool—"

The curtain again!

He rose to his feet, throwing back his shoulders, and stepped forward a few paces. Perhaps it was some trickery on the old man's part. But no; the old man would hardly have paid twenty-five pounds....

Inglis halted half-way between the hearth and the curtain. What had the old man said about the previous owner? Did he mean that the previous owner was dead, or— what? Inglis wished he had kept wide-awake during the long cab journey. There was much he would like to have known, but he had been so infernally drowsy and comfortable.

Not that he was afraid! ...

He stood, swaying ever so slightly, staring at the curtain. He thought as hard as his clouded brain would let him. The point was that he was in a haunted house. That was the point, wasn't it. But, then, he didn't believe in haunted houses. Yet supposing—

Was that a sound behind the curtain? Inglis strained his ears. A chill seemed to ripple over his body. There it was again! What was it? ... A sort of muffled munching sound, accompanied by low but heavy breathing. Was it human? What was it?

Inglis sidled to the door, and twisted and tugged at the handle. Then, with teeth set and fingers working, he stole on tiptoe to the window. He grunted softly as he strove to burst the padlock without creating noise. He could make nothing of it. Desperate, he looked about him. He was a strong man. By using the couch as a battering-ram he might break down the door. But the noise. He knew there was something behind the curtain.... A dog? ... Why not peep cautiously? ... But the sound— there it was again—that was no dog—it was something swinish, something— guzzling,

He would risk the battering-ram. He must get out. He forgot about the fifty pounds in the morning. He must get out now— at once! He left the window. The couch was not far away. He would point the low end at the door, then charge for all he was worth. At the couch he stopped short. Something was moving behind the curtain. He must keep silent awhile. He faced the curtain, about five feet from it.

Of a sudden he sniffed involuntarily. What was that smell What! Raw meat— good Heaven! It was raw meat— flesh!

Ere he could step backward the curtain bulged towards him, and in the same instant the lamp went out.

And out of the blackness a hot, foul breath puffed in his face.

He screamed.

There was a blinding flash, and Captain Inglis fell heavily.

"ALL RIGHT. Don't be alarmed," said the voice of Professor Drack.

A switch clicked; the place was flooded with light, dimmed somewhat by a cloud of magnesia vapour.

"All right!" repeated the Professor, cheerfully, leaving his camera and sundry curious-looking pieces of pneumatic apparatus. "All right. Let me help you up. Sorry you tripped. What? Fainted? Well, here we are. Always prepared for emergencies." He knelt down, restoratives in his hands. "This is my own house, you know," he went on, foolishly, for he was excited, and carried away by the supreme success of his experiment; "and everything is faked— except the negative itself. Now then, Captain, your collar—"

Professor Drack paused abruptly, his countenance the colour of ashes.

Two minutes later he rose stiffly to his feet, and stood gazing down at Inglis.

He did not hear the panting of a motor approaching the gate.

"What a pity!" he murmured, at last. "What a pity, after so excellent a result!"

_______________

10: Retribution

"Propellor"

Queenslander  24 Sep 1931

The identity of the author is unknown; and there are many short stories of this title (with and without an exclamation mark.)

FROM the windows of the mess came carefree, boyish, laughter, the clink of glasses, the occasional click of billiard balls, and the stuttering notes of a piano lagging painfully behind a lusty but somewhat tuneless chorus.

It is doubtful if Major Petrie heard any of these typical Flying Corps night noises as he paced the pathway bordering the mess. If he did it was only subconsciously, for not for a moment did his measured pace slacken, not once did his attitude of absorption relax. In contrast to his step, like that of a sentry on his beat, his thoughts moved on in disordered confusion, anxiety battling with reason, gaining victory.

Only two weeks had elapsed since his promotion to the command of the training squadron. He had been elated and not a little proud that Headquarters had chosen him above other officers of longer service and greater experience. His determination to justify the choice had been very sincere, as sincere as Petrie was in all his actions.

He was not of the popular type, much too serious and reticent to be the object of hero worship. But,officers and men alike admired him for his obvious honesty, both in purpose and in deed, and above all for his abiliity as a pilot.

Two short weeks.

He kicked viciously at the gravel as he reviewed for the hundredth, or was it the thousandth, time the events of the past fourteen days.

Five crashes— five promising young pilots gone West Not that crashes were out of place in a training squadron. However careful the instructors, however efficient the machines, there were always young pilots who would try to turn back to the aerodrome in case of engine failure, and finish up in a spin into the ground, always the wild harum-scarums who would try to spin their wheels on the roof of a hangar, or go steeplechasing over hedges and trees, always the type of pilot who wants to "go one better than the other fellow."

But these crashes had not resulted from faulty or reckless flying. In each case the machine had collapsed in the air. Structural failure in a type of machine that was known throughout the Service for its strength, for its safety. Petrie bimself had pulled such a machine out of a dive at over 200 miles an hour when in a tight corner over the line.

And now five in his squadron had literally fallen to pieces in the air!

After the second crash he had become suspicious; the third had brought luarm; the fourth and filth drove him almost to distraction. He was careiul, however, to mask his true feelings from the pupils. Inspection of 'planes bad been tightened up; sentries doubled on the hangars at night; and till this ghastly underhand slaughter went on. He was convinced that it was deliberate, the work of enemy agents. But how to stop it? That was the problem.

HE thought of the squadron machines lying in the hangars, guarded by sentries, yet not safe from the depredations of some enemy, drew the Major's footsteps to the big, canvas-walled structures standing stark against the sky line. He answered a sentry's challenge, spoke to the man for a moment, and passed on his round of inspection.

Three times he was halted, and he noted with satisfaction the keenness of the guards.

But the satisfaction was short-lived, for with it came an appreciation of the cunning of an enemy who could pass this barrier with impunity. Round the back of the second hangar he passed to make his return to the mess. A slight scraping noise came to his ears. Perhaps the rubbing of the cords that held together the sections of the canvas walls. Perhaps not! The Major slipped to the ground and lay stretched full out. Quietly be lifted the lower edge of the canvas until, by. placing his cheek to the grass, he could see into the hangar.

At first a wall of darkness met his anxious gaze. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he picked up a small circle of ght to the right. Moving his position until he was opposite to where he assumed the light to be, he peered once more into the hangar.

Directly ahead now was the faint gleam. JBBradually the picture framed before max. One section of the fabric covering of the fuselage of a two-seater machine had been unlaced. A small pocket torch, hung from a bracing wire inside the fuselage, shed a pool of light on to a strut. Across the strut almost noiselessly passed the blade of a hacksaw, held steadily in two hands, that, moving, cast weird shadows on the fabric.

MAJOR PETRIE stared fascinated, almost breathless. The face of the owner he could not see, only the hands and the biting saw blade. Should he summon a sentry and arrest this coldblooded murderer red-handed? That would lead to a court-martial, publicity— maybe an acquittal on some legal point Above all things he must protect the morale of his pupils.

Once arouse suspicion that the 'planes were being tampered with and there would be no checking the "wind up" that would surge through the squadron, perhaps spread to other squadrons. He would nave to tackle this Job quietly, alone, and without any fireworks. Meanwhile, he waited for just one glimpse of the' other's face. The slow movement of the saw blade continued. Half-way through the strut the blade was withdrawn. The major watched the next move with clenched teeth. Into the saw cut in the strut putty was forced. Over the putty fine sawdust was sprinkled. A covering of varnish completed the ghastly camouflage. Even a close examination would fail to reveal the partially severed strut, destined to send another young pilot to a fearful death.

The Major's fingers clutched the grass as he watched the torch being moved so that its light should fall on a fresh strut. With the movement of the light came revelation.

The beam fell across the face of the worker, throwing into stark relief the features of Flight-sergeant Dale.

Major Petrie stared, unbelieving, horrified— Sergeant Dale! Of all men that it should be Dale!

An expert rigger, conscientious, quiet, and retiring; a man you would-trust with your life. Five young pilots had— and five young pilots were dead!

The Major's face creased into a twisted smile, There was no doubt about It- The saw Made had started afresh. Carefully the major noted the registration number on the fuselage of the machine, J. 1427— he was not likely to forget that.

Raising himself from the ground he stole silently away to his quarters. A plan was forming in his mind. In the quiet of his room he prepared the details, mentally reviewing every step in the drama he was determined to stage. That night, for the first time in a week, he slept soundly.

WITH the first streak of dawn Major Petrie was up and dressed. From his office he took a pack parachute, a new type sent from headquarters for testing purposes. On the tarmac mechanics were wheeling out the 'planes, chocking wheels, running up engines, refuelling petrol and oil tanks, filling radiators. On the seat in front of No. 1 hangar sat half a down sleepy-eyed pupils awaiting the report of the senior Flight-commander, who was even then aloft testing the air before giving the word to start the day's flying.

The Major walked across to No. 2 .hangar and carelessly threw the parachute into the pilot's cockpit of J. 1427. Out on the tarmac again be summoned Corporal White.

"Wheel out J. 1427, Corporal."

White saluted smartly. "Very good, sir."

Five minutes later the Major was seated in the cockpit of the machine, whose motor was turning over slowly in the warming up process. Temperature 60; oil pressure 25. The Major pulled back the joy-stick and slowly opened the throttle. As the needle of the revolution counter swung over the dial the staccato of the exhaust rose to a dull roar. Satisfied, the Major closed the throttle, leaving the motor to idle on the pilot jet. Two mechanics standing against the leading edge of the lower wings waited his "chocks away" signal.

Instead he called to Corporal White.

"Tell Sergeant Dale I want him," he said. And while the Corporal went in search of Flight-sergeant Dale the Major adjusted the harness of the parachute over his leather flying coat.

HE strove to be perfectly normal as Sergeant Dale approached.

"Hop in. Sergeant I'm going to test this 'bus," at the same time handing down a flying helmet fitted with headphones.

For a brief moment the Sergeant eyed the Major keenly. He had noted the registration number of the machine, and his plans were laid.

"If you don't mind, sir," he replied, "I'd rather stand down this morning. I don't feel very fit."

"Nonsense, man," The Major was smiling. "A 'flip will do you the world of good. The best tonic I know of." '

Sergeant Dale clambered into the observer's cockpit and put on his flying helmet.

The Major half-turned in his seat. "Better connect the headphones," he said, and Dale adjusted the rubber tubes that enabled, conversation to be maintained between the pilot and observer.

"Chocks away."

The big machine moved out on to the aerodrome, turned into wind, rumbled over the turf, and then lifted into the crisp morning air. At a thousand feet they overtook an Avro, piloted by one of the pupils. The Major's wave was not returned. "Probably has his head in the 'office' reading the clocks," was his thought. At three thousand feet he called over the 'phones to Dale.

"You rigged this machine, did you not, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir," came the reply.

"She's flying very well. Climbs nicely, and is just sensitive enough on controls. Might be a little sluggish fore and aft, but nothing to speak of. Motor is running nicely, too."

There was no comment from the back cockpit.

"Great type of machine, this," continued the Major as if speaking to himself. "Wonderfully strong job. I remember diving one at over 200 miles an hour in France. Can't understand what could have happened to those machines of ours. Most extraordinary thing. Five good pilots, too. Wheatley, Brodie, Jones, Darlington, and Strangward. You remember them, Sergeant?"

No reply-from the observer's cockpit.

"I saw Darlington's 'bus fold up in the air. Ghastly sight. The fuselage seemed to collapse at the top of a stall turn. I wonder if this machine would stand a stall turn. Tell me if you hear'anything suspicious, Sergeant."

OUT shot the Major's left foot on the rudder bar. At the same time he pulled the joy-stick back and to the left. Almost standing an its tail, the machine started to pivot over on the left wing. An ominous crack as the weakened struts parted under the sudden strain; a sickening lurch as if the fuselage had been struck a mighty blow with a hammer; and Major Petrie knew that J. 1427 was doomed.

Without a backward glance he slipped his safety belt, disconnected the headphones, and leapt from the cockpit. Borne slowly towards the ground by the slightly swinging parachute, he watched the crippled 'plane twisting and turning, ever falling, until it disappeared abruptly into a patch of green below.

Major Petrie looked over to the aerodrome. Several machines were circling and stunting, toylike, in the distance. He pictured the pilots at the controls. Keen, eager youngsters, mere boys, just like Wheatley, Brodie, Jones, Darlington, and Strangward had been.

There would be no more mysterious crashes. He was quite sure of that. For above the roar of the motor and the whining of the bracing wires as he jumped from the crippled J. 1427 he had heard an agonised "Gott in Himmel!" from "Flight-sergeant Dale."

____________

11: Easy Going

Bill Bowyang

Alexander Vindex Vennard, 1884-1947

Queenslander 27 Nov 1930

"Bill Bowyang"

Australian journalist, WW1 Gallipoli veteran, writer, columnist and editor.

JACK WELLS has retreated to his duck pond. Other men would have locked themselves in a room under similar circumstances, but Jack was not as other men, and then, too, other men, or rather many other men, do not have a duck pond.

Jack ran a farm in a North Queensland agricultural district. At least, he tried to run it. That was the trouble, for, loosely speaking, the farm ran him. When be had attempted to explain to the agent who had sold him fertilisers why he could not pay for the last shipment, when he remembered that the agricultural implement firm in Brisbane had promised to send that same day a representative to settle debts on some machinery purchased many months before, when he looked at his bank book and in his purse and discovered the- exact amount of money he possessed, Jack Wells had gone to- the pond to commune with his ducks. They at least could only look their reproach.

He felt that if it had only been his fault he could have withstood it better, but— it was not his fault. He had a good farm. He worked hard from 5 o'clock in the morning until twilight, and often later. He knew he was not extravagant, for no one could be in that community.

Yes, Jack Wells had a good farm, but he was not a good farmer, and for that reason his efforts went unrewarded. For, although his crops were excellent, and he had a steads demand for them, his assets persisted in modestly retiring in favour of his liabilities.

For Jack was "easy going."

"Bad year for potatoes, Jack," Jin Harris would say. "I'll have to pay you for those fowls out of next year's crop."

Or Sam Cooney bad to have an operation.

"Of course, you don't know how it is, Jack, not being a family man yourself." was what he often heard when he would try to collect an honest debt.

"I suppose you're right," he would agree, and return home at poor as ever. But he often wondered where his creditors got the money for so many Improvements. He was very considerate. but it did not help himself with the debts he owed.

NOW he stood leaning against a tree watching the ducks swimming lazily around in the cool water. It was refreshingly cool and isolated there, and soothed Jack's tired spirit. It is not pleasant to admit to ones self that one is a failure.

"I reckon I'm just an ordinary dashed fool," Jack said to himself. "I have no right to hold people up for their debts. It ain't fair. I should get out and work for some one by the day."

That was the way with Jack, always blaming himself, and not some one else, for his troubles.

"I should be like those ducks, just getting my food for one day and not laying up for to-morrow," he mused.  "Still, I would hate to sell the farm. Dad was always able to made it pay. and I don't see why I can't."

But he was not the blockhead I am.

Just then a shadow fell across the path. Looking round, Jack saw the daintiest girl he had ever seen, with pretty eyes and hair that waved softly around a well-shaped forehead. She wore a pretty blue silk crepe dress. He smiled a slow smile of welcome as she came nearer.

"I'VE been looking everywhere for you. Auntie sent me about two hours ago for some oranges, and I've spent most of that time waiting up at the house for you," the dainty girl said as she came to the edge of the water. "Oh, I wish I had brought a tiny line and hook with me. I would have caught some of those little fish before I went back."

"No, you wouldn't," Jack said quietly.

"Why?" she asked curiously.

"Because they are friends of mine."

She glanced up at him from out the corner of her saucy blue eyes to see what kind of a man she was talking to. For with his strong, well-knit body and 6ft. of height she could not imagine him sentimental over fish. But she had failed to note the kind look in his steady grey eyes.

"Why did you come down here, where everything is so quiet?" she asked at length.

"To get away from people," was Jack's gloomy answer.

"Then that means I am not wanted," she said with some, dignity. "So, Mr. Wells, if you will please get the oranges for me I will leave you to your gloomy meditations."

"Oh, I didn't mean that for you," Jack explained. "You see, I came down here to keep from meeting a man to whom I owe some money. I don't mean that I don't want to pay it, but I just don't have the money now," he explained lamely.

"I SEE." said the girl quietly. "But I thought you had a thriving farm here. And you know you are the only one around here who grows such delicious oranges and mandarins, why is it the farm doesn't pay?"

"Because the people don't pay me."

"You mean because you won't make them pay you?" she answered.

"Oh, well, it's the same thing, I  suppose. But I'd like to see you get it, when they want it for something else."

"Is that a challenge?" she asked, with a mischievous smile.

"Yes," Jack answered, and then, he could have struck himself for it the next minute.

"I'll show you. They'll pay, and you, in turn, will pay your debts. Just watch and see. I work for a big firm in Brisbane, and I'm here for a three weeks' holiday with my aunt. I might as well spend it doing a little good as any other way, so I'll start to-morrow morning.

"Now will you please get me two dozen oranges? The basket is in the back of my car. And while you're doing it I'm going to watch your ducks."

She walked round to the other aide of the pond where there was  a creaking old railing, part of a fence that had once surrounded the waterhole. As she leaned against it to look into the pool it swayed forward.

"PLEASE go away from that old fence," Jack called as he returned. "It is not safe for any one to lean against, and the water is very deep just there."

"Did any one ever drown in the waterhole?" she asked suddenly.

"Yes," Jack answered.

"Who was it? Any one that you knew?"

"My mother fell in, and was drowned before we could reach her."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm always asking too many questions."

"That's all right," said Jack awkwardly, "but please come away."

"All right, if my oranges are ready I must be going, for I have stayed too long now."

He followed her to the front of his house

"I'll be back In the morning to start work," she said with a smile as she started the car, and did not wait for Jack's reply.

"NOW look here," the girl said,  "you've got to back me up to this. There's no use wasting my holiday trying to put you on a cash basis if you're going to let every Tom, Dick, and Harry go over my head to you."

It was the afternoon of her first day at work. She had appeared promptly at eight o'clock. Not in silk, but in a pretty little blue gingham dress with white collar and cuffs. She had insisted on running over the books with Jack, at the conclusion of which he felt very much like a small boy at school who had neglected to do his sums in arithmetic and was being taken to task for it.

"No wonder you can't pay your bills." she exclaimed scornfully. "You have been running a regular charity institution."

"You can't be too hard on them, especially when they're married." he said, remembering some of the arguments he had listened to.

"You're not doing them any good. You're only helping them form bad habits when you allow them to run such large accounts."

He told her to do as she thought best, and escaped from the house on the pretence of examining some piping leading into the horse paddock.

Jack had not been gone long when Dan Stradder came for some mandarins. The girl attended to his order and held out her hand for the money.

"Put it in the book," he said, looking at the "city girl" with surprise.

"Sorry," she answered, "but we have started on a cash basis."

"Where's Wells?" he demanded with some show of anger.

"I think he's in the horse paddock, but it won't do you any good to see him."

"It might and it might not," and he went out of the house.

"I SAY, that's a fine girl you've got at your place. Who is she?"

"Bookkeeper," Jack answered, returning to his task. "I thought so. It seems she don't know I'm a regular customer. Tried to make me pay cash."

"Our new rule," muttered Jack.

"New rule, eh. How was I to know? I told her I didn't have the money. She  said she was sorry, but that I could come to-morrow with the cash and get my mandarins."

"Well I suppose she was right. You will, won't you?" Jack asked as he looked up with a grin at the now angry man.

"But I haven't sold my cattle yet Now in a few days I could pay, maybe."

"All right," Jack said weakly. "You can tell her I said to let you have them."

A few seconds later Stradder went back in triumph.

Ten minutes later she took Jack to task for it.

"You told Stradder he could book his order."

"But he promised to pay in a few days," he finished lamely.

"He will not pay it because he won't have to— not again. He put his hand in his pocket and paid on the spot, or he wouldn't have got his fruit. And you just remember, the next man that tries to play that game, I want you to refer him to me."

THEIRS was a queer partnership, if partnership it could be called. For, although he owned the farm, the girl was the boss. But he had promised to let her have charge of things for three weeks, and he was keeping

One day while making an entry he saw a charge to old Dave Pavey. He turned to his new bookkeeper with secret delight and demanded how it happened, for he had never known Dave to book a thing before in his life.

She laid her pencil down and turned and looked at him before answering.

"Mr. Pavey needed the corn and also the money. He had a very badly infected arm, tied up with a dirty handkerchief, but would not go to the doctor, because he had not the money. I gave him the corn, and told him I would book it, and he could pay later, and to take the money he had and get his arm dressed. I had to almost shove him off the farm before he would go. He'll pay all right."

Jack was speechless, but he was pleased— a great deal— to find her a woman with feelings for her fellow man. It had not seemed quite right for a girl to be so hard. For he had only seen her in the role of a business woman.

THE next day Jack saw her in church,  and then at last he found out her name. It was Mary Hamilton, and her aunt was "old Mrs. Smith," who lived alone in the big house on the outskirts of the town. Somehow, as she sat on the pew with her dignified aunt, Jack half expected her to stop the parson in the middle of his sermon and tell him just how it should be preached. Of one thing he was certain— that her advice would be interesting, to say the least. He wished she would, but she did not. She was very demure and well-behaved throughout the sermon.

When she passed him at the door she said, "Good morning," and, nodding coolly, passed on with her aunt. Jack was standing at the sliprails when she came to the farm that afternoon.

"Would you like to ride a horse to the hill at the rear of my land?" he summered. "It's a pretty long walk."

"Oh. I'd love to," she answered quickly.

It only took Jack a few minutes to catch two of the horses and saddle them. He led them to where the girl was waiting.

"Which one am I to ride?" she asked, looking at the beautiful black horses. Jack took great pride in keeping his horses fat and sleek.

"You may have your choice," he answered,

She quickly chose the most spirited-looking one, and before Jack could get to her aide she had mounted, and was galloping over the field like a regular horsewoman.

In a little rocky gully at the foot of the hill they found some beautiful wild ferns, and the girl was busy picking them when she saw a snake. Jack killed it with a stone, and finished picking the ferns.

"I'm glad I didn't come alone," she admitted.

THEN she apparently forgot that he was there, or about snakes, for she sat down on a rock and began weaving a wreath out of wild flowers she had gathered. She looked up just as the sun dipped over the tree-tops, and cast weird little shadows over the grassy gully where she was sitting. Looking around as though she had never noticed just how beautiful a place it really was before, she exclaimed.

"Oh! How cosy." Then, looking up at Jack reproachfully, she asked.

"Is this where you bring them all, Mr. Wells?"

"I have never brought any one here but you," he answered seriously. Lovemaking was a serious matter with him, not a game, as apparently it was with this light creature.  "And I do wish you would not call me Mr. Wells."

She looked up like a small child with eyes filled with mischief. "I like Jack," she said. "It's simple and plain and strong, and—"

"I am going to kiss you," replied John, suddenly.

"Indeed you're not," she retorted, and in a moment her playfulness was gone. But it was too late.

"You brought it on yourself, and I'm going to do it," repeated Jack, getting to his feet. She jumped up, and faced him.

"If you do, I'll— Stop!*

For Jack had caught one of her wrists. He had never kissed a girl in his life. Where he found the courage to do it now was as much a surprise to him as it was to the girl. But he had said be would, and now he must.

AS his arm went About her, the soft slenderness or her came as a shock, She was the weaker, yet in her very weakness was her strength, for honor possessed him that he had got this far. She hated him. He could see that, for the blue eyes were dagger points. Yet he drew her nearer and kissed her on the lips. Then he let she cried.

"Clumsy, stupid, brainless brute! Now I'm going straight back"

As they were going through the last gate he found his voice.

"I wish I were dead," he said with sombre passion.

She did not answer him.

He jumped to the ground. Half pleadingly he held up his hand to help her dismount. She turned and lightly jumped to the ground on the other side of the horse. Then she walked away without looking back.

Jack stood where she had left him. Not a hundred feet away was the pond. He decided he would end it all by diving in the same spot where his mother had fallen. For he never expected to see again the girl of his dreams. The beautiful butterfly he had caught and wounded. He walked to the edge.

"Jack!" He actually jumped. Turning, he saw the girl looking at him from the corner of the house.

"Don't do it to-day, anyway," she called, and then disappeared.

SHE did not return next morning, and it was very little attention Jack's farm received, for every few minutes be wandered back to the house. It was so still and lonely— just like a house after the family had gone on a long journey. But it was his fault. He laughed hoarsely. A week ago he had thought he was having a hard time— because of money matters. Money! What was that to the loss of this priceless loan of life and cheer and impertinence? Now she was gone and would not come back. Not after that. He had .mistaken her lively spirit for fickleness— but too late.

He deckled to drive into town. When he returned a car stood at the front of the house. The owner was not in sight. He looked again, and his heart leaped, for he was sure it belonged to her.

He entered the room he used as an office. There she sat before the old pine table, and in front of her was quite a pile of money and cheques.

"Hello," she said coolly. "I've been out collecting— £120— and I thought you'd rather put it where it draws interest."

But Jack had no eye for money— not now.

"You came back ?" he said slowly, "after what I did."

She did not look up. "Yes, I came back— to— business."

JACK soon found that she meant it. She was all business, and had no time to talk about anything else. As the days passed the farm flourished, but that did not interest Jack now, only that it was her work. He worshipped anything that she did. He acknowledged that it was wonderful to know that he owed no man.

That it was simple he did not consider. Just a matter of getting what was due to him, and then giving no credit. It was simple, but who could do it except this wonderful little girl? And— who would do it when she was gone?

"I've only got three more days, you know," she said one afternoon, and there's still a lot to do."

Only three more days! Jack's heart sank. It was then that a great idea came  to him.

"I don't suppose you would give up your city Job for this?" he asked.  She sat up and looked at him with something of her old mischievous smile.

"Do you know how much I get?"

Of course, Jack didn't know.

"Four pounds a week."

Well, that was a lot of money, for him to pay out every week, but at had little respect for money.

"Would you pay that?" she asked him curiously.

"Yes."

THE girl suddenly looked down. Then she got up and walked to the window. Jack saw that she had take out her handkerchief.

"I— l cant," she said very low.

"Of course you cant," he replied. "I should not have asked you."

And he turned to go.

"Jack!" she called. She was facing him now. and he saw wonderingly that she had been crying. "There's no man like you."

"I'd pity him if there was. I know I'm no good," he answered sadly.

"You are," and she stamped her foot passionately. "Don't you dare say you aren't."

He looked at her wonderingly.

"But I can't work for you," she finished.

"Why not?" Jack asked.

She turned to him again

"Don't you see?" she demanded.

Poor Jack shook his head. "

"No. I don't, but I suppose you know best." Mary threw up her hands in a e gesture of utter hopelessness. Then she sat down in her chair and took her pencil.

THE next morning Jack left his work at the stables and went to the house. The gin was not there. although the car was in front of the building.

"Jack!" A cry came from the direction of the pond, and he looked in that direction Just in time to see a white arm go down. In a few seconds he was at the edge of the pond, and when she came up Jack caught her. Her arms went round his neck, and she clung to him as might a child. He dragged her to dry land and set her down, or rather he tried to, for she still clung to him.

"Jack, " she murmured, "you're not angry?"

"Angry?" Jack looked at her, and she saw his face was very white, and his eyes looked steadier than ever.

"Angry?" he repeated.

"Because I did it on purpose." Then her eyes fell.

"Did what on purpose?"

"Fell into the pond to make you think I was drowning." 'Mt Jack's arms fell to his sides.

"Why?" was all he could say.

"So you would rescue me, of course." she said. "Didn't you want to?"

JACK sank down on the grass and groaned. "What if I had—not rescued you, and you had not been able to get out?" he asked at last, finding words.

"Would you have cared?"

His eyes were enough as he looked up at her.

"But, all you wanted me for was a— bookkeeper," she murmured.

Still he was silent. She had hurt him more than she could imagine.

"And now you don't even want me for that, do you?"

Springing to his feet, he cried, "Yes —no. M

"Yes—no," she mocked. "Jack, what kind of an answer is that?"

"Mary, I want you for—everything."

Some time later Jack heard sigh from the quiet little person so dear to him, and Mary whispered: "If you'd said you loved me before, my dear, it would have saved all this trouble."

______________

12: Celia and the Ghost

Barry Pain

1864-1928

The Strand Magazine, Dec 1916

Barry Eric Odell Pain

THROUGH half-closed eyes that were still heavy with sleep, Celia saw that the dawn had come— the early dawn of a summer morning. The decision to which she had come the night before floated vaguely on the surface of her mind. She could see the letter that she had written and addressed to her mother; she had put it on the mantelpiece under the spotted engraving of some tiresome cathedral. She could hear the footsteps of the bored policeman passing slowly in the street below.

The letter was as follows:—

Dearest Mother, —I love you, and father, and my brother. That love comes of nature, and nothing could ever alter it. But I am going away. Early in the morning, before anybody else in the house is awake, I shall start. Don't be angry or frightened. I am not going to commit suicide, or do anything disgraceful. I can take care of myself, and I have with me five pounds that I have saved. I shall write to you, too, so that you will know I am well and safe. But I am going, because I must.

I wonder if you will understand. I don't think a girl of seventeen ought to be sick of life as I am. I am sick of the quarrels and sordid economies of home. I am sick of the drudgery of the office, and the tea-shop luncheons, and everything. I have no liberty. I do not live—I only execute orders.

So I am going, without any very definite plans, to see if the world has anything better for me. Perhaps it has not, and then no doubt I shall return, when my money is spent, and father will have the pleasure of calling me a fool and an idiot, as he does most days. But I shall have been alive for a little while.

Your loving and unhappy Celia.

No, she did not repent of the decision. Soon she would get up, but there was plenty of time; nobody in the house would be moving for hours yet. Her body was suffused with a pleasant and equable warmth. Her mind tasted already the strong joy of freedom.

And on no account, she told herself firmly, must she go to sleep again.

Bright sunlight, and London all behind her. She must have been walking for hours, and her sensible shoes were white with dust. But she did not feel tired; she was filled with a sense of exhilaration, almost of triumph. Sitting on the stile that led to the field-path she ate hungrily the apples and biscuits that she had bought. Not for years, she thought, had she breakfasted so deliciously. And where she was she neither knew nor cared. At the next village she would make discreet inquiries, and if there were a railway-station and a train that went seaward she would take a ticket. She had been too wise to take a ticket at any London station, lest capture should follow.

She glanced at a diminutive, thoroughly inexpensive, gun-metal watch. In about one hour and a half, she calculated, Mr. Abrahams, portly and white-whiskered, would be demanding the stenographic sendees of Miss Melrose, and he would be informed that Miss Melrose had not arrived at the office. Whereupon Mr. Abrahams would request that his soul might be blessed and become apoplectic. His sweet son, Mr. Sam Abrahams, aged twenty-two, would also be disappointed. Celia recalled with disgust that Mr. Sam Abrahams distinctly leered, and that he had once put his grimy hand on her shoulder. Ugh!

And at that moment another hand touched her shoulder, ever so lightly. Celia sprang to her feet, thus dropping an apple and the greater part of a biscuit.

"So you've run away, little girl, have you?"said a man's voice. Well, yes, Celia admitted, it was a pleasant voice. And she liked the looks of the young man who stood on the other side of the stile. Not handsome, perhaps, but interesting—which, in Celia's view, was so much better. Yet it was necessary to show that Miss Melrose knew how to take care of herself.

"How dare you speak to me?"she said,  with breathless firmness. "If you don't go away at once I'll—"

"Useless for two reasons. Firstly, there is no policeman for you to call. Secondly, there is no necessity to call him. Unconventional I may be, but I would not dream of hurting or offending you in any way, little runaway."

He knew that she had run aw'ay ? He might take steps to send her back again. Clearly this man must be managed.

"Why do you say that?"she asked, shyly. "What makes you think that I have run away?"

"The satchel on your back, the dust on your shoes, but above all the ecstasy in your eyes. May I have this?"He picked up the biscuit.

"But I've bitten it!" exclaimed Celia.

"That's why," said the young man, calmly. "I'll give you the apple, though I am not the serpent nor even Paris."

"Don't understand," said Celia, as she took the proffered apple.

"No? Did you never hear of the prize of beauty?"

"But I'm not," said Celia, blushing.

"After you had gone to bed last night," said the young man, "your father and mother were speaking of you, and they agreed that you were a dangerously pretty girl. Of course, their devotion to you may prejudice them in your favour, but I must say that I agree with them."

"You were not there last night. You can't have been. I don't know you. In fact," she added, a little feebly, "I ought not to be speaking to you."

"No," he said, "you don't know me. But all the same I am a friend of the family. Also— as I should possibly have explained before— I am a ghost."

At this surprising statement Celia was compelled to laugh.

"A ghost?"she said. "You're a very substantial ghost. Do ghosts wear flannel suits and straw hats, and appear at nine in the morning, and eat what's left of my biscuit, and then smoke a Russian cigarette, as you're doing ? A ghost, indeed! Whatever do you mean?"

"I am a ghost," he repeated, "just as surely as you are Celia Melrose." She was a little startled to find that he knew her name. "It is as easy for a ghost to be solid and opaque as it is for it to be vaporous and transparent. It is as easy for it to appear at nine in the morning as at midnight. Also there are two kinds of ghosts. The story-tellers speak only of one kind of ghost— the ghost of what has been. That's ignorance. I belong to the other kind. I am the ghost of what will be. Coming events cast their shadows before. It is true that I am solid, but I am also just such a shadow."

"A shadow of what?"said Celia, almost in a whisper. For she loved no man and yet longed to love, and this type of man— if he had not been only a ghost— appealed.

"The shadow," he said, gravely, "of your lover, your husband, the father of your children. You will love me as I shall love you— and what more has the earth for anybody? I will tell you more. In a year's time you and I will be standing here by this stile. The man that I shall then be will have forgotten, and you also will have forgotten—"

"Never!" exclaimed Celia. "It's far too ext r aordinary. I shall remember this to my dying day." But even as she said it she looked at the man, and commonplace clothes could not prevent her conviction that she was indeed speaking to a being of another world.

"You also will have forgotten," the man repeated, calmly. "Why do you doubt me?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Celia. "You knew that I had run away. You know my name. That was all right. But then you went on to speak of the devotion of my father and mother. Mummy's fond of me, I know, though she's sometimes cross. Matter of fact, when I ran away I made my letter to her just as nice as I possibly could. But my father's temper's awful. You don't know the things he says to me. I simply couldn't stand it any longer. Why, if I'd thought they both cared for me very much I wouldn't have dreamed of running away."

"There is a saying, Celia, that to know everything is to forgive everything. Your father teaches music, I think."

"Yes— it's his profession."

"And the poor man's a real musician. He has not been successful as a composer so far, and he does not know— as I do— that success will come to him before very long. Meanwhile, he teaches the piano to duffers. Think what that means. Every day, on the average, his true and sensitive ear is tortured with seven hundred and eighty-six wrong notes. I include Sundays, when he does not give lessons, or the average would be much higher. And he goes through this continuous martyrdom for the sake of those he loves— your mother, your brothers at school, and you, Celia. Then he is a poor man. He is bothered always with debts and money troubles. He had to pawn his watch to buy your last birthday present. He just manages to keep on the right side of bankruptcy. The wonder is that he has not been driven into raving lunacy. As it is, his temper and language are frequently deplorable— but his whole life speaks more loudly than his language and contradicts it."

Celia's pretty mouth twitched a little, and there were tears in her eyes, but she controlled herself.

"Oh, dear!"she said. "I didn't know. I wish you hadn't told me about the watch. What a beast I've been ! And it's not true that he's always in a temper. Often he says things in his grim sort of way that make us laugh. Ghost, you seem to know everything— tell me what I can do."

The ghost smiled an enigmatic smile. "All that a runaway can do," he said, "is to enjoy the perfect sense of freedom— the escape from drudgery and routine— so long as the money lasts. I think you have five pounds and some small change. Up to that point you can live your own life, develop your individuality, assert your claim to put yourself outside the circle of—"

Celia stamped her foot. "Stop talking that nonsense! " she said, angrily. Perhaps she had just a touch of her father's temper.

And still the ghost smiled enigmatically.

"You must admit," he said, "that it would have been easier to tell you what you might have done if you had not run away."

"What?"

"One thing has already occurred to your mind, I think. You make thirty shillings a week, you know, at the office. But I will tell you of another thing. Bad temper is infectious. When your father is furious your mother is cross and you are sulky. Good temper is infectious, but not so instantaneously. Still in three days an invincibly equable temper will make its effect. One more point— it is just as easy to talk, to be entertaining, to take a little trouble, in the home circle as it is when other people are present. Believe me, Celia, it is vulgar to have 'company manners.' "

"Yes, you may call me vulgar," said Celia, mournfully. "I'm such a lot of worse things as well that it doesn't matter much. But I never meant any harm. Really, I didn't. It was only that I didn't think, or didn't know, or looked at things the wrong way."

"That is quite true," said the ghost, gravely.

"Good-bye, ghost. I'm going home now— at once. They'll be angry with me, and I'll endure it. I suppose I've lost my job in the City, haven't I?"

"I think Mr. Abrahams generally sacks people who absent themselves without good reasons. But in your case the son, Mr. Sam Abrahams, might intercede with success. He is sometimes kind to pretty girls, you know, and he always expects them to— to pay for it."

"Then I will get work elsewhere. And now I must telegraph home so that they won't be anxious. Can you tell me w f here the nearest telegraph office is?"

"I could, but I can give you better help than that, All ghosts— the ghosts of the future just as much as the ghosts of the past— have strange powers. I will give to you a power that no human being has had yet, though at some point in their lives every man and every woman would give all they possess— and many would even give their lives— to have that power."

Celia looked at him with big eyes, spellbound.

"What is that power?"she asked.

"Simply," he said, in his ordinary voice— and perhaps he was the more impressive because he was never for a moment histrionic— "simply the power to put back the time of the whole world for a few hours, so that the things which happened in these hours will not have happened at all."

"Yes, I see," said Celia, excitedly. "But it's impossible. How do I do it?"

"Move back the hands of your little watch. I promise you that the time of the whole world shall move backward with them."

"I've been told," said Celia, "that it's bad for a watch to move the hands backwards. But I don't care; I don't care if it breaks. I believe in you. I'm going to do it."

And she did. Perhaps it was really bad for the watch, for it made a knocking sound. It knocked louder. It knocked as the engine of a motor-car knocks just before it sends in its resignation. And then—

And then Celia, with slowly-opening eyes, recognized that it was only a knock at her bedroom door. She heard her mother's plaintive voice.

"Celia, you've already been called once. Why don't you get up? The bathroom's ready for you. And you don't want to be late at the office."

"So sorry, mummy," Celia called, cheerfully. "I'll get up at once and hurry like anything."

There had been times when she had met such appeals with a certain acerbity.

She sprang from her bed and stretched her arms wide, her head thrown backward. What a blessed sense of relief! So she had not really run away. She had not really hurt the people she really loved. She had fallen asleep again after all, and had dreamed the most delightful dream that she had ever known.

The letter she had written to her mother was still on the mantelpiece under the spotted engraving. Celia took it down, and spoke to it as if it had been a living being.

"Do you know what I'm going to do with you, you silly piece of iniquity?"said Celia. "I'm going to put you in prison— in my despatch-case. And in the luncheon hour I'm going to tear you to pieces and throw you over Blackfriars Bridge into the dirty Thames. There!".

She opened her despatch-case. It was rather a good one; it had been a birthday present to her from her father, as Celia remembered. It was at present the guardian of, amongst other things, five one-pound notes, and these Celia took out and placed under a hair-brush on her drqssing-table. Then she threw her letter into the despatch-case and shut and locked it.

Then followed a swirl of blue dressing-gown and a dash for the bath-room.

She dressed, her gun-metal watch assured her, in very good time, considering what a lot of hair she had to brush. Just before she went she took the one-pound notes from the table and put them in a very pretty hiding-place.

As she entered the breakfast-room she heard her father's voice.

"I don't believe they'll cut the light off. I shall get Levison's cheque at the end of this week, and then I can pay. However, I'll go and see them about it."

Celia greeted her parents with more cheerful warmth than usual, helped herself to quite a good deal of porridge, and sat down. Her mother looked at her curiously.

"You're looking very pleased at something or other, Celia," said Mrs. Melrose.

"I know," said Celia. "I had a simply lovely dream last night."

"Good," said her father. "Lovely dreams and Mr. Melrose's fees for tuition are about the only two things that have not gone up in price lately."

"And the dream was partly about you. ather. Listen. You're going to have a great success as a composer. It's certain."

"A long time ago," said Mr. Melrose, "I dreamt that I saw a red and blue monkey playing the flute part from the 'William Tell ' overture on the E-flat clarionet. It hasn't come true yet, but it may. So may the success."

"It's quite certain," said Celia, "and it's to come before very long. The ghost said so."

"A ghost?"said her mother. "Why, that sounds more like a nightmare."

"But it wasn't. He wasn't a bit like any other ghost."

"And possibly," said Mr. Melrose, "the success won't be like any other success. How goes the time?"His hand went instinctively to an empty watch-pocket and dropped. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Twenty minutes, and then I start teaching the 'Moonlight Sonata' to the younger Miss Levison." As he went out he put his hand for a moment on his daughter's head. "Never mind, Celia," he said, "you're a good girl to dream nice things about me."

"Your father seems in much better spirits this morning," said Mrs. Melrose.

Celia assented. She could not remember that he had said anything particularly sunny, but his manner had been more cheerful than usual.

"He had a good night," Mrs. Melrose went on, "and that makes all the difference. It rests the nerves. It's all a question of the nerves. That's how it is that sometimes in the evening, when his nerves have been on the rack all day, he seems— well, almost irritable."

This was a mild hot beautiful understatement.

"I know— I understand," said Celia. "And all the pupils will learn that 'Moonlight Sonata,' or at any rate part of it. The last movement exceeds the speed limit, I fancy, though I've forgotten the old thing. By the way, I've got five pounds towards the housekeeping." Her right hand dived into her blouse and produced the notes. "I've got everything I want for myself, and this is left over. It's been gradually accumulating."

"Oh, Celia! This is very good and kind of you. But I don't think your father will

"He must. If he won't let me pay even a little bit of my own expenses here, I'll go and live somewhere else and break my heart."

"I think, then, I'll just run up and give your father this before he goes out. It might rather— er— alter his plans for the day. But, Celia, why don't you give it to him yourself?"

"Couldn't," said Celia, and looked suddenly mournful. "I couldn't explain, and I might begin to cry."

"But that's silly, child. Why, what on earth could there be to—"

But Celia had already escaped from the room.

At the office later that morning Sam Abrahams, who was not averse to a speculative investment, informed Celia that he intended to take her out to luncheon that day.

Celia did not even take the trouble to make a polite excuse.

"No, thank you," she said, glacially.

"All right," said Sam; "don't get cross. No one's bitten you."

Having thrown the shreds of her runaway letter into the Thames, Celia lunched alone in the Embankment Gardens. And for lunch she had biscuits and apples, but there are no ghosts in the Embankment Gardens.

IF YOU ever meet the famous composer, Mr. Hubert Melrose, do not speak to him of the song with which he first achieved popularity. He may tell you that the song was muck, or he may express himself more strongly, but in any case he will be annoyed with you.

And this is a little ungrateful of him. The song, which was published a fortnight after Celia's dream, had a good melody, dignified and a little ecclesiastical. The words were suitable for singers of either sex, and the accompaniment was within the reach of the vicar's daughter. Its success was instantaneous. In a fortnight the publishers ceased to waste money on advertising it, as the song went by itself; only by the most strenuous efforts could they produce it as fast as they could sell it. And they became most polite and friendly to Mr. Hubert Melrose, and said that they had always been confident of his ultimate success— a fact they had previously forgotten to mention.

And then other compositions by Mr. Melrose, which had been published and had died years before, walked out of their tombs and followed in-the song's triumphal procession. These were for the most part more ambitious and important work, and when the critics said that it was a pity that a composer with the genius of Hubert Melrose should waste his time in writing popular ballads, Mr. Melrose smiled with a malicious joy. Prosperity and a tactful daughter had improved his temper.

By Christmas he had given up tuition altogether, and was devoting himself solely to composition. And since he required a secretary who understood business and had a fair knowledge of music as well, Celia worked for him and abandoned Mr. Abrahams. "And a good thing too," said Sam Abrahams. "There never was any spirit of give-and-take about that girl."

One day Celia's father said to her: "It's just come back to my mind that a week or so before I published that putrescent song of mine you barged into breakfast one morning with a prophecy that I was to have a big success. You dreamed it, you said. It would interest me to have an account of that dream. I wish you'd just sit down and type it out."

"I'll try," said Celia, doubtfully. She put a sheet of paper into the machine, and for a few minutes stired at it blankly.

Then she got up.

"It's no good," she said, "I've forgotten absolutely every single thing about it. And I wish I hadn't."

Later in evening she tried again, but in vain, to recall her dream. The ghost had told her the truth.

So when, a few evenings afterwards, she met at a dance the young man whose ghost she had seen in that dream she did not recognize him. Nor did he recognize her. They had to be introduced in the usual way. They danced every dance together that they did not sit out together, and he took her down to supper, otherwise neither showed any special mark of preference for the other. Celia went home in a taxi-cab, which seemed to have touches of the seventh heaven about it.

And after that events moved rapidly.

In the following summer, on a sunny morning, Celia walked in the country on the outskirts of London with the young man whom she was very shortly to marry. She had been engaged to him for countless ages, she said, but it can only have been a few months, since he was the same young man that she met at that dance. When they reached the stile at the footpath across the fields Celia sat down to rest and to eat biscuits from a paper bag.

"I think I'm a greedy pig," said Celia, seriously.

"I'm sure of it," said the young man, with equal gravity.

And then they laughed at their own folly, as very happy people often do, and Celia dropped the greater part of the biscuit which was then in action. In an absent-minded way the young man picked it up and finished it.

Suddenly Celia sprang to her feet. "This has all happened before," she exclaimed. "I feel absolutely sure of it."

The young man smiled enigmatically.

"Quite likely," he said. "Perhaps we met long ago, some time when I wasn't there."

"No, I think you were there and I wasn't. But I wish I had been."

And as she said this she looked so perfectly adorable that it became imperative for the young man to kiss her.

"Oh!" said Celia. "You're terrible; suppose somebody had come past just then."

"Somebody didn't," the young man said, philosophically, and lit a Russian cigarette.

_______________

13: The Unfamiliar

Richard Connell

1893-1949

The Century Magazine, Sep 1923

Richard Edward Connell Jr

WHO he was and what he was and where he came from no one knew. How he came to be in Crosby Corners was a mystery, and at harvesttime Connecticut farmers are too busy to peer into mysteries. He could not speak much English beyond "Yes," "No," "Hungry," and "Go Hell." He could gesture, however. He could gesture with his hands, his elbows, his eyes, his feet. He appeared to be trying by pantomime to convey the idea that he had been forcibly seized in his native land, which was remote, had been pressed into service aboard a ship, had been very ill at sea, had escaped at a port, had fled on a train, and had dropped, or been dropped, at Crosby Corners. The farmers, however, had no time to interpret pantomime. Farm-hands were scarce, and if a man had two hands and at least one good eye, they did not delve into his past or his pedigree; they put him to work. It was thus that the small, scared man in the velvet trousers entered the employ of Ben Crosby, richest farmer in that region.

"I found the little rascal," Ben Crosby told his wife, "squealing like a pig in a hornet's nest, and frightened almost out of his wits, with Constable Pettit marching him along by the ear. 'Constable,' I says, 'what is that and where did you get it?' He says to me: 'I dunno what it is, Ben, but it looks foreign. I found it down by the railroad tracks trying to eat a raw potato. When I asked it what its name was, it said: "See." ' I says to the constable, 'He may be a Gipsy or he may be a Hindu, and he looks as if he suspected you of being a cannibal. But,' I says, 'he seems wiry and he didn't get that lovely tobacco-brown finish of his at a pink tea or from working in an office. Now I need hands worse than ducks need ponds. So turn him over to me 'stead of sticking him in the calaboose, and I'll give him a job.' Pettit didn't want to be bothered with him, so he turned him over to me, and there he is out at the pump washing the dirtiest pair of hands I ever did see, and now and then rubbing his belly to show how hungry he is. I'll send him to the back door, Hannah; you give him a lining of ham and eggs and pie, and then send him down to me. I'll be in the twenty-acre lot."

Presently there came a knock on the back door of the Crosby house. It was not at all a robust knock; it was a tap as faint and timid as a butterfly's kick. Mrs. Crosby opened the door, and saw a small man standing there; his face was a rich brown, his eyes were black and apprehensive; he appeared to be ready to flee if the occasion demanded it. When he saw Mrs. Crosby, however, he bowed deeply. Such a bow had never before been executed in Crosby Corners except in the moving pictures. It was a sweeping, courtly thing, that bow, in which the small man swept off his wide felt hat and dusted the steps with it. Then he smiled; it was a humble, ingratiating smile. He looked toward the stove, where the sizzling ham was sending its aroma heavenward, and sighed. Mrs. Crosby pointed to a chair at the kitchen table, and he, with another bow, took it, and presently he was eating hungrily and freely. Mrs. Crosby now and then lifted an eye from her canning to regard the exotic stranger; she had a doubt or two at first whether it was quite safe for her to stay there. You never can tell what the foreigners may do, even if you are past forty and the mother of a grown daughter. She glanced into the dining-room, where, above the mantel, hung Grandpa Crosby's Civil-War sword, a long, heavy weapon, and its presence reassured her. As she studied the man, she decided that any fear of him was quite groundless; if anything, he was afraid of her. His hair, she observed, was blue-black and long, but arranged in a way that suggested that he was a bit of a dandy. The stranger's trousers surprised her greatly; they were of black velvet, really painfully tight, except at the bottom of each leg, where they flared out like bells. He had no belt, but instead a scarlet sash. His shirt, when new and clean, must have been a remarkable garment; it had been plaid silk, but it was now neither new nor clean. His boots were of patent leather and excessively pointed.

When he had eaten a very great deal he arose, bowed, smiled beatifically, and made gestures of gratitude. Mrs. Crosby pointed in the direction of the twenty-acre lot, and he understood. She saw him picking his way down the path; he was the first man she had ever seen whose gait at one and the same time included a mince and a swagger.

When Ben Crosby came in to his late supper that evening he announced:

"I was wrong about that new little fellow. He doesn't seem to have done farm work. He's willing enough, but he handles a hay-fork as dainty as if it was a toothpick. And, say, he certainly is the most scary human being I ever set eyes on. You should have seen him when the tractor came into the field with the mowing-machine. He gave a yelp and jumped on the stone wall, and if there'd been a tree handy, I guess he'd have climbed it. He looked as if he was afraid the machine would eat him. Pete High, who was driving it, said, 'I guess it ain't only his skin that's yellow.' I hope Pete isn't right. I hate a coward."

"Don't you let Pete High pick on him," admonished Mrs. Crosby. "Perhaps the man never saw a mowing-machine before. I remember how scared I was when I saw the first automobile come roaring and snorting along the road. And so were you, Ben Crosby."

"Well, I didn't let on I was," replied her husband, harpooning a potato.

"No, you old hypocrite, maybe you didn't; but I saw you looking around for a tree."

He laughed, and was on the point of sending a potato to its final resting-place, when they both heard a cry— a high, terrified cry that came through the dusk. He started up.

"That's not Janey?" he asked.

"No; she's still in town taking her music lesson."

"Who is it, then?" he asked quickly.

They heard the patter of running feet on the path outside; they heard the sound of feet landing after a leap to the porch; they heard someone banging frantically on the front door. Ben Crosby called out:

"What's the matter?"

A flood of words in a strange tongue answered him.

"It's Velvet Pants," he exclaimed, and flung open the door. The small man, breathless, tumbled in.

"What in the name of thunderation?" demanded Ben Crosby. The small man pointed through the open door with quivering fingers.

"I don't see anything out there but the evening," said Ben Crosby.

"Ice!" cried the man, very agitated. "Ice!"

"What do you want ice for?" asked Ben Crosby.

The man made eloquent gestures; first he pointed at his own face, then he pointed outside; his index finger stabbed at the gloom once, twice, a dozen quick times.

"Ice! ice! ice! ice! ice! ice!" he said.

"Why, Ben, he means 'eyes,' " exclaimed Mrs. Crosby.

"Eyes? What eyes, Hannah? I don't see any eyes. There's nothing out there but lightning-bugs."

One of the circling fireflies flew quite near the open door. The small man saw it coming, and made an earnest, but only partly successful, attempt to climb into the grandfather's clock that stood in the corner of the hall.

Ben Crosby threw back his head and laughed.

"Why, dog my cats! if the little cuss ain't afraid of lightning-bugs!" he said. "Hey, Velvet Pants, look here."

He plucked the man out of the clock with one big hand, and with the other captured the firefly, and held it near the stranger's wide eyes.

"Look," said Ben Crosby in the loud tone that is supposed to make the American language intelligible to those who do not understand it when it is spoken in an ordinary tone of voice. "Bug! Bug! No hurt! Lightning-bug. LIGHTNING-BUG!"

The small man pulled away from the insect.

"Not know lightning-boogs," he said.

Ben released his hold on the small man, and pointed up-stairs; then Ben gave a highly realistic imitation of a snore. The man comprehended, and his velvet-clad legs twinkled up-stairs toward his bedroom. Ben Crosby returned to his supper, shaking his head.

"It beats me," he remarked to his wife. "He's afraid of mowing-machines and he's afraid of lightning-bugs. I wonder if he's afraid of the dark. I need farm-hands, but may I be fried like a smelt if I'll tell 'em bedtime stories or sing 'em to sleep. What's the world coming to, anyhow? Can you imagine a real, honest-to-goodness farm-hand like Pete High being afraid of lightning-bugs?"

"Boneheads are seldom afraid of anything," remarked Mrs. Crosby, pouring buttermilk.

They heard the front door open.

"There's Janey," said Mrs. Crosby. "Hello, dear. Come right to the table. I've made ice-cream— coffee, the kind you like."

Janey, daughter of the household, came in, bearing her guitar. She kissed both her parents. Janey was nearly eighteen, a pretty, elf-like girl. All the masculine hearts in Crosby Corners beat a little faster when she went down the village street; her blue eyes had been the cause of many black eyes. Her father told her of the new man, of his extraordinary velvet trousers, and of his still more extraordinary fears.

"Poor little fellow!" she said.

As the harvest days hurried along, Velvet Pants atoned somewhat for his lack of expertness as a farmer by his unfailing good nature. He even learned to speak a little English of a certain hesitant species, but he had little opportunity to talk with his fellow-workers. Mostly they ignored him, or, if they addressed him at all, did so loftily and with contempt; a man who paled at the sight of mowing-machines and lightning-bugs was not of their stout-hearted kind.

The incident at the swimming-hole added little to Velvet Pants' reputation for bravery. The swimming-hole was Sandy Bottom, where all the workers, hot from their day in the fields, went for a cool plunge after work. They noticed that Velvet Pants never went with them.

"How does he keep so neat and clean?" they asked. It was Pete High who solved this mystery.

"Yesterday morning," said Pete, "I woke up earlier than usual, and what do you suppose I see? Well, I hear a tap, tap, tap, like somebody was stealing down-stairs on his tiptoes. I peek out o' the door, and it's Velvet Pants. Just for fun, I follow him. He goes down to the creek, not to Sandy Bottom, but a couple of rods down-stream, where the water ain't more than ankle-deep. He strips, and takes a stick about the size of a cane and goes like this, 'Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah,' and pokes at the bushes each time he says 'ah.' Then he gives one big loud 'Ahhhhhhh,' and lunges with his stick at the bushes; then he bows low, like he was an actor in a show. He takes a bath, then, dabbing a little water on himself like a cat does; but he doesn't go in above his ankles. I guess he's afraid of the water."

"Mebbe he ain't much on swimming," said one of the other hands, "but he sure can twang a mean guitar. He's giving Janey Crosby lessons."

Pete High scowled.

"He is, is he? First I heard about it. Well, the first thing he knows he won't know nothing. I'm not going to have any wop—"

"She likes him," teased the other man. "Says he's got such lovely manners; just like what you ain't, Pete."

"She don't know how yella he is," Pete High growled, "but she will."

On Saturday afternoons most of Crosby Corners, men, women, and children, comes to Sandy Bottom, bringing bathing-suits. It is not a very big pool; at its deepest part it is not much over six feet deep.

How it happened that the small man with the velvet trousers should be passing Sandy Bottom that Saturday noon at the precise moment when freckled Johnny Nelson was floundering in the water and calling loudly for help does not matter. Why Johnny Nelson should be drowning at all is something of a puzzle, for he was the best swimmer in the county. It also happened that just as Johnny was going down for the ninth or tenth time and was calling piteously for Velvet Pants to dive in and save him, Janey Crosby and a party of girl friends came down to the pool.

They saw Velvet Pants, his dark face ivory colored, trying to reach Johnny with a young tree wrenched from the bank. The small man was a picture of frantic helplessness.

"Save me, Velvet Pants! Save me!" bawled Johnny, submerging, and coming up for the fourteenth time.

"Not know how," screamed Velvet Pants in agony. "Not know how."

Janey Crosby and her companions grew mildly hysterical; Johnny Nelson went down for the seventeenth and eighteenth time, respectively. Velvet Pants, finding that he could not reach Johnny with the tree, had fallen on his knees, and with clasped hands was praying aloud in his own tongue. Then, it also happened, that Pete High came racing through the bushes.

"I'll save you, Johnny," he cried dramatically. Overalls and all, he plunged in and brought the dripping Johnny to the bank. The prayers of Velvet Pants became prayers of thanksgiving. Pete High stood regarding him with disgust.

"Oh, Velvet Pants," said Janey Crosby, "why didn't you jump in and save him?"

Slowly, sadly the small man shrugged his shoulders.

"Not know water," he said; "not know sweem."

He did not seem nearly so abashed as he said this as he might very well have been in the circumstances; he said it very much as if he were stating a fact, a lamentable fact the truth of which he regretted, but a fact, nevertheless. He looked dismayed and surprised when Janey Crosby and the others turned away from him.

After that Velvet Pants was an outcast. The men spoke to him only when it was necessary to do so, and then briefly and even harshly. He did not seem to understand; he would try to tell them things, making many gestures; but he had not the words to make himself clear, nor had they the inclination to listen to him.

In the evening, when the men were sitting about the porch, competing for Janey Crosby's smiles, there was no place for him there. He had tried to join in their talk and play, to be friendly, to be one of them; they froze him out, and still he did not seem to understand that they did it because he was so flagrant a coward. At last he seemed to accept his status as a pariah without really understanding it, for he would take his guitar, which he had constructed from the ruin of an old one, and go alone into the woods. It was said that he sang there to himself, sad songs in his native tongue.

Janey Crosby's birthday came toward the end of the harvest season, and it was the most important social event of the year in Crosby Corners. All the village was invited, and all the village came, the girls in their fresh dimities, the men, soaped and collared and uncomfortable, but happy. They brought presents, as if they were bringing tribute to a queen, and Janey, as graciously as a reigning sovereign, took them all, and smiled.

The party was held in the masonic hall, and it was an affair of considerable tone, with dancing, two helpings of ice-cream all around, and a three-piece orchestra.

The dancing was half over. Janey and Pete High, her current partner, had gone out on the porch; a harvest moon silvered the village streets.

"Look," exclaimed Pete, "what's that sitting down there on the horseblock?"

"It's a man," said Janey, her eyes following his pointing finger.

"But who can it be?"

The girl looked again, and made out a small, bent figure sitting there, chin on hands, eyes turned toward the lighted hall, ears toward the music and the buzz and laughter of the guests.

"Why, it's Velvet Pants!" she exclaimed.

"Shall I chase him away?" asked Pete, swelling out his chest and looking belligerent. Janey laid a restraining hand on his arm.

"No; don't chase him, Pete. Let him stay. The poor fellow's probably lonesome. Everybody is here but him."

"He deserves to be lonesome," said Pete; "he's yella."

"Would you jump in to save a person from drowning if you didn't know how to swim?" asked Janey.

"Of course I would," replied Pete, promptly. "Now, see here, Janey Crosby, don't you go sticking up for that wop. He's not fit to associate with white men."

She sat gazing at the small, miserable figure; then she made a sudden resolution.

"I'm going to ask him to come up to the party," she said.

"No, you ain't."

"Whose birthday is this, Pete High? I guess it won't do any harm to give him a dish of ice-cream. You don't have to associate with him. Run down and tell him I'd like to see him, Pete."

Pete mumbled protests, but he went. Very diffidently, as if he momentarily expected to be kicked, Velvet Pants approached the porch. Janey Crosby saw that he was wearing a new, clean shirt, that his black locks had been parted and buttered, and that his shoes had been rigorously shined. Over his shoulder was slung his wreck of a guitar.

"This is my birthday, Velvet Pants," said the girl. "I want you to help me celebrate it. Pete, will you get another plate of ice-cream?"

The small man seemed overcome; he bowed twice very low. Then he spoke. He spoke mechanically, as if the words had been often rehearsed.

"I haf no gif' for you on your birthday, Mees Crosby, but I haf learn a song American to seeng for you. I hear heem on funnygraf. I hope you like."

He said it humbly, but not without a certain pride that attends the accomplishment of a difficult feat.

Janey laughed delightedly.

"So you learned an American song just for my birthday? Well, now, wasn't that a sweet idea! Wait! I'll call the others; no, better still, you come in the hall and sing, so they can all hear."

Velvet Pants looked horrified at this suggestion.

"But, no," he protested. "I do not seeng good."

"That's all right. They won't know the difference," said Janey, laughingly. "Come along."

She pushed him through the open doorway. The guests looked up; what would Janey Crosby do next?

"Folks," announced Janey Crosby, "Mr. Velvet Pants is going to sing for us. He learned a little American song just for my birthday. Wasn't that nice of him?"

It was evident from the face of Pete High, who stood in the doorway, that he did not think it was particularly nice.

The small brown man glanced uncertainly about the hall; then he began to play chords on his guitar. Some of the girls tittered. In a round, clear tenor Velvet Pants began to sing:

"Kees me hagain, kees me hagain,

Kees me hagain, and hagain."

His memory seemed to go back on him at this point; he groped for a moment for the words, then plunged on:

"Kees me hagain, kees me hagain,

Kees me hagain, and hagain.

Kees me hagain, kees me hagain,

Kees me hagain and hagain,

Kees me hagain, kees me hagain,

Kees me, kees me, hagain!"

When he had finished, Velvet Pants bowed deeply first to Janey, then to the rest. There was a slight, dubious ripple of applause that was checked suddenly. Pete High had strode up to Velvet Pants and was facing him.

"Just a minute there," said Pete. "You and me has got a little bone to pick. Wadda you mean by singing a song like that to Miss Crosby?"

The small man looked puzzled.

"It ees only song American I know," he said.

"Yeah? Well, I'm goin' to teach you to sing it out of the other side of your mouth. Come outside with me."

"Pete High," broke in Janey, "don't you go fighting with him. He didn't mean any harm; he probably doesn't know what the words mean."

"I told him never to say anything to you whether he understood it or not," stormed Pete. "Come on, you."

Velvet Pants made an attempt to steal away, but Pete blocked his path.

"You're going out on the lawn with me," said Pete.

"And seeng?" asked the little man, who seemed somewhat dazed by what was happening.

"No; fight."

"Fight?"

"Yes; fight."

"But I do not hate you, Meester Pete."

"Well, I hate you. Come on."

"But how we fight?" inquired the small man; he was pale beneath his tan, and trembling. For answer Pete thrust a clenched fist under the man's nose. The man drew his head back and shivered.

"No!" he said, shaking his head; "no! no! no! no! no!"

"You won't fight?"

"No."

"You're a coward," declared Pete.

Velvet Pants shrugged his shoulders.

"Not know hand-fights," he said.

Pete slapped him across the face with his open hand.

"Now will you fight?"

"Not know hand-fights," said the man, drawing away. Pete, contempt on his face, gave him a push into the night. They heard the sound of feet on the path; Velvet Pants was running.

"Not know hand-fights," Pete mimicked. "Did you ever in your life see such a rat?"

Next day excitement swept Crosby Corners. Defender Monarch had gone crazy, and when that news spread, they forgot all about the conduct of Velvet Pants on the night before. As for him, he went about his work with a puzzled and hurt look on his brown face; he seemed still uncertain why the others did not respond to his smiles and attempts at friendliness.

Defender Monarch was the pride, and the terror, of the county. His owner, Ben Crosby, had raised him from a gawky calf, wobbly on his legs, into a massive ton-and-a-half bull, with a chest like a haystack, a voice of thunder, and the temper of a gouty demon. Ben Crosby had not dehorned him, because in cattle shows a good pair of horns is considered a point of merit in judging bulls, and the giant bull had won many blue ribbons. On this day Ben Crosby wished most earnestly that he had foregone the blue ribbons and taken off those horns. A savage bull without horns is bad enough, but a savage bull with a pair of sharp, wicked horns is just about the most dangerous animal that walks.

Perhaps on that morning Defender Monarch had realized that he had reached the end of his usefulness, and that before very long he was doomed to end a proud career, ingloriously, as steak, roast, and stew. He stood in his pasture, roaring a challenge to the world that he would die fighting. By blind luck Ben Crosby was able to trick him into entering the big pen, but in the process Defender Monarch had given a sample of his viciousness by ripping Johnny Nelson's arm from elbow to shoulder and had failed by a hair's-breadth in a sincere attempt to crush the life out of Ben Crosby himself. Once confined in the pen, Defender Monarch's rage knew no bounds. He hurled himself against the thick board sides so furiously that they creaked and trembled, and the crowd that had gathered to see him darted back to places of greater safety.

Luckily, the pen was a stoutly built affair; it was not really a pen at all, but a small corral, perhaps fifty feet square. About it moved Defender Monarch, his small eyes blazing, alert. And, perched on boxes and ladders, Crosby Corners, fascinated as all men are by dangerous things, watched the mad king of the herd.

"Isn't he just too terrible," said Janey Crosby to Pete High.

"Oh, I don't know," answered Pete, airily. "I've worked round him often."

"But not since he went crazy, Pete."

"No," admitted Pete, "mebbe not. I'm used to cattle of all kinds, but I never saw one that acted this way. Just plain bulls I'm none too fond of fooling with, but a crazy one! Excuse me."

"See how he's looking right at us with those mean little eyes of his," said Janey. "It's just as if he were saying, 'If I only had you down here for a minute!' I'm scared, Pete."

"I'm here," said Pete High, reassuringly. "Look, Janey, he's getting another fit; he's going to try to buck that opposite wall."

Janey Crosby, to get a better view, climbed to the very top of the stepladder that leaned against the wall of the corral. There was a sharp crack as the top rail gave way, then horrified cries. She had fallen into the pen, and lay unconscious almost at the feet of the mad bull.

The women screamed, the men ran about aimlessly, wildly, shouting orders at one another.

"Help! Janey's fallen into the pen!"

"Oh, he'll kill her! he'll kill her! he'll kill her!"

"Get pitchforks!"

"Get a gun!"

"No use; we've only got bird-shot. It would just make him madder to hit him with that."

"Someone will have to jump in."

"Where are you running to, Pete High?"

"To get a rope or something."

"You'll be too late."

Defender Monarch looked down at the girl, and his eyes were evil. Then he looked at the ring of white faces that lined the top of the corral. He seemed to understand the situation; he seemed to know that he had plenty of time, and he gloated. He turned away from Janey, trotted to the farther end of the corral, wheeled about, and surveyed the distance between himself and the girl's body; then he lowered his head with his gleaming prongs, and gathered his body for a charge.

The aghast onlookers became aware that something was in the corral besides the girl and the bull. A figure had come through the gate of the inclosure, silently and swiftly. It was a small man in velvet trousers and he was strolling toward Defender Monarch as casually and placidly as if the bull were a rose-bush. On the brown face of Velvet Pants there was not the slightest trace of fear; indeed, he was smiling, a slight, amused smile. Otherwise he was as matter of fact as if he were about to sit down to his breakfast. A brown-paper cigaret hung limp from one corner of his lips; with the mincing strut they had noticed and made fun of, he walked slowly quite near to Defender Monarch. The animal, distracted, stood blinking at the little man. Within a few feet of the bull, Velvet Pants halted; with magnificent nonchalance he blew a cloud of smoke into the bull's face, and then they saw a flash of something red. It was Ben Crosby's red flannel undershirt that a few moments before had been drying on the line. The small man had flicked it across the bull's face. Defender Monarch forgot for the moment his plan for smashing Janey Crosby; he saw the red, and he plunged toward it. The women turned their heads away, the men clenched their teeth. They saw Velvet Pants slip aside with the quickness of a jungle cat, and the bull, unable to check himself, jolt his head against one of the sides of the corral. Velvet Pants turned round, smiled pleasantly, and bowed very low to the spectators. They saw that he had in his right hand something long and bright that caught the rays of the sun; they realized that it was Grandpa Crosby's old Civil-War sword that had hung in the dining-room. He was holding it as lightly and as easily as if it were a butter-knife.

Defender Monarch, recovering from his fruitless charge against the wall, spun about; once more the red shirt was deftly flapped before his bright, mad eyes. Once more, with a roar of wrath, he launched his bulk straight at Velvet Pants. Then something happened to Defender Monarch. It happened with such speed that all the onlookers saw was a flash; then they saw the huge frame of the bull totter, crumple, and sink down. Sticking from the left shoulder of the bull they saw the hilt of Grandpa Crosby's sword; they saw the hilt only, for Velvet Pants had driven the point into Defender Monarch's heart.

The people of Crosby Corners allege that Ben Crosby kissed the little tanned man on both cheeks, but this he denies; he admits, however, that he hugged him and patted him, and said many husky words of gratitude and admiration to Velvet Pants, who seemed abashed and quite unable to understand why everyone was making so much of a fuss about him.

"And I called you a coward," Ben Crosby kept saying. "I called you a coward, and you went in and faced a mad bull without batting an eyelash."

"It was nuzzing," murmured the small brown man.

"Nothing to face a mad bull?"

Velvet Pants shrugged his shoulders.

"But I am a toreador," he said. "In my country, Andalusia, I keel one, two, t'ree bull every Sunday for fun. Why should I fear bulls? I know bulls."

______________

14: Fooled!

Herbert Jamieson
fl 1904-1910

Express and Telegraph (Adelaide) 24 July 1909

TRUE to his character Frank Webster caught the train by the skin of his teeth. It was, indeed, already on the move with a friendly inspector, seeing Webster's frantic efforts to open a locked door, obligingly inserted his key and flung the young man into the compartment. "

Rising from his knees, on to which he had fallen, Webster first became aware that he was not alone. The expression of the man in the far corner, whose privacy he had invaded, was positively malignant.

"Near shave, that!" exclaimed Webster, with a pacific grin.

"I think it very foolish of you, risking your life in such a fashion," replied the stranger, with a lofty air.

"Well, to tell the truth, I hadn't much say in the matter. That inspector did the trick."

"I should like a quiet five minutes alone with that inspector. Do you see that notice on the window—'Engaged?' "

"Oh, I'm sorry! I really hadn't time to notice—"

"I don't blame you so much as that dishonest official. I had just paid him half a crown to get that label and slick it up there, so that I might have the carriage to myself all the way to Westport, and this is the way he has abused my generosity."

The irony of the situation was not lost upon Webster, but he restrained a tendency, to giggle and only succeeded in looking, rather sheepish. He was merely a city clerk; bound on a week-end holiday, and had no mastery of repartee. Moreover, a look around the appointments of the compartment had assured him that he was in a first-class carriage. If he attempted to ride the high horse he might be challenged to produce his ticket and it was merely a week-end third.

"I'll change into another carriage," said, "at the first stop."

"First and only stop, sir. Bickenham Junction, one hour and twenty minutes' run."

"Really?"

The stranger's manner of conveying information was rather too electric to be pleasant.

"That's most unfortunate.  I hope I shan't inconvenience you. I've got an evening paper to read. Please don't mind me." And Webster, making .himself as small as possible in the extreme corner, prepared to wade steadily through his paper.

"Perhaps I should explain why I wanted this carriage to myself."

The tone was more gracious.

Webster dropped his newspaper upon his knee. "Oh dear me, no, sir! There's really no necessity."

"But there is. As a gentleman, I require to ask your permission for what I am about to do. Have you any objection to my changing my clothes in this car

"Most certainly not, sir. Please put me absolutely out of the reckoning.

Webster felt more himself now.  A glow of satisfaction ran through him.. He had really done a very gracious thing in giving the man permission to consider the carriage his dressing-room.

"Thanks! Do you object to the smell of burnt cork?"

Another galvanic shock; but Webster managed to reply carelessly, "No, I don't think it is in the least unpleasant."

"I'm glad of that, as I've got to make pretty liberal use of it. I intend transforming myself into a nigger minstrel in a few minutes."

"Oh!" returned Webster sullenly.

He intended to show that he was aggrieved, and very properly. Nigger-minstrel, forsooth. To think that he had been servile to a man who was probably a second-rate music-hall performer, and lacking an engagement in town, had elected to woo pennies by the cheap device of blacking his face and warbling to a banjo from the crowds of visitors that flock into Westport in the summer time.

Webster felt that he could only regain his sense of manhood, by saying something excessively rude to him.

But the other had the floor.

"I intended to catch the previous train but business in town prevented me. As it is, I shall only have time to reach the hall in time for the performance. That is why I'm forced to dress in this carriage."

Webster nodded. Now was the chance of getting in a home thrust.

"I guess you come on early, before any of the stars, don't you?"

It took the stranger a moment to see the allusion.

"My dear young man"— Webster's cheeks reddened with fury at this second endearment— "you don't seem to grasp anything. I'm not referring to a music-hall, but to the Westport Town Hall. This is The night of Lady Vere de Vere's great charitable entertainment there in aid of the Westport unemployed. She and I are old friends, and I promised to come down and sing several coon songs in appropriate costume. I'm merely an amateur, of course, and taking no fee. And now. if you don't mind, I'll start dressing."

Now Frank Webster possessed a sceptical nature. Usually a broad experience of life fosters scepticism. In his case it resulted from narrowness of outlook. He knew men in the city—a few men— and painted every one in the same unlovely colours.

Was this stranger speaking the truth? Had he Dot, perhaps, felt that he was losing his sense of superiority, and had now invented Lady Vere de Vere and her charitable entertainment merely to impress Webster and keep him at a distance? Moreover, who ever heard , of a Lady Yore de Vere outside paper books of the kind that Webster's landlady read? It was just the kind of name which would spring to a man's lips when he wants to assume acquaintance with the aristocracy.

Webster merely mumbled something unintelligible and reopened, his newspaper.

The stranger' got down his Gladstone from the rack and began spreading out some of the contents.

During that process Webster's attention wandered from his paper. Clothes— he had read his Carlyle— are the index to the man. What sort of a mummer's wardrobe had his fellow-passenger?

As the articles, one by one, appeared, Webster's suspicious were intensified. The coon garments were second-hand, patched in places, and savouring of Houndsditch. No, this man was not what he pretended to be. A friend of Lady Vere de Vere would certainly, even for one night's rigout, have gone to a proper theatrical costumier.

"Relics of old days," said the stranger, noticing his glance.

Webster buried himself deep in his paper. He was reading about Nicholson, the clever forger, who had lately swindled a bank out of fifteen hundred pounds and had as yet successfully eluded the police. To-day fifty pounds reward was offered for information that would lead to his arrest.

Suddenly Webster drew in his breath sharply. He was perusing indifferently details of the forger's past career, as gleaned by the assiduous newspaper, when these sentences glared at him:—

Nicholson was once a leading member of the famous Darkie Minstrel troupe. Those were the days of his prosperity. The 'Darkie Minstrels,' as is well known, fell on evil days and the company was disbanded. Since then Nicholson seems to have lived chiefly by his wits. At holiday times he has been seen in certain seaside places, picking up a livelihood by the exercise of his own profession. For the rest of the year he has probably turned his undoubted talents to baser account.

Webster read on feverishly. This was the concluding paragraph—

Up to this morning Nicholson is still at large. It is thought possibly that he may try to escape to the Continent and places like Westport and Eastport, which afford access twice daily to France, are being closely watched.

Webster tried to prevent his hands trembling. There Was no shadow of a doubt in his mind now. The notorious Nicholson and this bouncing stranger were one and the same. He was already busy, effecting the disguise that would carry him , safely through the streets of Westport.

When the stranger's back was for a moment turned Webster threw the news his pocket a magazine. He held it before his eyes, but, of course, did not read, a word. His brain was busy tackling this problem— how might he secure that £50 with no inconvenience to himself? At the moment when the man was arrested on his information, he— Webster— had no desire to be in the vicinity. The fellow, might be armed and do desperate things. It would be far safer to plant oneself a few miles away when the minions of the law accomplished their work.

And thus a great plan came to birth.

Webster, like many men who have slender facilities for travelling, was a student of timetables. He liked to work out the imaginary journeys which, had be been possessed of means and leisure, he would certainly have taken.

He knew that this train divided at Bickenham Junction— one portion going to Westport, and the other to Eastport, some 14 miles away.

By the time Bickenham Junction was reached the man had transformed himself into a full-fledged nigger-minstrel. He had donned a light fawn overcoat over the variegated costume, so less attention would be cuffed to his appearance.

"Bickenham Junction; Bickenham Junction!"

"Were three minutes here," said the wily Webster. "I'm going to take a little stretch on the platform. I suppose you won't join me?"

As anticipated, the criminal shrunk from the notoriety.

Alighting, Webster walked to the front portion of the train— the part for Eastport which went ahead of the Westport part. Here he selected an empty first-class carriage and tried the door; it was fortunately not locked. He stood alongside the open door, watching the signal-man at the end of the platform. A long three minutes! Ah! it was down now!

"Take your seats, please!"

He tore like a madman to the hack of the train—to the Westport carriages where he had left the other man.

"I-Ii, they've reversed this train tonight! We're in the wrong portion for Westport. Get out quick, man! I'll help you with, your hag.'

Never doubting his word, the victim jumped out and ran beside Webster for all he was worth. Neck by neck, dragging the bag between them, they raced to the open carriage-door on which Webster had kept his eye. As he had hoped, the Eastport portion was already on the move when they got alongside.

"In man, for your life!" He bundled the minstrel in and then hurled the bag after him.

By this time the train had gathered speed and Webster affected to be frightened of boarding it. He was running alongside, but seemed to be fearful of leap in. Now he desisted altogether.

"Never mind!" he panted, closing the door. "Can't do it! Catch next train."

And the Eastport carriages, with a black face at one of the windows, glided out of the station.

Hurriedly Webster rushed to the stationmaster's room, which he had previously noticed. That official was just disappearing in at the door.

"Send a wire to Eastport— quick!" Webster demanded.

"Luggage gone wrong, sir?"

"No! I've just recognised Nicholson, the notorious forger, in one of the carriages. He's by himself in carriage 461, dressed up as a nigger!"

"Sure of your man, sir?"

"Perfectly!'"

"I'll telegraph at once, then. Your name, please, sir?"

"Webster, 61, Adeline-road, Dalston. Note that carefully, and don't forget what I'm like, because there's a good reward out! I must catch this train now starting for Westport, but I'll communicate again with you to-morrow."

A desperate criminal cannot deal one much personal damage when one is miles away from him.

WHEN Webster reached his boarding house 7 o'clock dinner was over. He was served, however, in solitude with a very tolerable meal.

After dinner he decided to go out and explore the land.

Whatever the attractions of Westport by day it did not seem to bubble over with life by night. In a drizzling rain Webster walked the length of several streets before he came upon the sea front, to find it so deserted that he was glad to turn into the town again. At last, by the aid of a policeman, he found out the locality of the principal shops.

He had lighted upon some activity at last. If anything was to offer itself in the way of indoor amusement it would certainly be in this vicinity. A Westport hippodrome, or even, a building that barefacedly proclaimed itself a music-hall, would be most welcome on such a night,

A well-lighted, substantial-looking edifice at the juncture of two important streets caught his eye. Something was on there.

He crossed the street to study the placards. "To-night" was the only thing that, one could read on the other side of the road.

Westport Town Hall.

Lady Vere de Vere's Grand Evening Concert.

In Aid of the Unemployed.

Brilliant Programme by Celebrated Artistes.

He felt suddenly rather queer. So Lady Vere de Vere and her concert were not myths!

Nervously he gazed down the list of the artistes' names.

Mr. Algernon Durrant.

Coon Songs in Costume.

Goodness gracious! Had he made the blunder of his life?

That moment a cab hurriedly drove up a few feet from where Webster was standing. Out jumped somebody, and at the same instant a man in evening dress came flying down the hall steps.

"Where on earth, Durrant, have you been to?"

"Been to?" And Webster shivered at the familiar tone of the voice as he shrank against the wall and shielded himself behind his open umbrella.

"A man in the train I'd like to skin played a practical joke on me. Sent me on to Eastport and had me arrested there for Nicholson, the bank thief. I've been over an hour establishing my identity. Here, lend me a shilling; I haven't enough change for cabby. I'll search Westport to-morrow, and if I find that miserable little grocer's assistant that fooled me I'll horsewhip him in the public streets. Come on! Let's get inside."

"BACK, sir, already?" said his landlady, in town, as she opened the door to Webster about eleven o'clock next morning.

"Er— yes! I found Westport too warm for me."

______________

15: Confession

Lizzie C. Reid
fl 1900s

Chronicle (Adelaide) 4 Sep 1915

Obscure British author; the "Chronicle" attributed this story to "The Penny Magazine."  I can find mention of only one other story.

ARNOLD CRAY was taking his morning stroll through the pine woods, breathing in the spicy air with the nip of the sea in it. A barrister of the Middle Temple, he had come to Chineford for the rest cure after strenuous legal work.

Sounds of strife broke the stillness of the morning, high-pitched boys' voices. Two lads were at grips with one another. Cray watched them a moment, remembering tough battles of his youth. One, a gallant little fellow with russet curls, was holding his own against a burly foe older than himself.

Dealing a blow straight from the shoulder, he sent the other away howling, his handkerchief to his nose. Cray was tempted to cry 'Bravo!'

The victors bonnie brown face was scarlet, his eyes blazed. He leant his brow against a rough pine bark and a sob heaved his shoulders. Cray went up to him.

'What's the row, little man?' he asked kindly. The lad dashed a hand across his eyes. 'I p-promised mother I wouldn't fight, but I jest had to,' he said. 'He says I'm nobody's kid. I han't got no daddy.'

'Well, never mind. You did right to teach him manners. He'll be more civil next time. Come along with, me.'

He took the child's hand, and they went on together.

'What's you name?' Cray asked.

'Ken Ashleigh. Mother and me live in Fairholme with Martha. She's our maid. Daddy has been away since 'fore I was born, but mother has his picture, and she says he'll be back soon. I wish he would.'

He crushed down an unmanly sob.

'The fellows are always gettin' on to me 'cos I can't tell where he is.'

'Ashleigh.' The name stirred a memory in Cray's brain, but he could not place it.

The boy stopped at the gate of Fairholme. A young woman was sitting under a willow on the lawn. The slim leaves east a flitting shadow over her white dress. She looked at Cray with shy startled eyes. He was a keen observer, and he knew that he was looking into the eyes of a woman who had sustained a great shock.

'Your little lad has given me his company,' he said, raising his cap. 'I am an idler by compulsion just now, in search of health.'

'I was fightin', mother,' Ken broke in. 'I blooded Dick Werner's nose for sayin' I was nobody's kid.'

A vivid scarlet swept over the young woman's pale face. 'Oh, Ken! And you promised me,' she cried.

'Yes, I know,' said Ken ruefully. 'But he'— nodding at Cray— said I did quite right to teach him manners. Men understand. Mayn't he come in?'

'Come in and rest.' Mrs. Ashleigh pointed to the seat under the willow. The three sat together in the cool shade.

'I am taking a holiday at Chineford, for the tonic of the sea air and the pines. My name is Cray. I am a London barrister,' he explained.

Mrs. Ashleigh started as if a wasp had stung her. Again the vivid scarlet flooding her cheeks. She did not speak for some seconds. Then the voice sounded cold and constrained.

'You find the air of Chineford doing you good?'

'Yes, it is making a new man of me. Your little boy tells me his name is Ken Ashleigh.'

She played nervously with a willow twig, twisting it in her thin white lingers.

'Yes, his name is Ken,' she said.

The burden of the talk fell on Cray and Ken. Mrs. Ashleigh was a silent woman, and yet, looking at the clear-cut profile, the firm mouth and chin, Cray could not conclude she was a stupid one; rather, perhaps, one who had been sorely buffeted by fate and must hide her wounds.

He found later that the subtle tongue of slander was busying itself over the young tenant of Fairholme. A young woman with one child, keeping aloof from her neighbors, returning no calls, giving no account of herself, must have something to conceal; some shameful secret, no doubt. If Mrs. Ashleigh did not choose to be neighborly, she must have good reasons for it; that was the common opinion. The women began to look another way when they met her. Ken had a rough time at school; the boys baited him about his absent daddy. Mrs. Ashleigh was forced to bring him home and teach him herself.

Arnold Cray and Ken became firm friends. The young barrister had not forgotten his boyhood, and Ken was a wise child. One afternoon, as they lay in the shadow of the great pines. Ken drew something from his pocket.

'Mother doesn't know, but I'm sure she would not mind, 'cos she likes you, Mr. Cray,' he said mysteriously. 'She's glad I've got you to go with when the boys won't play with me. See'— he sidled dose to his companion— 'here's a picture of my daddy.'

Cray took the photo. A stray sunbeam struck across it. What he saw was a man of soldierly bearing, wearing his uniform gallantly— a well-shaped head of crisp curls like Ken's, a strong face with a sensitive month. Memory stirred and quickened.

A sudden thrill shot through him; he had seen that martial figure, that resolute face before, had wondered to see the man in such a setting. It was in a crowded court. He himself was at the barrister's table, a junior new to the whole thing. He was listening to a learned colleague extracting a woman's incriminating evidence. And this man, Gerald Ashleigh, was the prisoner in the dock. Yes, he remembered it all; he had not been on the case, but it had gripped his interest. He was sure of the man's innocence, sure, that there was some network of lies in which his feet were entangled.

A native servant had been the chief witness. Cray had been dubious of the wily Indian's story. The sentence was light, for the prisoner's previous record was blameless. Ten years' penal servitude. He could see still the man's face as he quitted the dock, the look of endurance on it, the proud cast of the fine head.

'So this is your daddy, Ken?' he calmed himself to say. 'He's a daddy to be proud of, sure enough. Better not tell your mother you showed me the picture, she might be vexed.'

Ken kissed the pictured face and thrust the photo in his pocket.

A new-comer was diverting the gossip from Mrs. Ashleigh. The Beverlys had let The Tines furnished for three months; the new occupant was a young woman, presumably an invalid. She went out in a pony carriage with a nurse in attendance. She was a veritable widow, in the most ostentatious of fresh mourning. Her name was Mrs. Osgood.

The gossips soon ferreted out her history. She was a widow for the second time, though she could not be much over 20. Besides the nurse, she had an Indian attendant, a lean, copper-skinned, soft-footed creature, with furtive black eyes, who glided around on the errands of The Pines. Sympathy was acutely stirred when it became known that Dr. Baldwin had given it as his opinion that she had not many months to live.

Mrs. Osgood's beauty was the fresh topic for afternoon teas. The women grew sentimental over her, cataloguing her attractions; innocent eyes like violets drenched with dew, hair of spun cold that curled in baby ringlets round the brim of her crepe toque, the length of her weepers, her winning smile.

She was too delicate to entertain visitors, but she was not stiff and cold like Mrs. Ashleigh; she apologised sweetly from her pony carriage, and made friends readily.

Arnold Cray met her in one of the woodland pa die, the Indian guiding her pony. Scraps of gossip about her had reached him through his landlady, but it was his first sight of her. The lace of her black sunshade cast a chequered shadow on her delicate rice-paper skin; the amethyst eyes gave him a melting glance; then, as they met his, surprise, fear, terror flashed into them. It was as if an enemy had suddenly sprung out on her from the 'green shade of the pines. The Indian whipped up the pony, and the carriage passed.

Cray stood still, rooted to the spot, looking after her. Again that thrill shot through him as when he had looked on the photo of Ken's father. It was the fair-face of the woman who had sworn away a mans honor, almost his life. She had recognised him as having been present in the court. But why that abject terror? The Indian? Yes, he was the same who had so stolidly given his damning evidence. Why was the woman here? Strange that he should have stumbled right into the heart of that tragedy of nearly eight years ago.

It was Phoebe Strong who had brought Mrs. Ashleigh the news of the tenant of The Pines. Her interest was excited over the sad story of young Mrs. Osgood. She was at the window of her room, looking out, when the pony carriage came in sight; only the nurse was with the young widow. The deep mourning dress stirred Mrs. Ashleigh's pity. She caught a glimpse of pale gold hair, a transparent skin with a hectic flush on the cheeks, the stamp of fatal illness. Then, just as the carriage reached the gate of Fairholme,' the sunshade was raised; and Mrs. Ashleigh saw the stranger's face clearly. Her own blanched; a quick tremor seized her. She shrank away, hiding behind the curtain; a storm of dry passionate sobs shook her.

With the first chill winds of autumn the pony carriage ceased to go its rounds. Mrs. Osgood was worse. She was no longer able to go out. Cray entered the quiet house. There was no sound but a boy's clear voice singing. It was Ken's. Mrs. Osgood had heard him singing in the garden and had sent for him. Cray stopped and listened.

'You know why I sent for you?' she whispered as he entered the room. 'You were in the court that day. I knew you again when I met you in the wood.'

He bowed.

'Yes, I recognised you,' he said.

She motioned Ken away.

'Send your mother here, and Phoebe Strong,' she bade him. She turned to Cray as the door closed on him.

'The boy has Gerald Ashleigh's eyes. Strange that I should be so near his mother. She knew me as Sylvia Greene. I am going to give you a surprise. It has been a hard struggle, for I should like to leave a good reputation behind me; but something, I suppose it is conscience, forces me to tell the truth. It's hard to die at twenty-eight, but I deserve to suffer for my sin. It is a long story. It concerns Nell— I mean Mrs. Ashleigh. I wish Phoebe Strong to hear it, too.'

Cray seated himself at a table by the couch as Mrs. Ashleigh and Phoebe entered. Mrs. Ashleigh bent down and kissed the white brow where the baby ringlets of pale gold clustered.

'You can kiss me. Nell? After all?' The violet eyes grew wet. 'Well, I'm going to tell it out straight while I have breath. It's too late to cover it up. I played a traitor part too long. I have done you cruel wrong, Sylvia— you and another — though I loved him.'

Mrs. Ashleigh took the little hands in her's.

'Whatever you have done, Sylvia, I forgive you freely. So will he.'

'You were always an angel, and I— well, I was the other thing. I hadn't a fair start, though that doesn't excuse me. My father embezzled money in Bombay and deserted me. I was horribly poor.  I had to work for my living and I hated it. It was heaven when a rich old man offered me marriage. I did so love money and luxury; it was such a triumph to be mistress where I had been tweeny-maid and drudge. My husband was proud of my beauty; he was Gerald Ashleigh's uncle. I loved Gerald, but he never gave me a thought. All his love was for Nell Stewart. He married you, Nell. How I hated you! I thirsted to humiliate you both. Gerald's regiment was ordered home. I urged my husband to come too. We invited you both to come and stay with us till you should get settled. There was a native servant who was my faithful slave. He knew how weary I was of my old husband, and he hinted of a subtle poison that could not be detected. My husband had made his will in I my favor. He died. The doctors called it senile decay.

'A rumor began to spread that Gerald had poisoned his uncle. Packets of poison were found in Gerald's desk. I put them there. He was accused of murder. You know the rest— how Kashim swore he had seen him put something in his uncle's wine, that he had heard him threaten to do for him. I gave evidence too, with a pretence of reluctance that imposed on the court. I heard the sentence— a light one, as there was only the evidence of a native servant and mine— ten years' penal servitude.

'I had scored a triumph over the man who had scorned my love. I had cast the shadow of disgrace on him and his child that was coming. Nell's baby was born a month later. She hid herself. I have sinned for nothing. I am dying. Gerald could nave saved himself.  He knew that it was I, with Kashim's help, who had poisoned his uncle. He charged me with it the night my husband died. I laughed at his suspicions, and made up my mind to throw the guilt on him. I shall never forget the look he gave me when I lied away his fair name in the court. He bore the disgrace, the penalty, rafter than inform on a woman.

'You can make use of this to wipe the stain from Gerald's name. I am not afraid to die now that I have tried to right the wrong. And now for my will. I leave all my fortune to Gerald and Nell Ashleigh. Ring for fiacre.'

In the dawning of a late autumn morning Sylvia Osgood died.

Acacia Drive was moved to tears over her fate. Ken's daddy came home to Fairholme. The long agony had furrowed his brow and prematurely whitened his hair, but he cast it all behind him as he clasped his wife and child to his heart.

Acacia Drive knows that Lieutenant Ashleigh has been in penal servitude for another's crime; that the real criminal made a dying confession, and that he has been reinstated in the service. It speaks no more of Sylvia Osgood; but it is of opinion that Mrs. Ashleigh's soldier husband, Ken's daddy, is a very gallant gentleman.

________________

16: Opium

Freeman Sandom
fl. mid-1930s

Queenslander  3 Nov 1932

I can find out very little: Sandom lived in Cairns, North Queensland, published some verse, and at least two short stories.  The other known story is entitled "Dynamite".

ENRICO CATANO passed an oily rag through the chambers of the battered .32 revolver. The nickel was worn; and the butt smooth from much handling, but the brightness of the bore showed careful attention to essentials. It was a good revolver, reflected Catano as he handled it with the loving care of a mother for her child. What power resided in this bit of steel mechanism and the little brass-capped things it enclosed! A slight pressure on that trigger, and tiny but swift messengers would go out with tidings of death to whomsoever, he wished.

He liked to think of this force at his command in the midst of all these  superior Anglo-Saxons— every one of them at his mercy if he chose. Catano smiled darkly. That night in the San Francisco dive.... And the sailor in Adelaide who spoke of fair-play before he died.... Fair-play! Catano spat on the sand.

He sat on a drift log washed up on the white beach. A dark-eyed, olive-complexioned man, short of stature, but with broad shoulders. There was a suggestion of strength, and determination over the quiet figure patiently running the cloth forwards and backwards through the revolver. Occasionally he lifted his head; his eyes followed the line of the wire-netted fish trap and rested on Chris Chapman's fishing boat chut-chutting townwards

There was a man, now, with whom Catano would settle some day! That big, blonde Australian dog with the superior manners! That trick he had of looking through a man with half-shut blue eyes— probing into the recesses of one's mind— weighing, judging what he found there —and turning one down.

"As if I was a mongrel not worth even a kick," thought Catano. Never mind, a day of reckoning would come. He could easily get him. A dark night, a short wait in the dinghy close to the outer box of the trap— Chapman's boat would pass within fifty yards, the glow of the man's cigar— one was always stuck between his lips— would be a fine target, and Catano was a dead shot! Then a flop over the low-combing— a splash— the rest could be safely left to the sharks! He chuckled evilly. Another mysterious drowning fatality to set the tongues of the dirty town wagging!

Funny about that fellow Chapman, though. He did not look a fisherman. That panama he wore must have cost a fiver at the least. And those eternal cigars were not bought from the proceeds of his miserable fish-trap. Catano sat up with a start. Was it possible that the man...?  Was his fishing a blind like Catano's own? He laughed incredulously, but the laugh broke off short; and he clamped his jaws together. Diavolo! It was possible! He would take no chance. The China boat was due to-morrow. Chapman's accident must take place to-night! Catano rose, pocketed the revolver, and walked up the beach towards his corrugated-iron shanty.

CHRIS CHAPMAN moored his boat to the wooden jetty running from one end of the concrete wharf, slung a sack of fish over his shoulder, and walked up the steps. A man in a khaki shirt waved a friendly hand from outside the wharf office, and Chris waved cheerfully back.

It was Thursday afternoon, and fairly, hot. Comparatively few people were about in the streets, but a group of men stood in front of an hotel, and one of them, who apparently fancied himself as a joker, called out "Fish-o!" Chris looked over his shoulder and summed the joker up in a glance: "Beer-o, old chap!" The reply fitted like a glove, and raised a laugh from the crowd. Khaki-shirt, following behind, grinned delightfully.

Chris walked carelessly along Abbott Street, stepped into a cafe, and delivered his fish. He had a little difference with the proprietor about a catfish which the man would not accept, but settled it amicably. Then he bought a cigar at the counter and strolled outside. Khaki-shirt was inspecting the contents of the window, and the two exchanged a glance.

"Have a spot, Chris?"

"I don't mind if I do, old man. Seven pounds of fish at 7 pence a pound makes 41 pence. I must celebrate."

In a quiet corner of the bar Chris Chapman became Chris M'Dowell, inspector of police. Still, behind the keen official curtness the good-fellowship remained. He was, perhaps, the best-liked man in the force. After a sip of the whisky and soda he broke the silence.

"Well, Harry, any news?"

"Nothing further. We have the speed-boat well hidden in Alligator Creek, and are ready to start when you give the word."

"GOOD, Harry. Now listen. The China boat, as you know, is due outside to-morrow evening. I have a code wire from headquarters that several thousand pounds worth of opium is on board that boat. We could make a. search and collar the stuff right away, of course, but we want to get the gang which has run the smuggling business in Cairns for years. That black-browed Catano is in it, I'm sure. He is a cunning beggar, and that fish trap of his is an effective blind, but what does a fisherman want with a high-powered boat? His movements are fishy enough, too— or, rather, not fishy enough. Now, if our information is correct the accomplice on board the steamer will chuck the opium over the side soon after dark. It will be in watertight tins, and probably with some sort of light attached. Catano— if he is in it— and the gang, will pick it up and bring it to their hide-out, Double Island way. Here's where you come in. Make sure your searchlight and machine-gun are working. Start at 6 o'clock sharp. To avoid arousing suspicion row the boat past the wharf and on the opposite side. As soon as it is dark start the engines, but run on two cylinders only—fishing boat With engine trouble—hug the eastern shore, and wait opposite my fish trap. I will signal the final instructions from there. Do nothing unless you get them. If I signal the coast is clear, try to get as close to them as you can on your two cylinders, then open up, fix them with the searchlight, and fire your machine gun as fast as you can! Bluff, Harry, to stop them from chucking the stuff overboard. Don't let any one get hurt if you can help it, but should an accident happen— well, the loss won't be great; it's a j-r" - bunch. That's all. Good luck to you, Harry, and get them!"

"So long, sir. I'll do my best. Take care of yourself, though. That bunch'll skin you alive if they get a chance!"

Chris M'Dowell lit another cigar and stepped out of the bar. He strolled carelessly down to his boat and started the engine just as the last rays of the sun lifted from the muddy waters of Cairns Harbour.

TWO hours later people on the eastern shore heard the chut-chut of a motor boat among the rocks. They found Chris Chapman's boat, nose high on the sandy beach, with the engine still running. But there was no sign of the owner.

Friday morning broke fine, but in the afternoon showery squalls set in from the south-east— the wet-weather quarter of Cairns. Harry Lennan and his men, lying perdu with their boat in a small mangrove-banked tributary to Alligator Creek, cursed the weather.

Waiting is a trying game even in a favourable environment, and the narrow 20ft. speed-boat had scant comfort to offer. However, late in the afternoon the weather improved, and when at 6 o'clock the detectives got out a couple of sweeps and started down the creek the first colours of a wonderful sunset were splashed in the western sky.

But the detectives were too busy to bother about sunsets. They worked the boat slowly down the inlet and passed the wharf shortly after dark. Then they shipped the sweeps, and on two cylinders the boat jogged along outwards, hugging the eastern shore. They fitted the searchlight on its high stand amidships, and got the machine gun ready in the nose of the boat. Preparations were complete.

After half an hour's run Harry broke the silence:

"We are just about opposite Chris's shanty. Better shut her off."

The boat was stopped, and the men searched the opposite shore. They saw no light; The outline of Barron Beach was faintly drawn, a mere suspicion of a white line at the foot of the range. The wind had died down to a soft breath, and there was only a slight up-and-down movement of the sea— an echo of the swell outside the Barrier Reef. The four men settled down to wait and smoke.

An hour later Harry moved uneasily.

"That signal is a long time coming. I hope nothing has happened to Chris."

"He is all right, Harry. He can look after himself," remarked one of the men.

"Yes, but why doesn't he signal, then? It's getting late!"

The worried note in his voice was unmistakable.

Silence again. The inactivity became irksome. The imagination of each man conjured up visions, ranging from a lost or broken torch to murder. At last Leman pulled out his watch and, puffing vigorously at his pipe, illuminated the dial.

"Quarter-past 10 ! Something has happened, and we'd better get back. Start her up, Frank!"

It was a down-hearted crew that brought the little speed-boat roaring into the wharf a few minutes later. But when things look blackest they often take a turn for the better. At the end of its down-swing the pendulum is due for the ascending motion. The khaki-clad policeman, waiting under the wharf light, had news which drove away the gloom.

"The sergeant has got a 'phone message from Yorkie's Knob. I've a car waiting."

WITHOUT wasting time on questions the four men bundled out of the boat and raced for the purring car. As they sped along the smooth road to Redlynch the constable told them all he knew, which was not much. A stranger had sent a message to the sergeant, asking him to find Leman, and send him to Jap's Bay, half a mile from Yorkie's Knob— quick-time. The message had been delayed, the sender had said, and they must hurry.

Harry Leman was at the wheel, and the car jumped forward as he stepped on the accelerator. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"That message was from Chris, or I'm a Dutchman. I bet he has found that, cache!"

THE car, past Redlynch now, was bucking over the bad road. They crossed the Barron River in a spray of water, climbed a steep hill, and dodged tree stumps and deep ruts until the constable gave the word to stop. Off the road led a narrow track. The scrub on both sides stood like walls that met in an interlaced canopy over their heads. In spite of a full moon, just rising over the hills, it was pitch dark in that leafy tunnel, and the stabbing spears of light from their torches gave a weird effect to the midnight scene.

Harry Leman was in the lead, and suddenly he called a halt. Faintly the sound of shouting came to their ears. There was no need for his excited on, boys!"

Every man of the party broke Into a run as fast as the rough track and uncertain torchlight would allow them. In a few moments they caught a glimpse of the moonlit; bay and stumbled out into the open. The peaceful North Queensland beach in front of them presented a thrilling spectacle.

ABOUT a hundred yards from the shore a motor-boat rode at anchor. A dinghy was pulled half-way out of the water, and, close by, a man lay with his face in the white sand. A little higher up on the beach a tangled knot of men rolled on the ground. A string of filthy curses came from the - struggling mass. One voice dominated the farrago of expletives. Vibrating with concentrated rage, it repeated, again and again, a three-barrelled oath.

The new arrivals hurried to the struggling men, and a closer view showed them Chris M'Dowell flat on his back in the sand. Between his legs, locked in a safe scissors-hold, writhed a Chinaman. The yellow face was partly buried in McDowell's trouser-leg, and he was industriously chewing at the khaki cloth. Chris's fourteen stone weight rested on a second man, who was clawing wildly for M'Dowell's throat.

The third man was Catano. He had apparently gone berserk. His face was livid, and it was from his froth-stained lips that the oaths came. He was kneeling in the sand and struggling to remove a revolver from M'Dowell's grasp.

Quickly the smugglers were secured and the handcuffs snapped on. Chris, rose. His face was a study in scarlet. One eye was closed from a blow; but the other shone with the light of battle.

"Phew!" he breathed, "that was a willing go, and you chaps certainly came in the nick of time!"

He bent and examined his leg. The Chinaman had got through the, cloth, and the white skin underneath was red-stained.

Briefly, he related his experiences.

"As I came jogging along, past Catano's fish trap last night, somebody shot the cigar neatly from my mouth— and that reminds me it's a long time since I had a smoke. Well, the bullet just brushed my lips. I was sitting in the stern, of course, steering, and jerking back at the shot I lost my balance and pitched overboard. Lucky I did, for three more bullets followed the first. The tide was racing out, and fearing another bombardment I let myself drift. It wasn't a pleasant ordeal, I assure you. I expected a shark to start nibbling any moment. However, my luck was in that night, and when I judged it safe I swam to the beach.

"There it struck me what a fine chance I had to learn something about that murderous swine Catano. He would not expect any espionage from me, at any rate. So when by-and-by a light appeared in his shanty I crawled carefully up and peeped through a crack in the wall. No difficulty to find cracks. The place looked like a sieve with the lamplight streaming through. A meeting of the Amalgamated Union of, Opium Smugglers and Would-be Murderers (Cairns Branch) was in progress. Our yellow-brother here"— with a wave toward the manacled Chinaman— "represented the common members. Our friend with the broken nose— it grieves me, but I'm responsible for it— acted as secretary, having some greasy papers in front of him, and milord Catano was the exalted president. However, to cut a long story short, I learned the exact location of their cache and their plans for next day. Then this afternoon I explored this bay and sent a message to you. You received word only an hour ago? Something delayed my messenger, then. Anyway, when you didn't turn up I had to tackle the gang alone. I was waiting behind that giant tea-tree over there— they have to pass it on their way to the hiding place. Presently I heard the chug of a motor boat.

"THE moon conveniently rose as they rowed ashore in a dinghy. I could see them plainly.Four of them. Each man shouldered a parcel and walked up the beach towards me. I stepped from behind my tree and bailed them up. But in the attempt to secure my captives the Chinaman grabbed my revolver hand, and in a twinkling: of an eye they were on me like a pack of dogs. In the scuffle the revolver went off and that chap on the sand dropped. One less. The last I saw of him he was crawling towards the boat. I suppose they have their firearms there, so it was just as well for me he didn't get that far. But we'd better take a look at him now."

The man had rolled over on his back and was groaning. He had lost considerable blood from a wound in the right thigh, but, so far as could be judged, he was likely to recover. He was bandaged with his own shirt— not over-clean— and given a swallow of brandy from Leman's flask, for which he was grateful.

THE four parcels were next examined. Ordinary kerosene tins, re-soldered. Cut open, the detectives saw the usual tiny, oval copper flasks, packed in cotton wool, which contained the white powder responsible for so many ruined lives.

Enrico Catano sat on a drift log on the white sand. His violent rage had left him. Remained only the black scowl, like a dark cloud, on the grim visage. He moved his wrists and there was a metallic click as the handcuffs met. The click somehow, suggested the cocking of a revolver, and Harry Leman voiced the thoughts of the detectives:

"Better look out for yourself, Chris, when that bird gets out of the cage!"

____________

17: Partners

Owen Oliver

Joshua Albert Flynn, 1863-1933

Express and Telegraph (Adelaide)  9 July 1910

The Story-teller, Sep 1911

Owen Oliver was the pseudonym of prolific short story writer and British career Civil Servant Sir Johsua Albert Flynn, KCB

PEOPLE think I'm no end of a Johnny, but I'm not. I once did a very clever thing. I admit that she made me; but some fellows never do a clever thing at all. Nobody could make them.

To begin with myself, I'm Lord Charles Mansom. and I'm pretty well off. The governor tied my money up till I was 25. When a fellow gets as old as that he begins to grow sensible, if he's ever going to be. Hawke and Solomon thought I wasn't.

They may have had some grounds for their suspicion. When they showed me the draft prospectus of "The Royal Iceland Gold Mining Company. Limited," I don't mind owning that I thought it was really good thing. The prospectus said it was, and print looks so convincing. There were a lot of figures, showing how much ice you melted, how much gold you got. what it cost, and what was profit— 50 per cent., I think the profit was. It looked such a nice company that I thought I'd like To have a cut in.

"H'm!" I said. "I suppose the shares will all he snapped up? 'Pon my word, I—"

"My dear fellow," said Hawke, "if you would like —I —"

"Of course I should," I said. "Then leave it to me."

'We'll see you through," said Solomon. "How many shares do you want?"

"Well," I said, "I couldn't draw more than £10,000 without letting old Vance know, and he'd be sure to go to my mother and make a fuss." Vance is our solicitor. "So I can't have more than 10,000." They were £1 apiece.

"My dear boy," said Solly, "you shall have them. In a month they'll be up to £2 and then you can sell out."

Afterwards they altered the prospectus a bit and put me in as chairman. I didn't see the use; but they explained it was on account of my being a lord and well known as a cricketer.

"I can't make speeches," I pointed out, "or do much of the management."

"Not at all," Hawke promised. "Solly and I are the managing directors. Of course, we -shall be glad of your advice at all times."

"What shall I do first, then?" I asked. "The chairman ought to have a voice in the concern?"

"Oh— er— certainly," said Hawke. "Come round the offices with us this afternoon and see the staff. Perhaps you can suggest some improvements."

We went to the offices accordingly. When we entered the clerks' room, Hawke said— "This is Lord Charles Manson, our chairman."

They all stood up. It made me feel deuced awkward. However, I professed to be very interested in the work, and asked them all what they did. They seemed to do everything so well that I couldn't for the life of me see anything to improve.

Then we went into another room, where there was a very nice young lady in a very neat blouse. She bad one of those pretty Irish faces—half innocent, half saucy —and she made a dainty little bow.

"This is Miss Reilly, our typist," they said.

"Pray don't let me disturb you, I said. "It's— er— a very fine day?" It was a beastly day, as a matter of fact.

"It is finer than it was," she assented. "Er— how do you like typewriting?"

"It is my living, my lord. I've hardly thought whether I like it or not."

"Mss Reilly does her work admirably," Hawke informed me.

"Then," I said, "I hope she's well paid."

"Certainly," said Hawke—"certainly."

"What— er— salary does Miss Reilly get?" I demanded.

"Umph!" said Hawke. "I think—"

He looked at Solomon.

"Well," said Solomon, "for the moment—"

"Do you mind my asking you, Miss Reilly?"

"Certainly not, my lord. Twenty-five shillings a week."

"Really," I said firmly. "This seems a matter in which some improvement might he made."

"Of course," said Hawke—"of course. I'd no idea that it was so little."

"Shall we say thirty shillings?" Solomon asked me.

"Thirty-five shillings," I suggested.

"I will instruct the cashier at once,'

Hawke promised. "You will find his lordship always ready to appreciate good work, Miss Reilly."

She looked so pleased and thanked me so prettily that I was sorry I hadn't said a couple of pounds. It seemed a jolly shame that such a nice girl should have to typewrite. I went in once or twice afterwards to see that she had her rise all right and talked to her. She was an officer's daughter; but her father was dead, and her mother was an invalid, so she had to work.

One afternoon I was having a stroll in the park, before dinner, when she happened to come along. I'd heard her say that she went home that way. I was wondering whether she would object to my walking with her, when shie suddenly stopped.

"May I have a few words with you, my lord?" she asked.

"As many as you like," I said.

"I rely upon your not mentioning what I am going to say. I can't afford to lose my place.

"You may entirely rely upon me," I assured her. She hesitated a moment, studying her tiny shoes.

"I don't think you are aware," she said at last, "that your company is only a paper one?"

"Why," I ejaculated, "the prospectus—"

She laughed so suddenly that I laughed too.

"The prospectus! Surely yon don't believe that?''

I asked her to sit down.

"I suppose you mean there isn't much gold?"

"There isn't any gold. There never will be any gold. The company is a mere device to get the money of foolish people. Of course, you probably won't believe me; but—"

"No one could help believing you," I assured her. No one could. "But I thought Hawke and Solomon were too sharp—"

"They are. Much too sharp. They, with a few of their friends, and you, hold practically all the shares."

"Then they'll lose their money?"

"Scarcely, as they paid themselves for the shares. Shall I tell you what they will do?"

"Please. You're awfully good."

"They have just given instructions to brokers to buy largely, knowing that there is practically not one to sell. When they have bought a few shares at high prices, people will think that there is a fortune in the company. They will see that its chairman is a gentleman of position, with a reputation of an honest English sportsman." I bowed, not knowing what else to do. "So Hawke, Solomon & Co. will gradually dispose of their shares, and you and the new shareholders will be left with an utterly worthless concern."

"I've evidently been a precious fool. I don't see what I can do?"

"Don't you? I do. When they have given sufficient orders to buy largely, sell them your shares."

I laughed aloud.

"Upon my word, Miss Reilly," I said, "you are as clever as you are— er— pretty."

"Oh, no!" she said, with a blush.

"Well," I admitted, "perhaps not so exceedingly clever as that."

"I didn't mean that at all," she said. "You— you really shouldn't, my lord."

"Please don't be offended," I implored, "because I meant it— both things."

She explained that intention made my offence worse.

We arranged that she was to let me know when to tell my brokers to sell. We were just shaking hands for good-bye, when

I had an idea.

"I say, Miss Reilly." I said, "if I get rid of my shares to Hawke and Solomon, won't they sell them to some poor wretches who can't afford the loss as well as I can?"

"You can't help that," she answered slowly, "But I know what you can do," she said, with sudden animation. "As soon as you've sold them your shares, send a notice to the papers that you have severed your connection with the company." '

"Miss Reilly," I said, "you are splendid."

DURING the next week I met her every day. She said it wasn't necessary to meet so often, but I insisted that I was sure to do something silly if we didn't. She; gave me a lot of directions and I carried them out to the letter. Finally I sold all the shares to Hawke and Solomon, through their various brokers, gaining about £7,000 over the transaction. Then I sent my letter to the papers. When it appeared next morning I laughed till I nearly choked myself.

After breakfast I went round to the office to give Hawke and Solly— or both, if they liked— a chance to punch my head. They hadn't arrived, so I went in and sat on Miss Reilly's table, and told her she must share the profits; but she wouldn't. Presently they came in.

"Oh!" sneered Hawke. "Here's the pretty dear who has sold us. Mind she doesn't sell you a worse one, you mean, underhanded—"

"That's enough!" I said, getting up.

"We shall not require Miss Reilly any more," said Solomon suavely, "now that, her dear friend the chairman has left us."

"Put on your hat, Miss Reilly," I directed; and she obeyed, without a word.

"No doubt," said Hawke, with an evil grin, "his lordship will provide more pleasant occupation "

I knew he'd beat me in argument, so I knocked him down. I would have knocked Solomon down too, but he bolted. So she and I went out together.

On the quiet landing half-way down I put my arm round her and told her she'd have to marry me. She tried to push me away; but, of course, she couldn't, so she sobbed on my shoulder instead. I'm not going to tell you all I said. The long and short of it was she wouldn't have me.

Yes, she did love me, since I was so cruel as to make her tell. That was just why she wouldn't marry me. She would let me help her out of my profits, perhaps, for her mother's sake, till she had found another place, if I meant what I said, about throwing the money away otherwise.

When I got home my uncle John, who has the brains of the family, was with my mother, and I told them the whole story. I thought there would he an awful row, but there wasn't.

"You want someone to take care of you," said Uncle John grimly. My mother dropped a few tears in her lap before she spoke.

"Is she a lady, Charlie?" she asked.

I assured her that she was an angel just dropped down from heaven. Then Uncle John laughed.

"He might do worse, Frances," he said. "She's brought him a dowry already."

"And he loves her," said my mother softly.

My mother and I went round to Lucy's lodgings that afternoon. She came forward to greet us with flushed cheeks and a plucky little attempt at a smile. My mother kissed her.

"I have come to see my clever little daughter that is to be," she said. And Lucy jumped at her and put her head on her shoulder, and cried— by Jove, she did cry.

We form a company of our own, and if she is managing director, I am chairman. It is a very limited company— made up of her and me.

_____________

18: The Avenger

J. F. Tilsley
fl 1910s

Chronicle (Adelaide) 28 Nov 1914

This is one of just two known stories by Frederick Tilsley, of whom nothing else is known

THE TWO men were discussing a particularly cold-blooded murder, the gruesome details of which almost filled a page of the newspaper that was spread open on the counter between them.

'That man has brains, he'll get clear away, you see if he doesn't.' Jacob Herne, tall, stooped, and lantern-jawed, reached for a tin box, containing a very mild brand of smoking mixture as he spoke.

'The police,' he continued, after a pause, his thick, cracked lips curling into a sneer, 'have a clue— they always have.' There was half a minute of silence, and then the little man with the grave eyes and soft voice, who looked like a Sunday-school teacher, spoke.

'You're wrong— all wrong,' he said quietly. 'No man who commits such a terrible crime as murder goes unpunished.'

The tobacconist laughed contemptuously; the possibility of the other taking offence at his tone and removing his custom elsewhere did not appear to trouble him.

'It's quite evident that you're no reader of the newspapers. If you were, you'd know that the police often fail to—'

'I said nothing about the police, ' answered the little man, taking a rubber pouch from his pocket and laying it on the counter; 'I wasn't even thinking of the police. The punishment dealt out by man to one who has taken human life can be nothing when compared with the punishment of his own conscience, and no man can escape his conscience.'

'Conscience! Bah!' Herne laughed acridly and shut the tin box with vicious force. 'Conscience is merely another name for cowardice, and any sane, intelligent man with courage has no use for it. Now if this fellow'— he tapped the newspaper sharply with his forefinger— 'escapes the police, the still, small voice of conscience won't keep him awake at night, I'll bet.'

'One would think, from the way you speak, that your sympathies are all with the murderer; that you hope he win escape even.'

The grave eyes of the little man, as they looked searchingly into the other's face, had grown suddenly dark and keen.

'I do,' snarled Jacob Herne, and the little man jumped back, startled by the sudden, insane fury that flared in the tobacconist's protruding, pale-blue eyes, and thickened his hoarse, throaty voice to an almost inaudible whisper.

'Think of Stone man against the world— a price on his head, hunted day and night, never knowing— oh! say what you like, but it takes courage—something more than courage— to commit a murder.'

He stopped suddenly, swayed forward, and clutched at the edge of the counter to save himself from falling backwards. For some moments both men stood motionless and silent, then the little man laughed. It was a mirthless, forced laughed, but it served to clear the air a little.

'Yes.' he said scornfully, 'it takes a great deal of courage to sneak behind an old woman of eighty and strike her down for the sake of a few pounds she has taken a lifetime to save. If that's the sort of thing you admire—'

'I don't admire it,' interrupted Jacob Herne quickly. 'I never said I did— at least I— I—'

He drew the back of his hand sharply across his brow, and the other noticed that it came away wet.

'I didn't mean to. I was merely pointing out that the man with nerve enough to kill is not likely to be troubled with what you call conscience.'

'Then you expressed yourself badly,' answered the little man shortly. 'Anyway, hanging's too good for the brute; and even if the police don't get him, I say again that he won't go unpunished. No man can cheat his conscience. The rector of the church where I attend said the same thing in last Sunday's sermon, and he never uttered truer words.'

He took up his tobacco and turned to go, when Jacob Herne leaned suddenly . forward and grasped him by the shoulder. 'Don't go vet, wait just a moment. I want to tell you something— something that will prove I'm right about conscience, where men with courage are concerned.

'The story I'm going to tell you,', he continued, when the little man had somewhat reluctantly settled himself down to listen, 'is about a man who killed his step-brother and never regretted it, for he lived ten years— is living yet, according to his friend, who told me this story, untroubled by either police or conscience, and is as happy and contented as most men.

'Well, this man— I will call him Jackson, because I don't know his proper name held a good berth in a bank, but he was a born gambler, and the day came when his heart missed a heat at the sound of a footstep behind him, for he had only a very short time in which to replace a very large amount of money, borrowed without asking, with which to back sure winners.

'If he couldn't do it in the time it meant prison— prison for a long while, too. 'Now Jackson didn't want to go to gaol— he was a man who had always lived comfortably, even luxuriously, and the bare thought of penal servitude made him feel very sick indeed; so he purchased a revolver, locked himself in his bedroom, and was just going to shoot himself when they brought him news that his stepfather had died suddenly.

'Jackson had never got on well with his stepfather; but the old man had money, and there was just a chance that he had left Jackson some of it. Not much of a chance certainly, but enough to make him postpone suicide for at least a time. Well, Jackson was disappointed; the old man had left everything to his son, Paul, so Jackson unlocked his drawer, took out his revolver again, and discovered that his courage— the peculiar impersonal courage required for self-slaughter— had left him.

'All that night he sat on the edge of the bed, the revolver grasped in his right hand and thought. The more he thought the more it became plain that as he was afraid to face the consequences of his own defalcations there were only two courses to choose between; either he must kill himself or kill Paul, and as was only natural he decided that his step-brother, whom he hated like poison, must be the one to die. Paul, a good-natured, happy-go-lucky young man, had run away from home at the age of sixteen or seventeen and joined the navy because of a boyish prank with fireworks one Fifth of November. He had badly burnt some valuable furniture . and marked himself for life with a black crescent-shaped scar in the centre of his forehead. But the old man still thought the world of—'

'Excuse me,' interrupted the little man suddenly; 'but how do you come to know all these little details? Surely—'

'I'm giving you Jackson's story just as I. heard it from his friend,' answered Herne shortly, and added sourly, 'D'you think I'm making it up on something just to convince you that I'm right about conscience?'

'No,' admitted the little man after a moment's consideration. 'It sounds true enough, but it seems— seems like something personal the way you tell it, like something that has happened to you, some—'

He broke off with a nervous laugh and glanced at his watch to hide his confusion.

'What d'you mean by that?' grunted the tobacconist. 'If I had committed a murder is it likely I would tell you about it?'

Underlying the temper in his voice there was a curious suggestion of anxiety which was not lost upon the other. 'If I tell the yarn with feeling,' he continued more calmly, 'it is because I myself was impressed with it, and because in a way I sympathise with Jackson.'

The little man shuffled uncomfortably and consulted his watch again. He didn't like Herne's manner and was anxious to get away, for it was turned eleven o'clock and not a nice night. A strong wind had followed a heavy rain-storm and through the rain-washed window-pane of the door he could see the fitful flickering of a gas lamp reflected on the muddy pavement of the desolate suburban street in which Jacob Herne's shop was situated.

The tobacconist shuddered involuntarily, and then speaking like a man who does so against his better judgment, said in a voice that was little more than a whisper:—

'It was on such a night as this that Jackson killed his step-brother. Paul's ship— I never knew its name— had just returned to England from three years' cruising in foreign waters and the young man sent word that he would arrive home in time for his father's funeral, which was to take place on a Thursday. On Wednesday evening Jackson was taken suddenly ill and had to be carried to bed. At eleven o'clock he got out of bed, dressed himself, and climbed out through the bedroom window. He was expecting that Paul would come on the eleven-thirty train and had made his plans accordingly. Taking up his position at the side of a narrow path running through the bleak stretch of moor which Paul must cross to reach the house Jackson waited.'

The tobacconist stopped and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

'He didn't wait in vain; hours seemed to pass, and then someone came stumbling along the path. A moment later he saw dimly the figure of a man wearing a glistening oilskin overcoat and carrying a white canvas kitbag; springing to his feet-he fired and missed. Before he could fire again Paul had closed with him; there was a short sharp struggle, another report, and Paul stood with one hand pressed to his side, the other holding the revolver, which he had wrested— too late— from Jackson. The moon coming from behind a cloud glistened for a second on the gold-lettered ribbon of his round flat cap, and on his wet brow, -with its crescent-shaped scar; then he fell to his knees, and Jackson, stopping only to recover his weapon, ran back to the house, entering— as he had left— through the window. No one ever suspected him of killing Paul, and with the proceeds of his crime he made things right at the bank, sent in his resignation, and disappeared. The only one he confided in was his friend, the man who told me the story.'

'A strange tale, a very strange tale indeed,' said the little man, as he turned the collar of his overcoat up, 'and some day it will be told in a police court. Say what you like, but I don't believe God will let any man rest in .peace with a secret like that on his soul.'

He walked to the door, and turning suddenly, pointed an accusing finger at Jacob Herne —'The murderer must always tell the story of his crime to someone. He may say it's a story he has read or heard, but speak he must— that's conscience.'

The rusty doorbell jangled dismally; a gust of wind tore swishing round the shop, setting the tobacco advertisements to flap wildly against the walls. The door shut with a bang, and Jacob Herne was alone.

For a long time he remained quite still, his elbows on the counter, his face covered with his hands, then with a shuddering sigh he straightened himself, and moving to the window, stood for a moment gazing with unblinking eyes out into the darkness beyond. Suddenly he hands clutched at his throat, and a wailing cry broke from him.

'He's right— it's conscience— I had to speak, I had to tell someone or go mad. Oh, my God! Is my punishment to begin now, after ten years?'

He turned the lights out with a shaking hands and, frightened of the dark. ran stumblingly to the living room. There was a light here, and after a time he grew calmer. Nearly half an hour passed before he kit the easy chair which he had drawn to the fire, and then he went to a chest of drawers at the other end of the room and, kneeling before it, pulled open tie bottom drawer. When he again rose to his feet a heavy blue-steel revolver flashed dully in his hand. Taking a pin from the bottom of his vest he probed for a second in the barrel of the weapon, and then drew out a roll of thin notepaper. Smoothing this out, he quickly read the crabbed, faded writing which covered one side, rolled it up again, and was replacing it in its strange receptacle when, clear and distinct above the howling of the ;wind outside, came the harsh jangle of the shop bell.

Jacob Herne started and stood irresolute, his breath coming in short, painful gasps. Gripping the revolver till his knuckles grew white, he went 'to the door, flung ii open, and stepped sharply forward. The shop door was wide open, and the shop itself full of strange sounds caused by the wind. Empty tobacco tins rattled fiercely on the shelves; loose papers fluttered and crackled. A heavy framed cigarette advertisement was blown from its nail on the wall, and came crashing down at his feet.

'Must have forgotten to. lock up, but it seems impossible that wind even as strong as this could blow the door open.'

Trampling over the cigarette advertisement, he started for the door, closed it, and, with his hand still holding the handle, turned and peered into the darkness.

'Is anybody there?'

A ray of green moonlight shone wanly through the window and cut slantwise through the blackness in the centre of the shop. For one brief moment Jacob Herne stood, paralysed with horror; not two yards away from him, and perfectly motionless, was a tall figure in a glistening oilskin coat, the dim whiteness of its face marred only by a black crescent-shaped mark in the centre of the forehead.

The tobacconist screamed hoarsely, and struggled frantically to get . the door open as the figure, uttering a guttural cry, swayed towards him with grasping hands— just as Paul had done that night ten years ago.

A policeman Jumped from the friendly shelter of a doorway and came along the wet pavement at the double, drawing his baton as be ran. At Jacob Herne's shop he pulled up suddenly, and with his free hand unhooked his lantern. Holding his baton ready he went quietly to the door and opened it cautiously for a few inches; farther than that it would not go, for at its foot, face upward, lay the dead body of Jacob Herne, one of his out flung hands still grasping a heavy blue steel revolver, from out of the barrel of which protruded an inch of white paper.

Leaning up against the counter was a big man in the dress of a sailor; his cap was gone, and all one side of his coat was covered with mud, evidently the result of a fall, for he appeared to be very drunk.

'What's the matter here?' demanded the policeman. 'Suicide.'

'Don't know,' mumbled the sailor thickly. 'I'm lost, I am, lookin' for me old dad— come to live roun' here somewhere, but don't know where. I'm lost, I em— I'm lost.'

'What are you doing here at all? Come! exp—'

The policeman stopped suddenly, and squeezing his way into the shop as gently as possible, reached over the still figure and drew the paper from the barrel of the pistol.

'I wanted tobacco,' went on tho sailor, 'an' seeing a light in the back part of this shop I tried the door an' foun it open; then he came out with that gun, so I kept quiet, but he saw me an' yelled out enough to wake the dead. I thought he took me for a thief an' was going to shoot, 'so I tried to grab him an' he fell down in a fit.'

'Well, he's dead now,' said the policeman, 'and, judging from the expression on his face he died from fright. According to this paper, signed with his name, he's committed a— a crime— years ago.'

The sailor nodded his head wisely. 'Yes,' he said, 'he seemed as if he had something on his conscience.' He raised his hand and drew the back of it across his perspiring brow, wiping away a crescent-shaped splash of mud.

_______________

19: By the Queen's Orders

Anonymous

Crookwell Gazette (NSW) 18 July 1913

SUTHERLAND was a famous hound, named from the English banker, who presented him to the Empress of Russia. This came near causing the most tragical mistake that has occurred within the memory of financiers.

''Sir," said a valet one morning, on entering the chamber of the Mr. Sutherland who gave the dog to tho Empress; "sir, your house is surrounded by guards, and the director of the police is requesting to see you."

"What does he want?" cried the banker.

"I know nothing, sir," replied the valet, "but it appears to be an affair of importance."

"Show' him in."

The valet departed, and reappeared in a few moments, conducting Mr. Reliew, when the banker at a glance perceived to be the bearer of formidable news. He began:

"Sir, you must believe how very deeply I .am grieved at having been chosen by my gracious Sovereign to accomplish an order whose severity afflicts me, though it has undoubtedly been provoked by a great crime."

"By a great crime!" cried the banker; "who has committed the crime?"

"You, sir, since to you the punishment attaches."

"Sir, I am a naturalised Russian, as you know, and I swear to you that our Sovereign might search my conscience to its depths, without discovering any subject of complaint in my actions or thoughts."

"Your being a naturalised Russian is what makes your situation so terrible. If you had remained a British subject you might now have claimed the protection of the English Minister, and thus, perhaps, have escaped from a rigorous command, which I am charged to execute."

"Will you inform me what it is?"

"My dear Sir, I shall never have courage to tell you."

"Have I lost the favour of her Majesty?"

"Oh, that it were but that!"

"Indeed I Does she contemplate sending me hack to England?"

"England is your own country and that punishment would not be so severe."

"Good heavens. You frighten me, Siberia?"

"Siberia, sir, is a delightful country that has been calumniated. You might return from there."

"Am I condemned to a prison?"

"A prison you might escape from."

"The knout?"

"Tho knout is painful; but the knout . does not destroy life."

"My God," cried Sutherland; "am I to die?"

"And what a death!"

"What? Is it not enough to kill me without trial? Has more been ordered?"

"Alas! yes."

"Well, speak sir. I am a man, and have some courage. Speak."

"My dear sir, if the command had not been given  to myself, I never would have believed it. You are to be flayed alive."

The poor banker uttered a groan of agony.

"What you tell me is incredible. You must have lost your reason."

"No, I have not, though I certainly shall lose it during the operation." .

"But is it possible that you, who have a hundred times called yourself my friend, could receive such an order without attempting to make her Majesty : comprehend its barbarity?"

"I did what I could. I besought her Majesty to relinquish the project, or at least to charge someone else with the execution of it, till she grew angry, and answered me in that tone which you must have heard, and that admits of no reply."

"And then?"

"Then," said the director of police, "I went in search of a skilful naturalist, who stuffs birds for the Academy of Sciences, because, since the thing must be done, I wished it to be performed in the best possible manner."

"And did the wretch consent to do it?"

He referred me to his colleague, who skins, and prepares monkeys, on account of the great resemblance between the human being and the monkey."

"Well?"

"He is waiting."

"Waiting? Is it to be done this instant?"

"Her Majesty's orders admit of no delay."

"But you will give me time to write a note to the Empress?"

"I fear that. I cannot."

"It is a last favour. Grant it, I entreat you."

"Very well, write."

The director of police called a lieutenant of the guard, to whom he entrusted Sutherland's letter, and ordered him to return immediately with the answer. Ten minutes afterwards he brought back an order to conduct the banker to the palace. A carriage was at the door. Sutherland entered it, with the lieutenant by his side, and in five minutes more found himself at the Hermitage and in the presence of the Empress, who received him with a burst, of laughter. Unable to conjecture the cause of her mirth, he threw himself at her feet.

"Mercy, madam," he said, "or at least tell me by what crime I have merited such a terrible punishment?"

"My dear Sutherland," said the Queen, "you have nothing in the world to do with all this."

"I? But who, then, does it concern?"

"The dog that you gave me, and who died yesterday. In my desire to preserve some memorial of him, I sent for that stupid Reliew, and said to him: 'Let Sutherland's skin be instantly stripped off.' "

"When he hesitated, I supposed he despised the commission, and becoming angry, I sent him away, without further explanation."

"Madam," replied the banker, "you may boast, of a faithful servant in your director of police, but in future I entreat you to explain more fully the orders which you give him, for he will surely execute them to the letter."

____________

20: The Studio

Robert Blatchford

1851-1943

Fantasias, Manchester, 1892.

Freeman's Journal (Sydney) 31 May 1902

Robert Peel Glanville Blatchford, 1895

NO MEMBER of our family ever doubted Uncle Dick's ghost story. In the first place, my uncle was not of an imaginative temperament. In the second place, he was an old soldier, and the veracity of old soldiers is proverbial. In the third place, when my uncle put his left hand upon his sword-hip, drew up his seventy-two inches of bone and brawn to attention, and frowned no one could be rude enough to call his good faith in question. Therefore, my uncle's story is true. But, let me tell it, and judge for yourselves.

MY late uncle, Sergeant Richard Rogers, of the 6th lnniskilling Dragoons, had, at the time of which I write, retired to Stockport on a pension. The pension being small, and work but scarce, my uncle, who was a well-informed and stalwart man, eked out his modest resources by standing as a model for some of the local artists. Among his patrons was young Edward Marcher, and it was on the occasion of his first visit to that gifted artist's studio that my uncle met the ghost.

Mr. Marcher had engaged a couple of rooms in an old mansion, No. 30, in the Marketplace. Artist-like, he was proud of the antiquity of this abode, and, as he ushered my uncle in, discoursed to him enthusiastically upon the beauty of the old staircase, with its quaintly-designed and frankly-carved balustrade and handrail.

But my uncle was not aesthetic, and answered the young man's eulogies with a bluff 'H'm! Good old staircase, no doubt, but not made for tall hats!'

The handsome apartment used as the studio charmed him as little. He glanced carelessly at the oaken wainscot, heavily beamed ceiling and sombre tapestries, and began, without a word, to don the uniform of a Cromwellian Ironside.

But the ancient broadsword roused his interest immediately. His dark eyes lighted up. A stern smile flickered round his close, thin lips. He drew the weapon with a swish, bent the blade on the floor, flashed it round his head in a couple of rapid circles, and said, as he curled his iron-grey moustache, and shook his burly figure in his belts and bluff jerkin:

'Ah! A hefty tool, well balanced, and long i' the reach. A man might cut a throat with this and do himself credit.'

He returned the weapon to its sheath, and fell at once into the attitude required. Mr. Marcher began to sketch my uncle rapidly and boldly in charcoal. As he drew he talked; and he talked of the old house, because he loved old houses as a chinamaniac loves blue china, and because my uncle's indifference had piqued him.

'There must have been great comings and goings and sayings and doings in this old house,' said the artist. 'This part we are now in is the new wing, and was finished in 1618. It would be a bright modern room at the time of the Civil War.'

At the word 'war' my uncle pricked up his ears.

The painter realized his advantage, and continued:

'The Civil War was no affair of blank cartridge, sergeant. Englishmen could fight in those days.'

'Great Captain, Cromwell,' said my uncle. 'Look at the battle of Preston. Boney himself never showed better generalship.'

'Grand old times,' said the artist, deftly sketching my uncle's eyes with the light in them.

'H'm!' said my uncle. 'Don't know about that. Canary is a sweet, heady drink, and sherris sack must have been treacly.'

'But the home-brewed, sergeant?' suggested Marcher.

'Ah!'  said my uncle, smacking his lips. 'The home-brewed would be good— in a large pitcher.'

'This,' said the artist, as he put in the dark shadows under the heavy moustache, 'was the lady's boudoir— should have tales to tell if walls could speak. In that corner is a sliding panel. It is nailed up now, as you see. There is a secret passage behind it, leading up to the garden. It's been used, sergeant, you may depend—'

'Youth will have its fling,' said my uncle.

'There were some pretty women in those times,' continued the painter.

My uncle winked.

'This was a Royalist house,' said Marcher. 'Charles the First has dined here; Charles the Second lay concealed here; Fairfax is said to have made it his headquarters. There'll be plenty of romance and tragedy, too, bound up with the history of this place. Feasting and dancing, love and war—'

'The, old, old story,' said my uncle.

'Yes, the old, sweet story,' said the artist. 'Many an admired beauty has sat here ? 'And admired herself,' said my uncle, who was a bachelor. The artist smiled. 'True,' said he, 'and very likely some of those ladies come here now; for, of course, the place is haunted.' 'Haw! haw! haw!' laughed my uncle. 'You never saw a ghost, sergeant?' asked the painter.

'Not I,' replied my uncle; 'though I must have made plenty of them in my time.'

A shadow fell upon his jolly face. He sighed. Mr. Marcher was silent for a few moments. He was busy sketching in the solid rotundity of my uncle's figure. Then, he said, in rather a gibing manner:

'I never believe in men who don't believe in ghosts. Do you think you'd not he scared if you saw one, sergeant?'

My uncle smiled. 'Id give a day's pay to see a real live ghost,' he said, 'especially the ghost of one of your pretty wenches here.'

'Come,' said the artist, 'do you mean it? Are you game enough to spend a night alone in this empty haunted house?'

'Try me,' said my uncle.

'When ?' asked the painter.

'To-night,' said my uncle. 'Done,' said the painter.

My uncle stroked his chin.

'On conditions,' ho said, dryly. 'Name them,' said Marcher. 'Some coal, some candles, some supper, and some whisky,' my uncle answered.

The bargain was made. Good store of good things was laid in, and my uncle was duly locked up in the old house at a little after eleven o'clock that night.

My uncle Dick was an old campaigner. He hung the broadsword on the chair back, locked the door, made up a rousing fire, mixed a stiff bowl of punch, and helped himself generously to the rabbit-pie and chutney. Being Sunday night, there were few passengers in the streets. The market was shut up.

Very soon all sounds of traffic died away. My uncle conducted his attack upon the supper with soldierly energy and order. Now and again his quick ear caught some of those mysterious sounds which are heard in old houses at night, but they gave him no concern.

There was a rattling in the next room, as of someone trying the door.

'Rats,' said my uncle, and sipped his grog.

The stairs creaked as though someone were stealthily ascending them.

'It's a queer things' said my uncle, 'how these old timbers talk,' and he helped himself to some more pie.

A low sound, like a long-drawn sigh, came from the corridor.

'Draughty window,' quoth my uncle, and went on with his supper.

When he had finished the rabbit-pie, he put some more stiffening into his punch, filled his pipe, spread out the newspaper, snuffed the candle, and settled himself comfortably in his chair.

At that moment a distant clock chimed the half hour. My uncle lit his pipe, and began to read. Soon the nocturnal noises ceased. A deep hush fell upon the old house; a. silence that could be felt. The distant clock struck twelve. My uncle poured out some more grog.

'Good,' said he. 'If I'd been at home, I'd 'have had nothing better far supper than bread and cheese and porter. I drink the ghost's health.'

With that, my uncle winked at the portrait of the old earl which hung opposite to him.

As he set the glass down, he heard a faint sound, like the click of a latch, on the upper corridor. He listened, but all was still.

'It was the wind,' said my uncle, and leaned over to relight his pipe at the candle. But just as the bowl touched the flame he hard another sound, and sat quite still, his lips thrust out, his meek craned forward, his hands on his knees, and the pipe gripped tightly between his teeth.

There was no doubt about it. My uncle could hear a light, cautious footstep, and the rustle of a dress upon the bedroom stairs. He sat motionless, holding his breath. The sound ceased.

'Hang the candle!' said my uncle. 'What's the matter with you?'

The flame had died almost away; the room grew dark; the portrait of the old earl was lost in gloomy shadow; the red glow of the fire, shining upon the cross-pikes and rapiers on the wall, seemed to bathe their points in blood. My uncle laid down his pipe, and turned his keen eyes towards the door.

'Now,' said he, 'Mr. Marcher, let's see if your ghost has a key.'

The door swung slowly back. No key was put into the lock. Even the handle did not turn. My uncle raised his eyebrows in surprise.

'The devil!' said he. He could see the corridor, and the head of the old oak staircase. He could see, also, the bottom steps of the bedroom flight, and on them stood an uncommonly graceful and pretty girl, dressed in a rich and quaint costume of white satin, and carrying an antique silver lamp. She looked at my uncle steadily for a moment, holding the lamp above her head, then smiled in a pleased way, walked lightly into the room, and closed the door. My uncle's candle went clean out.

My uncle guessed at once, that Mr. Marcher had played a trick upon him by persuading him that the house was uninhabited. 'If I had that young smarty here,' thought my uncle, 'I'd give him a large slice of my mind, with no jam on it.'

He rose up from the table in confusion, and was about to apologize; but the lady set the lamp down upon the mantel-piece, and said with sweet gravity:

'I crave your pardon, air. I fear I have detained you.'

'Not at all,'' said my uncle, stepping forward and bowing. 'Doubtless you are surprised to see me here?'

'Indeed, no,' said the lady. 'I have expected you these many weary days, and since you have tarried so long, am still the more comforted at sight of you. May I know your name?'

'Dick Rogers, miss, at your service,' said my uncle, bowing again, and wondering what the dickens it all meant.

'I fear you have braved some perils in your coming hither, sir,' said the lady.

'Perils?' quoth my uncle, more perplexed than ever. 'What perils?'

The lady glanced at him in surprise.

'Surely,' said she, 'you are a Puritan?'

My uncle coughed, and cast a sidelong look at the punchbowl. 'H'm!' said he.

'A Puritan? I can't exactly say that I— er— however—'

The lady recoiled a step. 'But,' she said, 'you wear the dress. Your hair is cropped. You—'

'Oh,' said my uncle, smiling, and looking down at his bluff jerkin and long boots, 'as for the uniform, I have newly joined the Ironsides; and as for my hair, why, short hair's the order in the army.'

The lady seemed relieved. She bent her head gracefully, and said:

'In good sooth, sir, I misdoubt you not. My eyes tell me you are a soldier, and my heart that you are a friend. You come from Edward?'

'A—h!' thought my uncle, 'the young painter's name is Edward, and this bonny lass is his sweetheart.' Then, noticing the lady's look of keen anxiety, he hastened to say 'Yes.'

The lady leaned upon the back of an old oak chair on the left-hand side of the fire.

'Pray you, sir, be seated,' she said. My uncle bowed, and sat down in a chair on the right-hand side of the fire. The lady fixed an eager look upon his face, and said:

'Tell me, soldier, is he well?'

'As fit as a fiddle,' quoth my uncle Dick.

The lady uttered a grateful sigh, and knelt down on the hearth almost at my uncle's feet. She shook the heavy golden curls from her shoulders, and looked up at him with a glad light in her pretty eyes and a glad smile upon her pretty lips. There was a tiny dimple in her small round chin; her throat was of a pearly whiteness; her breast heaved gently under her satin bodice; a faint odour of bergamot rose from the ripples of her perfumed hair

'If a man is as old as he feels,' thought my uncle, 'this is my twenty-first birthday.'

'Tell me,' said the lady in a soft, coaxing voice— 'Captain D'Estournel, you know him well?'

My uncle had never heard the captain's name before, and had not the slightest idea who the captain was; but he perceived the lady expected an affirmative answer, and, being a gallant man, he was prepared to die, or lie, rather than disappoint her. So he gave his moustache a twist, and answered coolly:

'Know him? Why, he was captain in my company.'

The lady clasped her hands.

'Where is he now?' she demanded eagerly. 'Tell me, I pray you, of your kindness. I have borne suspense so long.'

'Certainly, Miss,' said my uncle, feeling anything but certain in his own mind. 'You see, the last time I saw the captain he— er— of course, it's a good while since I left the regiment, and—'

'But when you left it; he was well? He— is— not— wounded?' said the lady.

'The devil a wound— I beg pardon, Miss,' said my uncle. The lady kept her eyes anxiously fixed on him.

'He is not— a— prisoner?' she said.

'Prisoner? Bless your heart, no,' said my uncle.

The lady breathed a happy little sigh.

'God be praised for this great in mercy,' she said. 'You bring a message from him? A letter?'

'Now,' thought my uncle, 'I'd better spar for wind, or I shall be knocked out in. one round.'

He adopted a bland soothing manner, such as is common amongst physicians. 'All in good time,' said he. 'You are overanxious, Miss.'

The lady's lip quivered, and tears sprang to her eyes, as she answered, plaintively: 'I am much moved. 'Twas a cruel fight— a fearful fight— so dire the loss—' Her voice died away upon the word.

My uncle studied for a moment.

'There must have been fighting in Afghanistan,' he thought. 'Maybe her lover is out there.' And, thinking it would be best to comfort this gentle creature at all hazards, he decided to lie with good grace.

'My dear young lady,' he said, 'It's all right. I left the captain as sound as a bell. He sent his dear love to you, and he'd write as soon as— as soon as— as he could write.'

The lady dropped her head.

'He might have sent a letter by your hand. It is so long since I had tidings of him,' she said, wistfully.

'To be sure, to be sure,' cried my uncle, in a loud, cheery voice; 'but all will be well.'

To his surprise the lady started up in alarm. 'Hush!' she said in a frightened whisper. 'Forget not in whose house you are.'

She stood a moment listening, then went to the secret panel. My uncle knew it was nailed up— he had seen the nails. The lady put one finger on it and it slid noiselessly aside, disclosing a dark aperture.

' 'Tis well,' said the lady, in a low voice. 'You know the way. You entered thence.'

My uncle gave his leg a furtive pinch, to make sure that he was awake.

'If this is a put-up job,' he thought, 'that girl is a devilish good actress.'

He was about to speak, but the lady, leaving the exit open, came back to the fire.

'It seemeth strange and untoward,' said she, 'that Edward sent no sign, no token. You do not cozen me in kindness? 'Twere cruel kindness to deceive me, even to my own quietude and comfort. Better the bitter truth than hopes that flatter to deceive. Wast at this battle, friend?'

My uncle looked keenly at her troubled face. A doubt crossed his mind. The lady's speech was odd; her dress was of a strange cut. My uncle resolved to come to the point. He rose from his chair, and said, with calm politeness:

'To prevent mistakes, Miss, will you tell me your name?'

She made a low curtsey, and replied:

'The Lady Beatrice Lestrange.'

My uncle felt more serious than ever.

'May I ask my lady,' said he, bowing, 'to what battle you refer?'

The lady looked surprised. 'To what battle should I refer,' said she, 'but to that great battle of the second of July, wherein fell so many of England's best?'

Again the wind sighed on the landing. The stairs creaked, tho lamp flickered, the did house trembled. My uncle drew himself up; and laid his left hand on his sword-hip.

'And the name of the battle?' said he.

The lady opened her blue eyes wide, and answered, in a clear, thrilling voice: 'The battle of Marston Moor.'

My uncle still felt, doubtful. It might be all a trick. It might be that the painter's light words were true.

'My Lady Lestrange,' said my uncle, steadily, 'before I tell you any more about the Captain, I should like to ask a favour.'

The lady looked at him, and answered simply: 'It is granted.'

My uncle did not know what fear meant, but his pulse beat rather more quickly than usual, and he drew his breath hard as he hold out his hand, and said:

'Will you please to shake hands with a poor trooper?' The lady gave him a sweet, kind smile, and laid her hand in his. Her hand was as cold as ice. They mutually recoiled from each other, shuddering. There was a pause for a long minute. The two looked dreadfully into each other's eyes. My uncle declares that the silence was so profound that had a snowflake fall on upon the roof, he should have heard it.

Then my uncle spoke. He said: 'Lady Beatrice Lestrange, your lover is at rest. Rest thou also. He giveth his beloved sleep.'

As he spoke, the beautiful lady shivered violently from head to foot, tunned deadly pale, drooped, and dwindled slowly into a wraith of pale mist, which floated on the air like the smoke from a rifle, drifted against j the door, melted, or passed through it, and was gone.

My uncle stood stock still. He heard a sound, as of a woman sobbing, ascend the bedroom stairway, and pass along the passage. Ho heard the sound die away into a long, sad wail. He heard the echo of that wail melt into the silence that could be felt. He heard his own heart beat.

Then he shook himself mightily in his buff and belts, slapped his huge chest loudly, and gave his great moustache an angry twist.

'I'll soon see the rights of this,' said my uncle. He went to the table; his candle was burning brightly. He looked on the mantel-shelf; the lamp was gone. He glanced round the room; the door was locked, the panel was nailed up, the fire burnt cheerily in the ancient grate, the punch steamed invitingly upon the table.

'I couldn't be dreaming,' said my uncle; 'but we'll soon see.'

He strode to the table, drank a glass of grog and taking the candlestick in his left hand and the broadsword in his right, walked firmly up the stairs and made a tour of the bedrooms. They were empty. He went downstairs; the outer door was locked. He tried the window on the corridor; it was securely bolted.

He returned to the studio. All was as he left it. He relocked the door, brought up the table and punch to the fire, and was in the act of sheathing the old sword when his eye fell upon the forte of the blade, and he read the words:

'Godfrey Charles Lestrange. From his loving sister Beatrice, in God's year, 1640.'

'It was a ghost,' said my uncle Dick, and he lit his pipe and mixed another bowl of punch.

________________

21: The Chinese Apple

Marjorie Bowen (Writing as Joseph Shearing)

Gabrielle M. V. Long (1885-1952)

The Illustrated London News, 18 Nov 1948

Gabrielle Marjorie Vere Long

ISABELLE CROSLAND felt very depressed when the boat train drew into the vast London station. The gas lamps set at intervals down the platform did little more than reveal filth, fog and figures huddled in wraps and shawls. It was a mistake to arrive on Christmas Eve, a matter of missed trains, of indecision and reluctance about the entire journey. The truth was she had not wanted to come to London at all. She had lived in Italy too long to be comfortable in England. In Florence she had friends, admirers; she had what is termed "private means" and she was an expert in music. She performed a little on the harpsichord and she wrote a great deal about ancient musical instruments and ancient music. She had been married and widowed some years before and was a childless woman who had come to good terms with life. But with life in Florence, not London. Mrs Crosland really rather resented the fact that she was performing a duty. She liked things to be taken lightly, even with a touch of malice, of heartlessness, and here she was in this gloomy, cold station, having left the pleasant south behind, just because she ought to be there.

"How," she thought, as she watched the porter sorting out her baggage, "I dislike doing the right thing; it is never becoming, at least to me."

A widowed sister she scarcely remembered had died: there was a child, quite alone. She, this Lucy Bayward, had written; so had her solicitors. Mrs Crosland was her only relation. Money was not needed, companionship was. At last it had been arranged, the child was coming up from Wiltshire, Mrs Crosland was to meet her in London and take her back to Florence.

It would really be, Isabelle Crosland reflected, a flat sort of Christmas. She wished that she could shift her responsibility, and, as the four-wheeled cab took her along the dingy streets, she wondered if it might not be possible for her to evade taking Lucy back to Italy.

London was oppressive. The gutters were full of dirty snow, overhead was a yellow fog.

"I was a fool," thought Mrs Crosland, "ever to have left Florence. The whole matter could have been settled by letter."

She did not care for the meeting-place. It was the old house in Islington where she and her sister had been born and had passed their childhood. It was her own property and her tenant had lately left, so it was empty. Convenient, too, and suitable. Only Isabelle Crosland did not very much want to return to those sombre rooms. She had not liked her own childhood, nor her own youth. Martha had married, though a poor sort of man, and got away early. Isabelle had stayed on, too long, then married desperately, only saving herself by Italy and music. The south had saved her in another way, too. Her husband, who was a dull, retired half-pay officer, had died of malaria.

Now she was going back. On Christmas Eve, nothing would be much altered; she had always let the house furnished. Why had she not sold, long ago, those heavy pieces of Jamaica mahogany? Probably out of cowardice, because she did not wish to face up to writing, or hearing anything about them. There it was, just as she remembered it, Roscoe Square, with the church and graveyard in the centre, and the houses, each like one another as peas in a pod, with the decorous areas and railings and the semicircular fanlights over the doors with heavy knockers.

The streetlamps were lit. It was really quite late at night. "No wonder," Mrs Crosland thought, "that I am feeling exhausted." The sight of the Square chilled her: it was as if she had been lured back there by some malign power. A group of people were gathered round the house in the corner, directly facing her own that was number twelve. "Carols," she thought, "or a large party." But there seemed to be no children and the crowd was very silent.

There were lights in her own house. She noticed that bright façade with relief. Alike in the parlour and in the bedrooms above, the gas flared. Lucy had arrived then. That part of the arrangements had gone off well. The lawyers must have sent the keys, as Isabelle Crosland had instructed them to do, and the girl had had the good sense to get up to London before the arrival of the boat train.

Yet Mrs Crosland felt unreasonably depressed. She would, after all, have liked a few hours by herself in the hateful house.

Her own keys were ready in her purse. She opened the front door and shuddered. It was as if she had become a child again and dreaded the strong voice of a parent.

There should have been a maid. Careful in everything that concerned her comfort, Mrs Crosland had written to a woman long since in her employment to be in attendance. The woman had replied, promising compliance. But now she cried: "Mrs Jocelyn! Mrs Jocelyn!" in vain, through the gas-lit house.

The cabby would not leave his horse and his rugs, but her moment of hesitancy was soon filled. One of the mongrel idlers who, more frequently than formerly, lounged about the streets, came forward. Mrs Crosland's trunks and bags were placed in the hall, and she had paid her dues with the English money carefully acquired at Dover.

The cab drove away, soon lost in the fog. But the scrawny youth lingered. He pointed to the crowd on the other side of the Square, a deeper patch amid the surrounding gloom.

"Something has happened there, Mum," he whispered.

"Something horrible, you mean?" Mrs Crossland was annoyed she had said this, and added: "No, of course not; it is a gathering for Christmas." With this she closed her front door on the darkness and stood in the lamp-lit passage.

She went into the parlour, so well remembered, so justly hated.

The last tenant, selected prudently, had left everything in even too good a state of preservation. Save for some pale patches on the walls where pictures had been altered, everything was as it had been.

Glowering round, Mrs Crosland thought what a fool she had been to stay there so long.

A fire was burning and a dish of cakes and wine stood on the deep red mahogany table.

With a gesture of bravado, Mrs Crosland returned to the passage, trying to throw friendliness into her voice as she called out: "Lucy, Lucy, my dear, it is I, your aunt Isabelle Crosland."

She was vexed with herself that the words did not have a more genial sound. "I am ruined," she thought, "for all family relationship."

A tall girl appeared on the first landing.

"I have been waiting," she said, "quite a long time."

In the same second Mrs Crosland was relieved that this was no insipid bore, and resentful of the other's self-contained demeanour.

"Well," she said, turning it off with a smile. "It doesn't look as if I need have hurried to your assistance."

Lucy Bayward descended the stairs.

"Indeed, I assure you, I am extremely glad to see you," she said gravely.

The two women seated themselves in the parlour. Mrs Crosland found Lucy looked older than her eighteen years and was also, in her dark, rather flashing way, beautiful. Was she what one might have expected Martha's girl to be? Well, why not?

"I was expecting Mrs Jocelyn, Lucy."

"Oh, she was here; she got everything ready, as you see—then I sent her home because it is Christmas Eve."

Mrs Crosland regretted this; she was used to ample service. "We shall not be able to travel until after Christmas," she complained.

"But we can be very comfortable here," said Lucy, smiling.

"No," replied Mrs Crosland, the words almost forced out of her. "I don't think I can— be comfortable here— I think we had better go to an hotel."

"But you arranged this meeting."

"I was careless. You can have no idea— you have not travelled?"

"No."

"Well, then, you can have no idea how different things seem in Florence, with the sun and one's friends about—"

"I hope we shall be friends."

"Oh, I hope so. I did not mean that, only the Square and the house. You see, I spent my childhood here."

Lucy slightly shrugged her shoulders. She poured herself out a glass of wine. What a false impression those school-girlish letters had given! Mrs Crosland was vexed, mostly at herself.

"You— since we have used the word— have friends of your own?" she asked.

Lucy bowed her dark head.

"Really," added Mrs Crosland, "I fussed too much. I need not have undertaken all that tiresome travelling at Christmas, too."

"I am sorry that you did— on my account; but please believe that you are being of the greatest help to me."

Mrs Crosland apologized at once.

"I am over-tired. I should not be talking like this. I, too, will have a glass of wine. We ought to get to know each other."

They drank, considering one another carefully.

Lucy was a continuing surprise to Mrs Crosland. She was not even in mourning, but wore a rather ill-fitting stone-coloured satin, her sleek hair had recently been twisted into ringlets, and there was no doubt that she was slightly rouged.

"Do you want to come to Italy? Have you any plans for yourself?"

"Yes— and they include a trip abroad. Don't be afraid that I shall be a burden on you."

"This independence could have been expressed by letter," smiled Mrs Crosland. "I have my own interests— that Martha's death interrupted—"

"Death always interrupts— some one or some thing, does it not?"

"Yes, and my way of putting it was harsh. I mean you do not seem a rustic miss, eager for sympathy."

"It must be agreeable in Florence," said Lucy. "I dislike London very much."

"But you have not been here more than a few hours—"

"Long enough to dislike it—"

"And your own home, also?"

"You did not like your own youth, either, did you?" asked Lucy, staring.

"No, no, I understand. Poor Martha would be dull, and it is long since your father died. I see, a narrow existence."

"You might call it that. I was denied everything. I had not the liberty, the pocket-money given to the kitchenmaid."

"It was true of me also," said Mrs Crosland, shocked at her own admission.

"One is left alone, to struggle with dark things," smiled Lucy. "It is not a place that I dislike, but a condition— that of being young, vulnerable, defenceless."

"As I was," agreed Mrs Crosland. "I got away and now I have music."

"I shall have other things." Lucy sipped her wine.

"Well, one must talk of it: you are not what I expected to find. You are younger than I was when I got away," remarked Mrs Crosland.

"Still too old to endure what I endured."

Mrs Crosland shivered. "I never expected to hear this," she declared. "I thought you would be a rather flimsy little creature."

"And I am not?"

"No, indeed, you seem to me quite determined."

"Well, I shall take your small cases upstairs. Mrs Jocelyn will be here in the morning."

"There's a good child." Mrs Crosland tried to sound friendly. She felt that she ought to manage the situation better. It was one that she had ordained herself, and now it was getting out of hand.

"Be careful with the smallest case in red leather: it has some English gold in it, and a necklace of Roman pearls that I bought as a Christmas present for you—"

Mrs Crosland felt that the last part of this sentence fell flat. "…pearl beads, they are really very pretty."

"So are these." Lucy put her hand to her ill-fitting tucker and pulled out a string of pearls.

"The real thing," said Mrs Crosland soberly. "I did not know that Martha—"

Lucy unclasped the necklace and laid it on the table; the sight of this treasure loosened Mrs Crosland's constant habit of control. She thought of beauty, of sea-water, of tears, and of her own youth, spilled and wasted away, like water running into sand.

"I wish I had never come back to this house," she said passionately.

Lucy went upstairs. Mrs Crosland heard her moving about overhead. How well she knew that room. The best bedroom, where her parents had slept, the huge wardrobe, the huge dressing-table, the line engravings, the solemn air of tedium, the hours that seemed to have no end. What had gone wrong with life anyway? Mrs Crosland asked herself this question fiercely, daunted, almost frightened by the house.

The fire was sinking down and with cold hands she piled on the logs.

How stupid to return. Even though it was such a reasonable thing to do. One must be careful of these reasonable things. She ought to have done the unreasonable, the reckless thing, forgotten this old house in Islington, and taken Lucy to some cheerful hotel.

The steps were advancing, retreating, overhead. Mrs Crosland recalled old stories of haunted houses. How footsteps would sound in an upper storey and then, on investigation, the room be found empty.

Supposing she were to go upstairs now and find the great bedroom forlorn and Lucy vanished! Instead, Lucy entered the parlour.

"I have had the warming-pan in the bed for over two hours, the fire burns briskly and your things are set out—"

Mrs Crosland was grateful in rather, she felt, an apathetic manner.

This journey had upset a painfully acquired serenity. She was really fatigued, the motion of the ship, the clatter of the train still made her senses swim.

"Thank you, Lucy, dear," she said, in quite a humble way, then leaning her head in her hand and her elbow on the table, she began to weep.

Lucy regarded her quietly and drank another glass of wine.

"It is the house," whimpered Mrs Crosland, "coming back to it— and those pearls— I never had a necklace like that—"

She thought of her friends, of her so-called successful life, and of how little she had really had.

She envied this young woman who had escaped in time.

"Perhaps you had an accomplice?" she asked cunningly.

"Oh, yes, I could have done nothing without that."

Mrs Crosland was interested, slightly confused by the wine and the fatigue. Probably, she thought, Lucy meant that she was engaged to some young man who had not been approved by Martha. But what did either of them mean by the word "accomplice"?

"I suppose Charles Crosland helped me," admitted his widow. "He married me and we went to Italy. I should never have had the courage to do that alone. And by the time he died, I had found out about music, and how I understood it and could make money out of it—"

"Perhaps," she thought to herself, "Lucy will not want, after all, to come with me to Italy— what a relief if she marries someone. I don't really care if she has found a ruffian, for I don't like her— no, nor the duty, the strain and drag of it."

She was sure that it was the house making her feel like that. Because in this house she had done what she ought to have done so often. Such wretched meals, such miserable silences, such violences of speech. Such suppression of all one liked or wanted. Lucy said:

"I see that you must have suffered, Mrs Crosland. I don't feel I can be less formal than that— we are strangers. I will tell you in the morning what my plans are—"

"I hardly came from Italy in the Christmas season to hear your plans," replied Mrs Crosland with a petulance of which she was ashamed. "I imagined you as quite dependent and needing my care."

"I have told you that you are the greatest possible service to me," Lucy assured her, at the same time taking up the pearls and hiding them in her bosom. "I wear mourning when I go abroad, but in the house I feel it to be a farce," she added.

"I never wore black for my parents," explained Mrs Crosland. "They died quite soon, one after the other; with nothing to torment, their existence became insupportable."

Lucy sat with her profile towards the fire. She was thin, with slanting eyebrows and a hollow at the base of her throat.

"I wish you would have that dress altered to fit you," remarked Mrs Crosland. "You could never travel in it, either, a grey satin—"

"Oh, no, I have some furs and a warm pelisse of a dark rose colour."

"Then certainly you were never kept down as I was—"

"Perhaps I helped myself, afterwards— is not that the sensible thing to do?"

"You mean you bought these clothes since Martha's death? I don't see how you had the time or the money." And Mrs Crosland made a mental note to consult the lawyers as to just how Lucy's affairs stood.

"Perhaps you have greater means than I thought," she remarked. "I always thought Martha had very little."

"I have not very much," said Lucy. "But I shall know how to spend it. And how to make more."

Mrs Crosland rose. The massive pieces of furniture seemed closing in on her, as if they challenged her very right to exist.

Indeed, in this house she had no existence, she was merely the wraith of the child, of the girl who had suffered so much in this place, in this house, in this Square with the church and the graveyard in the centre, and from which she had escaped only just in time. Lucy also got to her feet.

"It is surprising," she sighed, "the amount of tedium there is in life. When I think of all the dull Christmases—"

"I also," said Mrs Crosland, almost in terror. "It was always so much worse when other people seemed to be rejoicing." She glanced round her with apprehension. "When I think of all the affectations of good will, of pleasure—"

"Don't think of it," urged the younger woman. "Go upstairs, where I have put everything in readiness for you."

"I dread the bedroom."

The iron bell clanged in the empty kitchen below.

"The waits," added Mrs Crosland. "I remember when we used to give them sixpence, nothing more. But I heard no singing."

"There was no singing. I am afraid those people at the corner house have returned."

Mrs Crosland remembered vaguely the crowd she had seen from the cab window, a blot of dark in the darkness. "You mean someone has been here before?" she asked. "What about?"

"There has been an accident, I think. Someone was hurt—"

"But what could that have to do with us?"

"Nothing, of course. But they said they might return—"

"Who is 'they'?"

Mrs Crosland spoke confusedly and the bell rang again.

"Oh, do go, like a good child," she added. She was rather glad of the distraction. She tried to think of the name of the people who had lived in the house on the opposite corner. Inglis— was not that it? And one of the family had been a nun, a very cheerful, smiling nun, or had she recalled it all wrongly?

She sat shivering over the fire, thinking of those past musty Christmas Days, when the beauty and magic of the season had seemed far away, as if behind a dense wall of small bricks. That had always been the worst of it, that somewhere, probably close at hand, people had really been enjoying themselves.

She heard Lucy talking with a man in the passage. The accomplice, perhaps? She was inclined to be jealous, hostile.

But the middle-aged and sober-looking person who followed Lucy into the parlour could not have any romantic complications.

He wore a pepper-and-salt-pattern suit and carried a bowler hat. He seemed quite sure of himself, yet not to expect any friendliness.

"I am sorry to disturb you again," he said.

"I am sorry that you should," agreed Mrs Crosland. "But on the other hand, my memories of this house are by no means pleasant."

"Name of Teale, Henry Teale," said the stranger.

"Pray be seated," said Mrs Crosland.

The stranger, this Mr Teale, took the edge of the seat, as if very diffident. Mrs Crosland was soon fascinated by what he had to say.

He was a policeman in private clothes. Mrs Crosland meditated on the word "private"— "private life", "private means". He had come about the Inglis affair, at the corner house.

"Oh, yes, I recall that was the name, but we never knew anyone—who are they now— the Inglis family?"

"I've already told Miss Bayward here— it was an old lady, for several years just an old lady living with a companion—"

"And found dead, you told me, Mr Teale," remarked Lucy.

"Murdered, is what the surgeon says and what was suspected from the first."

"I forgot that you said that, Mr Teale. At her age it does not seem to matter very much— you said she was over eighty years of age, did you not?" asked Lucy, pouring the detective a glass of wine.

"Very old, nearly ninety years of age, I understand, Miss Bayward. But murder is murder."

Mrs Crosland felt this affair to be an added weariness. Murder in Roscoe Square on Christmas Eve. She felt that she ought to apologize to Lucy. "I suppose that was what the crowd had gathered for," she remarked.

"Yes, such news soon gets about, Ma'am. A nephew called to tea and found her— gone."

Mr Teale went over, as if it were a duty, the circumstances of the crime. The house had been ransacked and suspicion had fallen on the companion, who had disappeared. Old Mrs Inglis had lived so much like a recluse that no one knew what she possessed. There had been a good deal of loose money in the house, the nephew, Mr Clinton, thought. A good deal of cash had been drawn every month from the Inglis bank account, and very little of it spent. The companion was a stranger to Islington. Veiled and modest, she had flitted about doing the meagre shopping for the old eccentric, only for the last few weeks.

The woman she had replaced had left in tears and temper some months ago. No one knew where this creature had come from— probably an orphanage; she must have been quite friendless and forlorn to have taken such a post.

"You told me all this," protested Lucy.

"Yes, Miss, but I did say that I would have to see Mrs Crosland when she arrived—"

"Well, you are seeing her," remarked that lady. "And I cannot help you at all. One is even disinterested. I lived, Mr Teale, so cloistered a life when I was here, that I knew nothing of what was going on— even in the Square."

"So I heard from Miss Bayward here, but I thought you might have seen someone; I'm not speaking of the past, but of the present—"

"Seen someone here— on Christmas Eve—?"

Mr Teale sighed, as if, indeed, he had been expecting too much. "We've combed the neighbourhood, but can't find any trace of her—"

"Why should you? Of course, she has fled a long way off—"

"Difficult, with the railway stations and then the ports all watched."

"You may search again through the cellars if you wish," said Lucy. "I am sure that my aunt won't object—"

Mrs Crosland put no difficulties in the way of the detective, but she felt the whole situation was grotesque.

"I hope she escapes," Mrs Crosland, increasingly tired and confused by the wine she had drunk without eating, spoke without her own volition. "Poor thing— shut up— caged—"

"It was a very brutal murder," said Mr Teale indifferently.

"Was it? An over-draught of some sleeping potion, I suppose?"

"No, Ma'am, David and Goliath, the surgeon said. A rare kind of murder. A great round stone in a sling, as it might be a lady's scarf, and pretty easy to get in the dusk round the river ways."

Mrs Crosland laughed. The picture of this miserable companion, at the end of a dismal day lurking round the dubious dockland streets to find a target for her skill with sling and stone, seemed absurd.

"I know what you are laughing at," said Mr Teale without feeling. "But she found her target— it was the shining skull of Mrs Inglis, nodding in her chair—"

"One might understand the temptation," agreed Mrs Crosland. "But I doubt the skill."

"There is a lovely walled garden," suggested the detective. "And, as I said, these little by-way streets. Anyway, there was her head smashed in, neatly; no suffering, you understand."

"Oh, very great suffering, for such a thing to be possible," broke out Mrs Crosland. "On the part of the murderess, I mean—"

"I think so, too," said Lucy soberly.

"That is not for me to say," remarked the detective. "I am to find her if I can. There is a fog and all the confusion of Christmas Eve parties, and waits, and late services at all the churches."

Mrs Crosland impulsively drew back the curtains. Yes, there was the church, lit up, exactly as she recalled it, light streaming from the windows over the graveyard, altar tombs, and headstones, sliding into oblivion.

"Where would a woman like that go?" asked Lucy, glancing over Mrs Crosland's shoulder at the churchyard.

"That is what we have to find out," said Mr Teale cautiously. "I'll be on my way again, ladies, just cautioning you against any stranger who might come here, on some pretext. One never knows."

"What was David's stone? A polished pebble? I have forgotten." Mrs Crosland dropped the curtains over the view of the church and the dull fog twilight of evening in the gas-lit Square.

"The surgeon says it must have been a heavy stone, well aimed, and such is missing. Mr Clinton, the nephew, her only visitor and not in her confidence, remarked on such a weapon, always on each of his visits on the old lady's table."

"How is that possible?" asked Mrs Crosland.

Mr Teale said that the object was known as the Chinese apple. It was of white jade, dented like the fruit, with a leaf attached, all carved in one and beautifully polished. The old lady was very fond of it, and it was a most suitable weapon.

"But this dreadful companion," said Mrs Crosland, now perversely revolted by the crime, "could not have had time to practise with this— suitable weapon— she had not been with Mrs Inglis long enough."

"Ah," smiled Mr Teale. "We don't know where she was before, Ma'am. She might have had a deal of practice in some lonely place— birds, Ma'am, and rabbits. Watching in the woods, like boys do."

Mrs Crosland did not like this picture of a woman lurking in coverts with a sling. She bade the detective "Good evening" and Lucy showed him to the door.

In the moment that she was alone, Mrs Crosland poured herself another glass of wine. When Lucy returned, she spoke impulsively.

"Oh, Lucy, that is what results when people are driven too far— they kill and escape with the spoils, greedily. I do wish this had not happened. What sort of woman do you suppose this may have been? Harsh, of course, and elderly—"

"Mr Teale, when he came before, said she might be in almost any disguise."

"Almost any disguise," repeated Mrs Crosland, thinking of the many disguises she had herself worn until she had found herself in the lovely blue of Italy, still disguised, but pleasantly enough. She hoped that this mask was not now about to be torn from her; the old house was very oppressive, it had been foolish to return. A relief, of course, that Lucy seemed to have her own plans. But the house was what really mattered: the returning here and finding everything the same, and the memories of that dreadful childhood.

Lucy had suffered also, it seemed. Odd that she did not like Lucy, did not feel any sympathy with her or her schemes.

At last she found her way upstairs and faced the too-familiar bedroom. Her own was at the back of the house; that is, it had been. She must not think like this: her own room was in the charming house of the villa in Fiesole, this place had nothing to do with her at all.

But it had, and the knowledge was like a lead cloak over her. Of course it had. She had returned to meet not Lucy, but her own childhood.

Old Mrs Inglis— how did she fit in?

Probably she had always been there, even when the woman who was now Isabelle Crosland had been a child. Always there, obscure, eccentric, wearing out a succession of companions until one of them brained her with the Chinese apple, the jade fruit, slung from a lady's scarf.

"Oh, dear," murmured Mrs Crosland, "what has that old, that very old woman got to do with me?"

Her cases were by her bedside. She was too tired to examine them. Lucy had been scrupulous in putting out her toilet articles. She began to undress. There was nothing to do but to rest; what was it to her that a murderess was being hunted round Islington— what had Mr Teale said? The stations, the docks… She was half-undressed and had pulled out her wrapper when the front-door bell rang.

Hastily covering herself up, she was out on the landing. At least this was an excuse not to get into the big, formal bed where her parents had died, even if this was only Mr Teale returned. Lucy was already in the hall, speaking to someone. The gas-light in the passage illuminated the girl in the stone-coloured satin and the man on the threshold to whom she spoke.

It was not Mr Teale.

Isabelle Crosland, halfway down the stairs, had a glance of a sharp face, vividly lit. A young man, with his collar turned up and a look of expectation in his brilliant eyes. He said something that Isabelle Crosland could not hear, and then Lucy closed the heavy front door.

Glancing up at her aunt, she said:

"Now we are shut in for the night."

"Who was that?" asked Mrs Crosland, vexed that Lucy had discerned her presence.

"Only a neighbour; only a curiosity-monger."

Lucy's tone was reassuring. She advised her aunt to go to bed.

"Really, it is getting very late. The church is dark again. All the people have gone home."

"Which room have you, Lucy, dear?"

"That which you had, I suppose; the large room at the back of the house."

"Oh, yes— that—"

"Well, do not concern yourself— it has been rather a disagreeable evening, but it is over now."

Lucy, dark and pale, stood in the doorway, hesitant for a second. Mrs Crosland decided, unreasonably, not to kiss her and bade her a quick good-night of a forced cheerfulness.

Alone, she pulled the chain of the gas-ring and was at once in darkness. Only wheels of light across the ceiling showed the passing of a lonely hansom cab.

Perhaps Mr Teale going home.

Mrs Inglis, too, would have gone home by now; the corner house opposite would be empty.

Isabelle Crosland could not bring herself to sleep on the bed after all. Wrapped in travelling rugs, snatched up in the dark, she huddled on the couch. Presently she slept, but with no agreeable dreams. Oppressive fancies lay heavily on her and several times she woke, crying out.

It was with a dismal sense of disappointment that she realized each time that she was not in Florence.

With the dawn she was downstairs. Christmas morning; how ridiculous!

No sign of Lucy, and the cold, dismal house was like a trap, a prison.

Almost crying with vexation, Mrs Crosland was forced to look into the room that once had been her own. The bed had not been slept in. On the white honeycomb coverlet was a package and a note.

This, a single sheet of paper, covered an opened letter. Mrs Crosland stared at this that was signed "Lucy Bayward". It was a childish sort of scrawl, the writer excused herself from reaching London until after the holidays.

The note was in a different hand:

I promised to let you know my plans. I am away down the river with my accomplice. Taking refuge in your empty house I found this note. The whole arrangement was entirely useful to me. I left the Roman pearls for Lucy, as I had those of my late employer, but I took the gold. No one will ever find us. I leave you a Christmas present.

Mrs Crosland's cold fingers undid the package. In the ghastly half-light she saw the Chinese apple.

________________

22: Jean Achard

C. Lart
fl 1903

Ballarat Star (Vic) 1 May 1903

MIST SETTLES on the dark forest-clad hills of Gaspe, whose summit keeps watch over the Atlantic, which breaks in ceaseless motion at their feet.

Settlers are few and far between along the ironbound coast; but few as they are they are sufficient to warrant a Hudson's Bay Post and Store, which supplies them with axe and saw, and a stock of provisions for the logging camp and salmon fisheries; and it was on a visit to the post; which I made my headquarters on a hunting trip, that I met Jean Achard, when belated on evening across the bay.

If one had any doubt as to Jean at first sight, as he appeared at the door of his hut on the forest edge it was dispelled by his smile— or as much of it as appeared under a coat of charcoal black— and if any still lingered, it vanished on entering the little room, at the sight of a little battered straw hat, with a faded blue ribbon, which hung above his bed, in company with two little shoes.

John Kirkman, factor at the post, knew little of him beyond the fact that he had emigrated after the war of 1870, and had drifted from the States to Gaspe, where he, now made a living by making charcoal for the salmon canneries, which he brought every week in his boat, across the bay.

To M'Tavish, the son of a Highland Auld Licht Minister, he was a "Papish"; but he and all others had a good word for Jean Achard. Of his earlier history they knew nothing— but he told it to me one day, as he caught my eye wandering to the pathetic little relics on the rough wall.

"You know France, M'sieu?" he said, when, a chance word of mine had touched a chord in his heart; and, rising quickly from his seat, he went, to the door, and leaned against the doorway in silence. And I waited, for I knew he would tell me his story.

The war fever which passed over France culminated on the disastrous day when war was declared on July 15, 1870, and Jean Achard left St. Vitre with the his servists. Gaily the towns and villages responded to the call, and none more gaily than St. Vitre. A few months at most, and the French eagle would wave over Berlin!

The bells rang merrily on the news of Wissembourg; they rang again for Worth; but after Spicheren they rang no more— and ever as the news came the curé grew graver as he went down the street among his flock— and Marie no longer sang over her work, and little Susanne wondered why her mother's eyes were wet with tears.

The winter of 1870 was a disastrous one for France; not for the army alone, but for those left at home; for while war slew its thousands, famine and disease slew their tens of thousands. The aged and the children went first; and before the snow had melted and the first flowers of spring began to show in sheltered nook little Susanne had joined the great company of innocents which the Good Shepherd gathered together from France that winter.

But Jean knew nothing of that, for Marie, like her namesake of old, kept it hidden in her heart.

The glory had departed— but no one quail— there was still La France.

The Bavarian Infantry had had a bad time of it; every step of the way from Noiseul the way led through woods, and the Franco-Tireurs hung on them, picking off patrols and stragglers, while every now and then the head of the column found its way stopped by a hastily improvised abattis of felled trees, which was not there when the Uhlan scouts reported the road clear.

They were in no mild mood, therefore, when they reached St. Vitre, and found the village held by Franco-Tireurs, and every widow and loop-hole spitting lead. The fighting was fierce while it lasted, and the wretched villagers turned, like starved rats, and barricaded every house.

It was over at last, and next morning the Bavarians went on to join the Red Prince at Chalons; while Azrael with dark wings brooded over the village.

When Paris capitulated, and the wreck of the French army returned to their homes there were many who found no homes to go to, and no one there to welcome them.

Jean Achard was one of the latter, for Marie had joined the child in the little graveyard full of newly-made graves. And that was how I met him in the little hut on Gaspe.

I had gone up to the coast on a trip to the next post, intending on my return to go back with him for some deer shooting to his cabin across the bay. But on the usual day he did not come; the next passed without the boat being seen; and on the morning of the third day John Kirkman and I determined to row across to see what kept him.

It was calm, and the hills lay mirrored in the still water. Against the dark wall of the forest a pale blue wreath of smoke rose from the charcoal heap; but none rose from the chimney of the cabin. We ran the boat up on the beach, and went up to the little patch of garden. The door was open and as we went in Kirkman clutched my arm and pointed to an ominous dark stain on the sill.

He lay on the bed, and the stain was on it close to his side, crushed in his stiff hand, was a battered little child's hat. It was clear what had happened—for not two hundred yards away from the hut we found the carcase of a black bear. He had evidently seen it, and fired at it with his cherished old single barrelled chassepot, and before he could load again it had mangled him so terribly. But he had managed to drag himself back to his bed and to what he loved most, before he passed through the gates of death to those who awaited him on the other side.

We rowed home silently over the still water of the bay; a dull red spark showed where the charcoal heap still burned; and against the dark forest a pale blue wisp of smoke curled and swayed. One tall dark pine, higher than its fellows, pointed a defiant finger to a lone brilliant star, which hung and trembled directly over it in the pale primrose sky.

There was some discussion that evening as to the funeral, which all felt it incumbent on them to make as satisfactory as possible— which ranged up and down the whole gamut of theological opinion, as held by the population of the post. Altogether without irreverence, one bold spirit, whose long residence outside the pale of civilisation had eliminated much of the conventionalities, proposed to settle the question by the aid of a bowie knife and cards.

But John Kirkman, the factor, rummaging in a chest, produced a copy of the English Church Service, and said, "I guess this meets the case, boys"— and even M'Tavish made no objection.

By common consent there was no work done at the post next day, and we rowed over with such of the settlers near who had heard of the event. Under less mournful circumstances, some of the garments which two or three thought it incumbent on them to produce for the occasion would have provoked a smile— as it was they intensified the pathos.

It was a soaking day, and the Atlantic mists hung heavily among the pine tops, and the rain splashed from the eaves of the little hut. We had dug the grave between it and the charcoal heap by the aide of the well-worn path we would walk no more.

"I am the Resurrection and the Life," began John Kirkman; and if there had been any curiosity among some of the listeners as to the manner in which the officiating minister would acquit himself under somewhat novel and trying circumstances, it was instantly stilled, as the words of the service awoke one knows not what memories in the hearers.

"The Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with all evermore. Amen."

The steady drip, drip of the rain was all that was to be heard, and there was no disposition to move or break the strange spell which held up silent. Then someone stirred, and when Andy M'Tavish said at last, "I guess, boys, we better begin, fillin' in," a sense of something forgotten, which had been fitfully struggling in my mind with other thoughts, came back with renewed insistence. But the factor held up his hand, and whispering, "Wait a minute," he sped back to the hut, and coming back with something in his hand, he gently dropped it into the open grave— and, looking down. I saw that one small shoe had nestled close to the dead.

And so Jean Achard sleeps far from St. Vitre, and instead of the church bell, the whispering Canadian forest sings an eternal requiem over his grave.

Within a fortnight after landing in England I stood in the little French village, and laid a cross of Gaspe pine, decked with some dried flowers from the garden, on the grave where he fain would have lain. It was a pouring day, as it had been at Gaspe, and the rain dripped from the eaves and gurgled in the spouts and stood in pools m the narrow stone paved streets. After handing over the scanty effects and possessions he had left to the curé; and telling him the story, I left St. Vitre without regret.

A wet day now is more than ever dreary, for I see a fringe of dark forest, and over at a dreary rainy sky. There is a deserted ruined cabin in a desolate garden on which the wilderness has begun to encroach. An almost obliterated path, thick with briars and creepers, leads to a lonely grave covered with, weeds and undergrowth; but above it, rising through to tangle, and conquering the desolation, is a rough wooden cross, on which a friendly hand has cut the letters J.A., and below, in the centre; between the arms outstretched, I.H.S . Jesu Hominum Salvator.

________________

23: Blind Chance

Fred Merrick White

1859-1935

The Strand Magazine, Sep 1917
Town and Country Journal, Nov 28 1917

Fred Merrick White

This British author was immensely prolific. Project Gutenberg Australia and Roy Glashan's Library collaborated in producing no less than 20 volumes of his short stories, available online free. He also wrote numerous novels.

THERE was no light in the big room except the deep orange glow of the fire on the broad stone hearth, so that the rest was merged in the shadows—shadows velvety black, with suggestions of light here and there such as Rembrandt loved to paint. A fine, big room, radiating comfort and luxury, and refined silence, as if the world were very far away; which, indeed, it was, for the old house nestled on the edge of Whinborough Common, over against the golf-links, the only house within two miles of where it stood.

On either side of the fire were deep arm-chairs, merely suggested in that velvety gloom; in the big bay window a roll-top desk, which was the only modern note in the house. And round about that roll-top desk there played, presently, little violet specks of light in thin, dagger-like flashes, hardly visible in themselves, but quite sufficient for their purpose. There came, too, suddenly, a touch of the keen October air, as if a window had been suddenly opened. And after that a faint creaking sound as if, perchance, the top of the desk had been pushed back very quietly and cautiously, followed by a fat and greasy chink, as if two coins had come in contact one with the other. Then a minute disc of violet light concentrated itself upon a little heap of sovereigns and the crisp outline of a bank-note or two. All this with no more sound than a mouse would have made behind the old oak panelling there at the back of the velvet-black shadows; but it was sufficient for one man there.

He leant forward out of the depths of his big arm-chair where he had been seated, listening and sniffing up the damp pungency of the dew-drenched night, seated there as if he had been part and parcel of the shadows. There was just a tiny click, and the room was flooded with light.

"Come along," the man in the arm-chair said. "Sit there in the chair opposite me." He spoke quietly enough, in a slow, clear-cut voice that had in it a vibration of command and perhaps a certain suggestion of cruelty. The other man, standing by the desk with the electric torch in his hand, wheeled suddenly round and stood there with parted lips and terror in those watery brown eyes of his.

"Roger Broadley!" he gasped.

The words were faint enough, but they carried to the ears of the man sitting in the big arm-chair. He made no sign, the suggestion of a smile was still upon his lips, and those merciless flint-blue eyes of his were turned steadily upon the man with the torch in his hand. The smile was so fixed and the blue eyes so steadfast that the intruder was puzzled to know whether his startled expression had been heard or not. His first impulse was flight by the open window at the back of the desk, or, alternately, through the open door. But the craven fear that had paralyzed the man called Canton all his life held him now, and he cursed himself silently for his want of purpose. He was afraid to turn and fly, afraid of the bullet that might follow him, or the strong, nervous hand that might pluck him back. Very slowly and reluctantly he crossed the room and dropped unsteadily into the chair on the other side of the fireplace. He was still puzzled and dazed, and almost madly anxious to know if the other had recognized him. And there were urgent reasons why he should not be recognized

But he could see no gleam of remembrance in the concentrated lightning of those flint-blue eyes. And with that Canton began to pull himself together again. With any luck he might be able to bluff himself out of it yet.

"Fairly got me, haven't you?" he hazarded, with a certain uneasy assumption of ease. "Know me, perhaps?"

He spoke with just the suggestion of a lisp, a slight defect due toa missing front tooth. The big man in the opposite arm-chair smiled—smiled in a horribly capable, assured manner that brought the sweat out on Canton's face again. For the other man was so big and strong, so capable and certain of his ground. And those blue eyes burnt and seared like so many live wires in the heart of the craven opposite.

"We won't discuss that for the moment," Broadley said. "And we need not waste time in guessing the reason that brought you here. That torch of yours and the open desk yonder with the gold and notes lying there would be proof, I think, satisfactory to any magistrate of ordinary intelligence. Now, this is the first time I have ever had the pleasure of meeting a gentleman of your profession. Have you been brought up to it, or was it, so to speak, forced upon you?"

Canton almost smiled. Obviously this man, whom he had every cause to fear, had not recognized him. Indeed, why should he? Canton argued, for they had never met face to face, though Canton knew Broadley well enough by reputation. The mean little face, with its narrow, shifty eyes and unsteady lips, grew more resolute, and hope began to bud again.

"Well?" Broadley said. "Well? Of course, you needn't talk unless you like. I suppose you know I am alone in the house. My man is away with the car, at Oxbridge Station, waiting for a friend of mine. So, you see, we are quite alone, and merely man to man. There is nothing to detain you. You can go, if you like. Why don't you?"

Canton snarled bitterly.

"Oh, yes, I know all about that," he said. "You are a bigger man than I am, and you wouldn't talk like that if you weren't armed. Directly I turn my back upon you, I shall get one through the shoulder. You can't fool me!"

"I am not trying," Broadley said, quietly. "I am stating a self-evident fact, if you only knew it. You have me at a great disadvantage."

Canton snarled again; he would have liked to have risen up and struck this sneering antagonist of his between those merciless blue eyes. He would have liked to disfigure that clean-shaven, humorous face, with its faint suggestion of cruelty about the corners of the lips. But he was afraid, and he cursed himself for his fear. He knew himself to be a sneak and a coward, as he had been all his life. He sat there sullenly till Broadley spoke again.

"Very well, then," the latter said. "I have given you every opportunity. I have told you you could go if you like, and that you had me at a great disadvantage. But you are the class of criminal who never knows when he hears the truth; in fact, doesn't understand when he does hear it. You think you are my prisoner. Well, we'll let it go at that. I am quite alone in the house, and feel in the mood for company. Now tell me something about your past life. From your accent, I should judge that at one time you were what is called a gentleman?"

The little spurt of hope burnt more clearly in Canton's breast. He was still in deadly fear of the man opposite, afraid of his strength and his coolness; but it might be possible that a plausible tale, well told, would pave the path to freedom. And George Canton was quite good at that sort cf thing. It was just the sneaking line of policy that his soul loved.

"You are quite right there," he said, "I was a gentleman at one time. Public school and university; though, if you don't mind, I won't say which."

"Oh, I don't mind in the least," Broadley smiled. "It would probably be a lie, in any case. Go on."

"You may not believe it," Canton said, "but I was brought up for the Church. And at one time I was honestly under the impression that I should make a success of it. But somehow it didn't seem to work, and when I found myself in London at the age of twenty-three with a fair income and quite good prospects, I drifted gradually into evil ways, until nearly everything was gone and I had lost most of my friends."

"And then you married?" Broadley suggested.

"Then— then you know?" Canton gasped.

"My good man, surely that was a reasonable guess. Men of your type always marry. For some occult reason, known only to Providence, the average waster seems always in a position to command the love and affection of some good woman. I have seen it over and over again. And she clings to him till the end, where she would tire of a man worthy of the name. Of course you married. And of course, you broke the heart of the woman who gave herself to you— though you going to deny it."

"I didn't," Canton retorted. "I tell you I made a mistake; perhaps we both did, for the matter of that. I had lost nearly all my money, as I told you, and all my friends, and I was beginning to get tired of the life I was leading. It seemed to me that if I could meet the right woman there was a chance for me yet, because I was still young and I had not done badly, at school and Cambridge. And I did meet her; at least, I thought so. To begin with, she knew a good deal about my past, and was quite prepared to overlook it. And, mind you, I had still a few hundreds left. My idea was to go into business and settle down and become a respectable member of society. And I believe I should have done so if my wife had helped me."

"And she didn't?" Broadley asked, mockingly.

"Not after the first few months," Canton went on. "Perhaps it wasn't altogether her own fault. I was too easy with her, too fond of her, and allowed her to have her own way too much. She hadn't the least notion of the value of money, and everything she wanted she just got. We were living in a flat in Bloomsbury, where my family had had a lot of property at one time, so that my credit was good, and my wife could get all she needed. It was the old story: a foolish man over head and ears in love with a silly woman, vain and frivolous, who had only one object in life, and that was to enjoy herself. You can imagine how I suffered with the little money I had going out every day and nothing coming in, because my business efforts were a failure. You see, I wasn't made for business, I wasn't trained for it; and though I tried hard enough, God knows, I lost one situation after another."

Canton paused and sighed eloquently, the my sigh of a man who has told his tale before and found it good. He reflected that perhaps he might touch the heart of the man opposite to a pitch of something more than freedom. And, above all, he had the feeling that Broadley had not recognized him.

"Go on," Broadley said. "I am always interested in the human document, especially when it has frayed edges."

"Well, the time came at last," Canton proceeded, "when things reached a crisis. I had no money left, and when my pretty doll of a wife discovered that, she threatened to leave me. Just at that time I was in the office of a big firm of jewellers. It was not that I was getting much, but my employer trusted me. More than once he had sent me to a great house in the West-end with gems to deliver on approval. That night I came home with a pearl necklace in my pocket. It should have been delivered that evening at the house of one of our great millionaires, but her ladyship was out of town, or gone to some big function, so I took the case home with me. Would to Heaven I had done nothing of the kind! Would that I had said nothing to my wife about it, for she stole that necklace when I was asleep, and tried to sell it. Of course, she was found out; of course, she was discovered and prosecuted for the theft. I was arrested too, and the people who prosecuted me tried to make out that she was a tool in the matter, and that I had merely used my wife as a shield to hide my own crime."

"And the jury believed it?" Broadley asked, dryly.

"They did, sir; they did," Canton whined.

"They said that my wife was absolutely innocent, and that when I sent her with those pearls in her pocket to sell them to a notorious receiver of stolen goods for five hundred pounds I did so because I was too much of a coward to take them myself. I remember that the judge was particularly hard on me."

"I can imagine it," Broadley smiled. "I can imagine him saying that you were a particularly poisonous type of humanity, and a scoundrel of the worst kind who never hesitates to shield himself behind an innocent and injured woman."

"But you don't believe it, sir?" Canton asked, with some anxiety. "You have heard of hard-working men who have been ruined by their wives?"

"Many a time," Broadley said. "And so, you are one of that class, are you? Evidently a sad case. But I interrupt you. What was the upshot of the tragedy?"

"I got five years," Canton said. "And they acquitted my wife, the judge saying that he was convinced that she was absolutely innocent. You see, being a pretty woman with friends, she could call all sorts of evidence in her favour, and she did. Why, when the jury acquitted her, there was actually applause in court. Not that I minded; I still loved her far too well to want to see her suffer."

Just for a moment the two steel-blue eyes turned fully on Canton's face blazed, and the strong, capable hands on the elbows of the arm-chair clenched till the knuckles stood out like ivory. Then the humorous mouth smiled again.

"Your sentiments do you credit," Broadley said. "I quite understand, the strong man suffering in silence for the sake of a shallow and frivolous woman. My good sir, the thing has been done in scores of novels and plays, and will go on appealing to the gallery as long as there is a cinema palace left. So you went to jail, and the woman escaped scot-free. And what happened afterwards ? Did you seek her out, did you find her in rags and poverty, and take her back to your broad, manly bosom and wipe her tears away?"

Canton winced, hut wisely ignored the sarcasm. He was fighting for his liberty now, and therefore declined to be ruffled hy such a little thing as that.

"I did find her, sir." he said. "And she did come back to me for a short time. But I had to leave her; I had to leave her because she was past all endurance. I gave her every penny that I had, and we parted for ever."

"I wonder," Broadley said, softly, "I wonder if, on the face of God's earth, there is a slimier scoundrel than yourself? You did nothing of the kind, Canton."

"Then— then you recognize me!" the other gasped.

"Oh, I recognized you right enough. I knew who you were directly I turned the light on and you uttered my name under your breath. We have never met face to face, but you have seen me and you knew who I was at once. If you had known that this bungalow belonged to me, I hardly think that you would be sitting here to-night. I heard you speak only once when I was in the next room to you on an occasion that you might remember, and that little lisp of yours betrayed you— and the way in which you whispered my name. And, George Canton, you can take it from me that I never forget. When Nature deprives a man of one sense, she generally makes up for it by strengthening another. You rascal, how dare you lie to me!"

Canton put up hands as if to ward off a blow. He knew that all his efforts were in vain, he know that he could expect no mercy at the hands of this man. He looked around wildly for some avenue of escape, anywhere to get away from those blazing eyes and that hard face that now was as cruel as the grave. But he could see no sign of an opening anywhere.

"Now, let me tell you the story, Broadley said, coldly and incisively in words that seemed to drop like little bits of ice along Canton's spine. "Let us collaborate. You see, I am rather practised at that game. I think I can add a touch or two of realism to that glib narrative of yours."

"Just as you like, sir," Canton said fawningly.

"Then, in that case, let us begin at the beginning. It is twelve years ago— twelve years ago to-night, strangely enough— that I became engaged to be married. You know what Agnes Westley was like, so I will not waste time in painting her portrait for you. She was as good as she was beautiful, in every way a perfect woman, and she loved me. My prospects were then perfect, there was no cloud on the horizon anywhere. Really you had better go before I murder you."

Canton looked hopelessly into the heart of the fire and then round the big room, with its bookshelves and pictures and the glint of china in the cabinets, and his jaw worked convulsively. He burst out suddenly:—

"You are torturing me, you devil!" he said. "You know I cannot get away, you know I am in your power!"

"Very well, then," Broadley said, more evenly. "You have had your chance, and when you realise what you have lost and how you lost it—but never mind that. Let me go on. Where was I? Yes, I was talking of Agnes Westley. I didn't know then that she knew you. I didn't know that you were planning and contriving to come between us until it was too late and I had lost her, owing to those lies of yours and those forgeries that she believed. And for two years I did not know where she was, until wrote to me for money. She would not have done so but that you forced her, and it was only then that I learnt the story. When I called to see her in London I found her in miserable lodgings, for your money was all gone, and you were in desperate straits to find food for your wife and yourself. You were in bed at the time, you remember, and l heard you speak. I heard those rasping tones of yours with that unmistakable lisp, which I have never forgotten, and which, somehow, I knew I should hear again. And even then, low as you had fallen, and badly as you had behaved, Agnes was doing her best to he a good wife to you. I helped her, as you know, but she would only take sufficient for her bare needs, and I left her, promising to see her again. The next day she was arrested in an attempt to get rid of those pearls which you had stolen. You told me a lie just now when you said you were a trusted servant. You stole those jewels, and, like the coward and cur that you are, you did not dare to take them to your employer who had commissioned you to steal them. You knew that the police were watching you; you deceived your wife, and she fell into the hands of the police. And your defence was that you were a poor and struggling man who had been ruined hy an extravagant wife, who took advantage of your love for her to spend all you had. You contemptible scoundrel, you vile and filthy dog! Never was there a man who had a more loyal helpmate, though she had discovered the trick you had played upon her long before. But you were not ashamed to stand up in the dock by her side and tell the judge much what you were telling me just now hefore you realized that I had recognised you, and when you were hoping to play upon my clemency. But the evidence of the police was too strong for you, and the unhappy woman who stood in the dock with you was acquitted. The police behaved very fairly so far as she was concerned, and she left the court without a stain on her character. Everybody believed that she was innocent and that she did not know what she was doing when she attempted to get rid of those pearls. And so you got your deserts, and she was free. And, knowing this, you come here to rob me and still further vilify the woman who behaved so loyally to you. In the face of all this you expect me to let you go. But not quite like that, Mr. Canton. I am working out a little revenge of my own, and when you realize how I am bringing it about, then I think I shall be satisfied. Now, have you anything more to say?"

Once more Canton looked round the room, once more he weighed up the chances of a struggle with the man who sat opposite him in the big arm-chair. But it was all useless, all so futile that he resigned himself in a sullen despair. What was the use of speaking, what was to be gained by an appeal to that grim-faced man with the merciless blue eyes who sat in the big chair opposite?

"You say nothing," Broadley went on. "And so I had better finish my story. From time to time I helped Agnes, until you were free, and then I persuaded her to accept a certain sum of money at my hands and go abroad. You came back just about that time and robbed her of every penny she had. You robbed her and left her to starve. And she would have starved but for me; though, mind you, I did not find out this till long afterwards, when she was dying of fever— dying alone and friendless in a little cottage in the country. It is nothing to you that I contracted that fever, and that, in one way, I have never been the same man since."

Canton listened miserably enough, still with a desperate hope that something might happen in his favour, until presently he could hear the sound of wheels in the distance, and a car pulled up in front of the bungalow. Then there were voices in the hall, and a moment or two later the door of the library opened and a man in the uniform of a chauffeur came in.

"Ah, here you are, Rufford," Broadley cried. "Did I hear Mr. Stern's voice?"

"Yes, sir," the man called Rufford said. "He has gone up to his bedroom to wash his hands. I told him as I was looking after you, and that supper would be ready in the dining-room directly he came down. But I beg your pardon, sir."

"Oh, don't go away," Broadley went on.

"You are not intruding, Rufford. In fact, if you are quite ready, I want you to look after this visitor of mine. He is quite an involuntary guest, a kind of Autolycus— that is, Rufford, what you call a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. In other words, a burglar, who found his way in through the window under the mistaken impression that the house was empty. We have been having quite an interesting chat, Rufford, and I find that the gentleman is an old acquaintance of mine."

"That's very clever of you, sir," Rufford said. "You have had a narrow escape, I think."

Canton listened dully. It struck him that Rufford's words concealed a certain cruel irony.

"Well, perhaps I have, Rufford," Broadley said. "But, then, appearances are deceptive, and our friend here, fortunately, does not know as much as you and I. You had better take this fellow and tie him up and lock him in the larder. I believe there are iron bars to the window. Then you can telephone for the police, and keep an eye on the fellow till they come. And if he slips through your fingers, Rufiord, I shall be exceedingly annoyed. I am not a vindictive man, as you know, but I have peculiar reasons so far as this scamp is concerned."

"I think you can rely upon me, sir," Rufford said.

"I think I can. Is that Mr. Stern calling? All right, Walter, I am coming. Go into the dining-room and wait for me, and we'll have some supper. I think that's all, Rufford."

"Very good, sir," Rufford replied.

Broadley rose quietly from his chair and crossed the room slowly and deliberately, touching the back of a chair here and there until he felt his way out into the hall. It was all done so quietly and withal so cautiously that Canton for the moment hardly understood. Then understanding came to him as he turned with a sudden savage energy to the imperturbable Rufford.

"What— what's the matter with him?" he asked.

"Didn't you know?" Rufford replied. "He has been like that ever since an attack of scarlet fever years ago. My master is stone-blind."

______________

24: Another Johnnie

John Strange Winter

1856-1911

Henrietta Eliza Vaughan Stannard, 1856–1911

Maldon News (Vic)  9 Feb 1917

Henrietta Eliza Vaughan Stannard

"I SHALL never marry," said a man's voice from the depths of a huge lounge chair. "People are fond of telling me I shall change my mind, because I've got a title and a fair amount of money. My sisters talk about my duty to my family and the iniquity of letting everything go to a second cousin once removed. No, it doesn't go in the female line, that goes without saying. My mother don't care a toss whether the title stops in the direct line or not but she says after a bit I  shall feel lonely. I may, but I shan't take after her if I do, that's all; and all my friends say that one of these days I shall be caught, and that when I am I shall have it badly. That shows all they know."

"It's what people always tell one," said Graves, puffing meditatively at his pipe and thinking the while of a certain little face at home in pleasant England. "All the same, Kiddersleigh, on the outside face of things you are as likely a man to predict marriage for as any man I know. What makes you say you'll never marry?"

"Because I know. It makes me laugh: when my people wisely tell me I shall have it one of these days, and have it badly, I've had it, old chap, as badly as I could have it to live, and I'm inoculated for all time."

"So that's it, is it?" murmured Graves, sympathetically.

"Yes, that's it. The only girl I ever loved," Lord Kiddersleigh went on, not looking at Graves, but staring hard up at the ceiling high above their heads— "loved another Johnnie. Now, I take it, when a Johnnie loves a girl that loves another Johnnie, there's nothing to be done but I clear out; so I cleared out of the Old Black Horse into this regiment for no other reason than that it would bring me out ! here, and at least keep me from seeing the other Johnnie having it all his own way."

"Is she married yet?"

"I suppose so. I really don't know, for I never hear a word about her. My people know her, oh, yes; but they've never mentioned her in their letters, as  they don't know I take any interest in her— they think I haven't had it," he added, with a burst of ribald laughter that all the same had a ring of wretchedness in it. "I never see any of those women's papers that give accounts of weddings in 'em, with portraits of the victims, so you see, I ain't in the way of actually knowing."

"Do you know the other man?" asked Graves.

"No. I haven't the least idea who he is and I didn't feel like making any particular inquiries on the subject. But that's why I never moon about after the women, old chap; I'm off all that kind of thing."

"I never suspected it," said Graves. "I've often wondered why you kept yourself to yourself as you do, but, by Jove, I never guessed at the reason."

"I dare say not. It ain't the kind of thing a Johnnie cares to talk about to everybody. I wouldn't have told you, old fellow, if you hadn't happened to chum up with me as you have done, and nursed me through that last go of fever."

"Oh, that was nothing at all," Graves thrust in hurriedly.

"Nothing— nothing at all, from your point of view," declared Kiddersleigh in his mildest tones. "From mine, though, it's the sort of thing one don't forget, and, by Jove, if ever you go home, just you go and tell my mother, and you'll find out whether she calls it nothing any more than I do."

"Oh, I say, Stop that," said Graves, shuffling uneasily in his long chair.

For a few minutes neither of them spoke. Then Kiddersleigh went on.

"I don't know that I'd mind India if it wasn't for the beastly climate," he said in the querulous tones of a semi-convalescent. "It's all right if it happens to suit you. Look at you, for instance, you're as sound as a bell, and as healthy as a  roach; but it don't seem to suit me, somehow, and three goes of fever take it out of me horribly."

"There's nothing for it but getting away to the hills," said Graves. "You won't pull up as long as you stop down here. Fermoy as good as said so yesterday."

"I'll go if you'll go with me," said Kiddersleigh.

"I don't see how I can. I've no 'chance of getting more leave just yet," Graves replied, "and besides it costs a lot.'

"As to cost," said Kiddersleigh, "you'll go as my guest if you go at all. And, as for leave, I can't go alone. I'll try to work it."

In India it is not difficult to work things; it mainly depends on who pulls the wires. Kiddersleigh was young, rich, powerful, and in very shaky health, and he absolutely declined to take a day's leave unless Graves, could go with him.

"He worked for me all the times I've been laid up with this beastly fever just as if he'd been my bearer," he said bluntly to the colonel and the senior surgeon in charge of his case, "and he deserves a spell of leave if ever a Johnnie did in this world. You can work it, sir, if you will."

Eventually it was worked, and the two friends went off to Simla together. And with every day the invalid shook off the ill effects of life in the plains more and more until a healthier-looking young man could not have been found in all the length and breadth of India. Then leave came to an end, and they went bank to the regiment, where, in less than a month, Kiddersleigh was down with fever again.

This was the worst attack of any, and long before he was free of it took upon himself to write to Lady Kiddersleigh his exact impressions of her son s state of health.

"I know," he said, "that it is Kiddersleigh's wish to stay in India for the present, and to make as light of his frequent attacks of illness as possible. But the doctors are very anxious, and no man can go on having one attack of fever after another without gating the constitution thoroughly undermined. I hope you won't give me away to him, but I feel you ought to know."

He felt easier when the letter was fairly gone, and after that Kiddersleigh took a turn for the worse, and there was some serious talk of sending him home by the very first ship.

Kiddersleigh, however, refused to listen.

"No, no," he said obstinately, "I came out to see some sport, and I've had none. This beastly fever must wear itself out in time, and I'm nor going to be beaten by it. I never failed a thing in my life till I came to India, and if a Johnnie gave in at the beginning he'd never he able to call his soul his own again as long as he lived. Give me stronger doses of quinine, doctor; you medicoes are so afraid of your own nostrums."

The doctor shook his head and left them.

"Graves," he said, a little later in the day, "that young fellow will croak one of these days, if we don't look out. Can't you persuade him into listening to reason?"

"You mean he ought to go home?"

"I do. Can you do nothing?"

"I'll try," said Graves. .

And Graves did try. Ho opened the conversation by speaking of Kiddersleigh's home-going as a certainty, at which the invalid caught instantly.

"I ain't going home," said he.

"Look here old chap," said Graves, "don't you think you're paying that girl too high a compliment altogether. No woman in the world is worth a man's life, and that's what you're giving in this case."

"Do they say I shall die?"

"Yes, if you stop here."

For the life of him Graves could not keep his voice steady, and afterwards he admitted that he had never felt so helpless or so lonely in his life as he did at this time.

" Well, then, I'd just as soon," said the invalid, tenacious of his one idea.

"She isn't worth it," growled Graves.

"Yes, she is, though that ain't the question," Kiddersleigh replied. "Eh, what, old chap, what are you looking so solemn about? Life's no such desirable pleasure that one need mind its coming to an end, especially if the main things don't go right. If I croak out here I shan't feel or know or worry any more about it. If I go home and get well I shall do all three."

Graves jumped up and went out of the room. For the life of him he could not have spoken at that moment. He went out on to the veranda and winked the scalding tears back from his eyes and swore a little under his breath, and then he took resolve. It was that he would write again to Lady Kiddersleigh. And so that same evening he did, laying bare his whole idea to her and begging her to use her best efforts to persuade her son to go home.

"I'm breaking a sacred confidence,'' he wrote in conclusion, "but I am sure it is the only thing to do, the only way in which I can serve him. Dear Lady Kiddersleigh, the bottom of it all is some girl— I don't know her name, but he told me she was in love with another man, and he came out here to be out of the way. He never told me her name, but last night, when he was thoroughly off his head— which he is most nights— he kept calling out for 'Tita— Tita.' From what he told me, she must be married by this time, but I think if you were to send out the papers with the accounts of it, he would feel that it was all really over, and resign himself to the inevitable." .

He felt happier when this letter was gone, and on its way to England, although the time of waiting for a reply would, he knew, seem interminable.

Kiddersleigh did not die. One day he would be a bit better, the next day a little worse, following the usual course of all such maladies. On tho whole, however, this. end of three weeks, found him in a less satisfactory condition than 'he had been in any time since he had arrived m India.

It was exactly three weeks after Graves had penned his second epistle to Lady Kiddersleigh that he received a telegram from home.

"Coming out at once,—Julia Kiddersleigh," it said, and Graves shoved it into his pocket with a long breath of intense relief, knowing that, whether his friend lived or died, he had done the right thing, and could never be reproached with having unduly kept his people in the dark.

He calculated. that Lady Kiddersleigh would just catch the P. and O. boat, at Marseilles, and that she would arrive at Bombay about the 18th of the month. He made every arrangement for someone to receive her there with proper attention and start her off on her journey up country. And sure enough on the evening of the 18th he received a telegram announcing her arrival, and adding that she was continuing her journey without delay.

His own telegram, to await the arrival of the boat had said: "Kiddersleigh very ill, weaker, but not in immediate danger." All the same, he continually found-himself watching his charge with his heart in his mouth, and he counted the hours until his mother should arrive.

At last he went to meet the train which would bring her, and stood there scanning the different carriages with eager eyes. Yes, there she was, a tall, slight woman, nay, very young-looking to be the mother of a big fellow like Kiddersleigh, and with her was a very smart-looking maid and a courier.

Graves went forward. Lady Kiddersleigh knew him by instinct and came forward too.

"You are Mr. Graves?" she said. "I can never, never thank you enough. How is he?"

"Very ill, but not worse than the last few days," he replied. "I'm so glad you've come, Lady Kiddersleigh. You'll do him more good than anyone."

Lady Kiddersleigh smiled. "I don't know about that," she said. "I fancy my niece here will do more than any of us. Mr. Graves, this is the Tita about whom you wrote to me, otherwise Miss Vallence."

Miss Vallence blushed a fine scarlet colour as she returned Graves's bow.

"You have come none too soon," he said gravely. "Shall I take you to the carriage now, Lady Kiddersleigh?"

She put her hand upon his arm instantly. "I've had a journey and a half, Mr. Graves," she whispered rapidly. "There's been no mistake— she adores Kiddersleigh, always has done. She has almost broken her heart, and— Oh, yes,"— with a quick change of tone, "it will be nice to be settled down for a few days. It's a horrid journey."

They only uttered commonplaces as they drove towards the bungalow which Kiddersleigh and Graves shared.

"I'd better go and prepare him," said Graves as he helped them to alight.

He found Kiddersleigh lying in his long chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. He was not smoking, for he was too ill to care for his pipe any longer. Graves' heart smote him as he noted the sharp outlines of temple and wrist.

" Old chap," he said, in a voice that, try as he would, he could not make an ordinary one, "don't be startled. Your mother's come to see you."

"My mother! Did you send for her? Am I—"

"Old chap," said Graves, "I didn't want you to croak without making an effort to straighten things out a bit. She's come, too. There's been a big mistake somewhere."

But the girl Tita waited no longer; them was a rush of light feet, a sob and choking kind of laugh, and she was down on her knees by the long chair.

" Keddie! Keddie!" she cried. "I've almost broken my heart!"

"But the other Johnnie?" he asked.

"There wasn't another Johnnie," she cried, the tears running down her facee and almost drowning the smiles in her eyes. "I don't know what you mean, Keddie. There was never anyone but you."

"Tita— my Tita!" he murmured; and then he quietly fainted away. Then when they had brought him round adain, he said, with a weak chuckle: "Don't let Tita go. I want my revenge on the other Johnnie."

____________

25: We'll Never be Rich!

Stephen Vincent Benét

1898-1943

Redbook July 1935

Steven Vincent Benét

NED COLTON, lacing up a tennis shoe, looked at his wife as she moved about the big luxurious room, and thought that it was ridiculous that they had a child of seven. She looked much too young for that, even now when she was tired. It was all right for him, because he was nearly thirty; and when you were thirty you could quite decently have a child of seven. But he was four years older than Nancy— they'd been married when she was eighteen.

"Babes in the woods," he thought. "Well, they all said so. They all said we were crazy. And they must have done a lot of head-shaking, since.

Even when I was the best left half-back in the bond business, and we were going to retire at thirty-five. But the swell thing was, they couldn't do a thing about it. Not a thing! Only, I wonder if I'd have the guts, now.... Yes, I would."

He repeated, "Yes, I would," once more in his mind, to reassure himself. But even as he did so, he knew it didn't sound right; it sounded defiant.

Well, that was all right too. He needed some rest, that was all. They told you at school, long ago, that life was like playing a game;.but it wasn't like playing a game. If you got too groggy, in a game, the coach or the trainer noticed it finally and sent in a substitute whether you liked it or not. But you couldn't send in a substitute for yourself, unfortunately. Not even if you were out on your feet. It was like the last half of that last Army game, when the steam was out of your legs and the whole team came slowly out of the huddle.

When all you could do was watch for the passes and pray to bat them down.

All the same, they'd be all right, with a little rest— they'd click again. And Patsy would be all right too, in the Bronx apartment— it had a crossdraft, and she was sensible, for seven. They could have brought her; but then Nancy wouldn't have had any rest— and Nancy had been so tired, she'd gone to sleep in the car. Mrs. Simpson was very sensible and careful, and nothing ever happened to little girls in New York. They never fell out of windows or under trucks— it only happened in the newspapers, or when you were too tired. And it was only three days— three days with your old friend Tom Amherst, at Bright Acres— and they'd telephone Mrs. Simpson every day. How long was it since he and Nancy had ridden in a car like Tom Amherst's— a car with one of those snooty baritone horns? Four years, he guessed, at least.

He stood up, regarding his flannels.

"Thank God," he said, "they still fit! And you can't even see the moth-hole. You did a grand job, beautiful."

"Mrs. Colton's magic cleanser is the toast of the town," said the young woman, blithely. "—Oh, pooch, have you seen the bathroom? I'd forgotten there were bathrooms like that. Three kinds of bath-salts, and I'm going to wallow in all of them. And throw towels all over the floor for somebody else to pick up."

"You'll be awfully clean," he said, smiling.

"I mean to be. I want to have my hands smell nice again. They've been smelling of hats and dishwater and the subway. You must have noticed, Mr. Colton, and been repelled. And tomorrow, I'll have breakfast in bed— breakfast in bed! And not be saying to anyone, ‘The little French model suits moddom's face like a trivet.' Oh, isn't it grand to be here!"

"It's pretty swell," he said, holding her lightly.

"It's life-saving. Bless old Tom and his millions! Well, go get your filthy exercise." Her eyes flickered for a moment. "I left Mrs. Simpson the menus," she said. "She'll be sure to stick to them, won't she? You remember that awful Barnard girl who gave Patsy the salami?"

"Oh, Simpson's the Rock of Gibraltar," he said, patting her shoulder. "You know that, beautiful. And you know what we promised each other: This is going to be a complete rest."

"Oh, I know," she said, with a long breath. "It's just that I'm tired. You don't notice it till you get out in the country. Except I never think of Bright Acres as being country. You feel as if even the birds were called Parker and Strudwick, and never spoke unless you spoke to them first. And I love it. I hope we have the gold plates at dinner— the ones Tom calls Amherst's Folly. I hope his Aunt Ettie comes to dinner in her diamonds."

"Go take your bath," he said, kissing her. "You're delirious."

"I am. And it's heavenly. And we've got three whole days of it." She disappeared into the bathroom. "Did you know people still had towels the size of tents?" she called.

Ned Colton took another slow look at the room before going downstairs. It was, he calculated, as large as most of their apartment. It would be fun to take all the rooms in the apartment, including the rusty-tiled bathroom and the dingy kitchenette, and pile them into this one, as furniture is piled for moving. And then set a match to the whole thing! Yes, that would be fun. He breathed deeply. He never used to have thoughts like that about rooms. But the last years had been— the last years.

All the same, Nancy was right. It was fun, being out at Bright Acres again. Not Tom's fault either, really, that it hadn't happened before— just his own damnfool pride, he supposed. It didn't matter, in college, whether you were Thomas Amherst IV of Bright Acres, or Ned Colton of Dallsburg, as long as you were both in the Leaf Club. And it didn't matter afterward, in the queer days when pigs had wings, and Ned Colton was going to retire, with a million, at thirty-five. But when you were out of a job, and your wife was selling hats at Delphine's, it was different. You had to have engagements then, when Tom Amherst phoned. Because it would be so easy to say— so fatally easy: "Old man, I'm rather in a hole—''

When you were bust, you could borrow from the busted, but not from the rich— not even if they'd been your friends. That was, somehow, a rule. Or you got to be like Chuck Ferrill, and people gave you five dollars so you'd go away.

He didn't blame Tom for not finding out more about it, when the pinch had been worst. That was another thing about people who'd always had money: If you were a friend of theirs, they couldn't imagine your not having it too. Oh, they'd give you all sorts of credit you didn't really deserve for economizing, and living in a walk-up apartment, and having a baby when you wanted a baby. But they couldn't imagine your pawning your overcoat because you needed the cash, not for a joke or a story. And then, if they were decent, like Tom Amherst, they didn't want to offend your pride. You talked vaguely about the new business, and they were satisfied. He remembered, a year ago, when they'd met Tom downtown and taken him to the movies, though it meant queer food for the next week. But that was all right— you'd rather have it that way.

WALKING down the carpeted staircase in the smooth peace of Bright Acres, Ned breathed deeply. Everything was going to be all right now. There was a new business; and they were here for three days' rest. They'd started on a shoestring, he and Louis Stein, but they were making it. By the first of next year Nancy could give up her job. He'd met Louis in Van Cortlandt Park, on a bleak day, a small cheerful voluble man with a torn sweater instead of an overcoat. Louis had six ideas in a minute, and only one in a thousand was good. But together they were Colton and Stein; and next year, maybe, they'd buy up that bankrupt small factory in Connecticut. Then there'd be the mortgage on that, but they'd be started. He wondered, looking around him as he strolled out on the terrace, what Louis would make of Bright Acres. You could never tell about Louis— he might be impressed, or not.

Tom Amherst came out— tall, dark, handsome, tennis rackets under his arm. "He knows just who he is now— he wasn't quite sure at college," thought Ned Colton suddenly, and wondered at the thought. But there was an air of easy fastidious power about the tall figure— power that mocked itself, and yet knew the mockery could do no damage.

"All set?" said Tom Amherst cheerfully. "Where's Nancy?" "She's taking a bath— or a series of baths," said Ned Colton. "She likes your gilded halls. They're full of hot water."

"I should have put you on the other side of the house," said Tom Amherst. "Aunt Ettie had a sunken bathtub with mirrors around it. It looks," he said solemnly, "like something out of the Fall of Rome. I used to sail boats in it."

"She'll be down for tea," said Ned Colton. "Nancy, I mean."

"Tea?" said Tom Amherst with a formidable scowl.

"If there isn't, we'll leave," said Ned Colton firmly. "We thought this was the Splendide. The Cook's man said so."

"I am ver' much afraid," said Tom Amherst formally, "that Monsieur 'as made a mistake. We do not serve tea at the hotel of the Universe and Switzerland. Jus' the leetle cocktail Americain, and"— his lean face crinkled alarmingly into a leer— "some dirty postcards for the ladies."

"Oh, you darn' fool!" said Ned Colton. "I'm glad to see you!" They walked together down to the court, where Tom Amherst seemed mildly surprised to find two youngsters in white flannels rallying. "Sorry to interrupt your game," he called from a distance, "but this is a private court."

One of the youngsters, Ned Colton noticed with a grin, stopped rallying automatically and looked embarrassed. The other merely said: "Shut up, Tom! You know you asked us over."

"My fourth cousin, George Kincaid," said Tom Amherst. "Hence the family rudeness. And Mr. Hollister— Spike Hollister, one of our better-known members of the Leaf. Hockey, I think," he added thoughtfully, in a loud clear voice, and once again young Hollister looked embarrassed. "All right, Colton, shall we take them on?"

The doubles were hard and swift; but Ned Colton noticed, with envy, that Tom Amherst hardly sweated. He himself was out of condition— he hadn't realized how much. But his timing came back to him in the middle of the second set, and he was glad of that. He knew, from experience, that Tom Amherst hated to lose, though he never said anything about it.

Then they went back to the terrace for drinks, and Nancy was there. Already she looked less tired. Ned Colton was glad of the drink— the tennis had taken it out of him more than he thought.

Cars drove up constantly, and more people drifted out on the terrace, as they always did at Bright Acres, on Saturday afternoons. There were some that Ned Colton had known in the old incredible days, and some that he had not known. But they were all the same kind of people— the men with good muscles and well-kept bodies, the women looking younger than their years. They talked a patter; the catchwords had changed from the catchwords Ned Colton knew, but in a little while he would pick it up again. He found himself telling an amusing story about Louis Stein to a sunburnt girl with red lips, and saw, across the terrace, Nancy in the center of a group. She was Nancy-at-a-party again. He hadn't seen Nancy-at-a-party for quite a while.

Their eyes met, and he smiled the one-cornered smile that meant:

"Hello, beautiful. It's a crowd, but you're the best." They'd done that so often, at so many parties.

The sunburnt girl was saying it was ages since she'd seen them, and how was the darling baby. He said the darling baby was seven years old, and she screamed politely and said she was awful about children, and it must have been ages. So don't tell her he'd turned into a Brain-Truster or something, because she couldn't bear it. There was something very funny about being a Brain-Truster, for everybody laughed.

."Well," said the sunburnt girl, suddenly sobering, "it's all very well to make jokes about. But it's the first time Mother hasn't been to Europe in years."

"The Severances are practically down to their last yacht," said Tom Amherst smoothly, and everybody laughed again. Somebody said Tom Amherst ought to go into politics, and he told them, amusingly, why he didn't. But a short, horsy man who seemed to have some personal grievance against the farmers of the Middle West,— Ned Colton wondered why, for he seemed extremely remote from them,— insisted on asking Tom Amherst what he meant to do when the revolution came.

"Oh, Bright Acres is completely wired— for revolutions and television," said Tom Amherst. It wasn't what he said, thought Ned Colton, but the elaborate power that flowed from him. It reassured the other people, even the horsy man. If a revolution ever came to Bright Acres, Parker or Strudwick would simply tell it to go away.

The horsy man departed in a Bugatti. The crowd thinned.

"And now that's that," said Tom Amherst finally. "We can all take baths before dinner. Except Nancy, who doesn't need ope."

"But I'm going to," said Nancy. He looked at her for a second.

"Nice Nancy," he said then, lightly, and his hand passed over her hand.

"Nice Tom," said Nancy, her eyes glowing. "And heaven to be here."

Much later Ned Colton lay in bed and watched Nancy brushing her hair. It had been a good dinner and a good evening. And the strangeness was wearing off. Only now and then, looking around him, had he felt out of place— as out of place as, well, Louis Stein. As if he didn't belong, had never belonged. It wasn't anything they did. It was just a little, he thought, as the people must have felt who came back from the war. Not that he'd been in a war. But the same sensation— to come back, from devastation to a certain life, and find it still going on. Still, he'd only made one mistake— when the woman in green had been telling him, very seriously, of the enormous difficulties of keeping up two gardens with only two gardeners. He had thought of Louis Stein, walking in his torn sweater, and laughed. But then they'd got on the yacht-races, so that was all right.

"Oh!" said Nancy, stretching her arms. "A bed, a bed! And I'm never going to wake up. I'm afraid I was born for luxury, darling. Did you notice the Cole girl's dress?"

"Was it special?"

"I could have eaten it. Vionnet! What a host Tom is! He does arrange things, but it's worth it. Why do you suppose he never married? Not but what he's a wary citizen. But there must be somebody somewhere, even for an Amherst."

"Even, for an Amherst," said Ned Colton, "there's a moon and June. Even for an Amherst, there's a crooning tune. Even for an—" She bent and kissed him. "Mad," she said, "And highballs, too!" But her voice was kind. She turned off the light. "I wonder if we'll ever— oh, just for Patsy," she said. "A place like this would be so grand for a child."

"Investment, say, two million. At a conservative estimate," said Ned Colton in a light bitter voice.  He heard her draw her breath for a moment, sharply. Then he heard her punch her pillow. Then he went to sleep.

He woke at dawn, shivering; for in a nightmare he had been walking through Van Cortlandt Park without an overcoat while Tom Amherst drove slowly past in a car with a baritone horn. Every time he tried to cross the driveway, Tom would swerve a little and stop him. And that was too much of a joke, for Nancy and Patsy were on the other side, and he was trying to get to them. Once Tom threw him a bag of peanuts from the car and said: "Here, my good man. You can take those to Louis Stein." Then the car stopped, and Nancy and Patsy got into it from the other side, and they drove off with Tom, while Ned Colton's legs wouldn't work. It was a ridiculous nightmare, like all nightmares.

He rose noiselessly and went to the window. The first gray light was beginning to drift over Bright Acres—he could see all the way down to the swimming-pool. They hadn't even used the swimming-pool yesterday, but they probably would today. There had been sixteen people to dinner, and more coming in afterward; but when he and Nancy went downstairs, there would be clean ashtrays everywhere, and fresh cigarettes in the boxes of wood and silver and glass and jade. And every room would look immaculate and unused.

He turned and looked at Nancy— she was sleeping soundly, with a tiny smile on her face. It wasn't that she was greedy— he knew no one less greedy. But this was the sort of house she should have had.... He stole back to bed, and after a while got to sleep again. But when he woke, he was unrefreshed.

Curiously enough, he and Nancy did not see much of each other that day. There were people in the house, or they went to other people's houses. They swam; they played games; they sat in the sun with long drinks. It was all very easy and pleasant— an enchanted circle of easy, pleasantvoiced people who talked the same language and laughed at the same patter, even when the patter was shaken, now and then, by queer little bursts of anger and fear— the anger and fear of children with many toys who cannot bear it when the nurse takes one toy away.

Ned Colton noticed, clearly, that Nancy-at-a-party was being a great success. Every now and then people would tell him about her. But he did not look at her with the private smile that said, "Hello, beautiful," for there was no need.

Once he heard himself boasting about being a member of the Leaf, and once he told young Hollister, in full detail, about the three touchdowns he had made against Harvard. He heard himself doing it, and somehow he couldn't stop, though young Hollister was respectful enough. After that, he watched himself, and when his voice began to sound loud in his ears, he did not take another drink for a while.

And when Tom Amherst looked at him, he always smiled. The only difficult thing was going back to the room with Nancy, for she would want to talk about the day. But she didn't seem to want to; and while she was brushing her hair, he fell asleep.

He was up before she waked, the next day, and went dawn to the pool for an early swim. It cleared his head, and he felt better. Then he called up the Bronx apartment and talked to his daughter. She said his voice sounded funny, and he said it was his Long Island voice. Then it was time to play tennis with Tom Amherst, for the day had been carefully planned, and this was the only time they would have for tennis.

After that, the three of them went around Bright Acres on what Tom called "the inevitable Cook's tour." Tom was very amusing, but you saw everything, nevertheless. They laughed a good deal, all three of them, though Ned Colton was careful to to leave his wife and his friend as much together as possible, and every now and then, to lose himself while they went on. He had no defense for doing this, it merely seemed inevitable— inevitable as his own increasing fatigue. Once he thought he heard Nancy say, "But Tom, how could I?" faintly, as he rejoined them, though he tried very hard not to hear.

He interested himself, calculating exactly when the proper moment would come. Things always went on schedule with Tom Amherst; there would, undoubtedly, be a schedule for this. Ned Colton had been sure of it, ever since he had seen Tom and Nancy walk out on the terrace last night. When he found himself, with Tom Amherst, in the smaller library, an hour before dinner, he almost smiled. Nancy, he imagined, was taking a bath— so it would be a very good time.

"Well, old man, it's been quite a reunion," said Amherst, squirting soda deftly in glasses. "Heavy for you, light for me— right?.... I hate to have it break up."

"So do we," said Ned Colton. "But I'll have to polish up my forehand before I play you singles again."

"Oh, you're just out of practise," said Tom Amherst. "Extraordinary," he continued thoughtfully, "what happens to athletes after college. If they don't keep it up, they slump worse than ordinary mortals." He looked at his glass. "Tell me, Ned," he digressed, "you are getting on all right?"

"Oh, Stein and Colton are booming," said Ned Colton. "And you?"

Tom Amherst looked slightly surprised. "Why, they're jumping the taxes on us, a good deal," he said. "And naturally, the estate's shrunk. In fact, for a while, this spring, I thought of closing Bright Acres and going to live in England for a year or so. But as soon as you close a place, the moths get in it."

"Yes," said Ned Colton. "The moths get in it." He pushed his glass aside, untasted. "Look here, Tom," he said in a dull voice: "what made you ask us out for this week-end, anyway?"

For an instant Amherst looked affronted. Then his face cleared.

"Old man," he said, "I ought to have realized before how things were going for you. I could kick myself for not realizing. But— you know— just after the crash, I dropped you a note and told you to phone the office if anything—"

"I remember," said Ned Colton. "But you were out West."

"Yes, I had to go," said Amherst. "But that's all under the bridge now." He sipped at his glass. "And, well, one does have— responsibilities," he said modestly. "Aunt Ettie and all— Lord, even Miss Plunkett was off her head! It's funny to look back on." He laughed— the secure laugh of a man who can straighten such things out. To Ned Colton, he seemed to grow taller, and younger, even as his own face, in the mirror above the fireplace, looked old and tired. It looked like the face of a failure— he hadn't thought it would look like that in college, no.... In the Army game, with the steam out of your legs, just praying to bat down the passes! Then he roused himself, for Tom Amherst was talking.

"I don't say you'll make a fortune out of it, right away," he was saying. "Those days are over. But the Estate's interested— and some other people too. It's all been very hush-hush, up till now. And we're starting in pretty quietly. You have to, with the present state of the world, in those Eastern countries. They've even got real bandits— in sheepskin coats— not just bankers!" And he chuckled. "But we've got the dope— and we've got the concession. And it's a job for a big man. A two-year job, at least. But in two years— well, you'll only be thirty- two. Of course, your present business— I know you have commitments— but we could arrange about that." He smiled; and as he did so, Colton and Stein disappeared into the mist. Ned Colton saw himself riding up a rough road, among foreign mountains, with a friendly bandit in a sheepskin coat at his side. But the bandit would be friendly— the Amherst Estate would take care of that. He saw himself, in two years, coming back to another Bright Acres.

"Naturally," he said, out of reminiscence, "it's a country for a single man."

"Afraid so," said Tom Amherst. "But you know Aunt Ettie's little house— the one just as you go into her main drive? Nancy liked its looks, Saturday. And there's a good school for Patsy— the Maidenbrook. You could pay Aunt Ettie rent, if you wanted. I think they'd be pretty comfortable, both of them."

NED COLTON wanted to say, "Why have you always hated me, Amherst?" But even as he thought it, he knew. He remembered Tom Amherst, congratulating him perfectly, the night they had elected Ned Colton president of the Leaf. He could see the small room where no nonmember ever set foot, and the others' faces. It was a very small seed. But under the friendship it had always been there— just as under all the extravagant poise and cool power of Tom Amherst, there was a central insecurity— the bitter insecurity of a spoiled small boy in great houses, a boy who had too much power too young.

Tom Amherst had come to college, wishing for certain things, but not wishing to lift a hand for them. And the things that he did not have—the easy applause and liking, the votes in the Class-Book and all that— rankled disproportionately. But if one did not have them— well, life was a longer game—and one could give a little push here and a little tug there, in a certain direction, to the man who did. For that was also a sport. It was fantastic, absurd, to think of Tom Amherst as a tempter, a Mephisto.

"And yet," thought Ned Colton wearily, "if it hadn't been for Tom, I'd have gone into business with Bud Wennick, out West. We planned to, and Bud's father was for us. And that was my stuff. But Tom made it seem small. Just the way he made the apartment by the river seem small— amusing but small, in the boom days. So we got that white-elephant on Park Avenue— and hated it too. Even Nancy hated it, then. Why, I got my shoes made in England, because of Tom Amherst! And Nancy joined that silly club of Aunt Ettie's! And when he was tired of us, he went back to Bright Acres— to Bright Acres, after the crash— and then West and then to Europe."

"REMEMBER when I had Nancy down for the Junior Prom, Tom?" Ned said suddenly.

"Why, yes, old man," said Amherst. "But I thought we were discussing business." He looked tactfully at Ned Colton's glass. But the glass was still full.

"I know," said Ned Colton. "But this is more important. Remember when I had Nancy down for the Junior Prom? I hardly knew you then, and you gave her quite a rush, at first. But then— it wasn't that you realized she was my girl. There'd been some mix-up in the cards— you didn't realize till I told you that she came from Dallsburg. And the—" He let the sentence trail in the air.

"What the dickens are you talking about?" said Tom Amherst.

"About you," said Ned Colton. "You fell in love with Nancy then. I'll grant you that much. But you were Thomas Amherst IV. It wouldn't be a suitable marriage. You had things looked up— yes, you even had things looked up; because when you came to Dallsburg for our wedding, you knew more about Nancy's family than I'd ever told you."

He paused for a second. "What a long time you must have hated me," he said. "But now, of course, it's rather different. Even selling hats at Delphine's— that could be an amusing story. And Nancy could do Bright Acres— she isn't from Dallsburg now. And Aunt Ettie thinks she's a dear girl. Two years," he said reflectively. "Two years is a lot of time, too. Time enough to change— almost anything. I suppose you could send divorce-papers direct from the Amherst office," he said. "And then by bandit, over the mountains. Inside his sheepskin coat!"

"Exactly," said Amherst, rising, his eyes very dark in his face. "And I think that's enough. Decent people don't discuss these things." He frowned. "The trouble with you, Colton, is that you've never grown up," he said. "And that was amusing, once. It isn't any more. I was giving you an easy way out. If you don't care to take it, you needn't. Oh, yes, I'm in love with Nancy, if you want to know. You can fight it or not, as you choose. It doesn't matter very much. You married her when she was a child, and she's stopped being one."

His voice continued, a smooth, powerful engine. Ned Colton was very tired. He wished to pay attention to the voice, but he kept thinking of an old story—  the story of the man who played bridge against the Devil, and held, for once, the perfect no-trump hand— three suits from ace to jack inclusive and one ace.... Only when the Devil led— he led a green ace, the ace of hippogriffs. It was rather like that now.

"And we'll come to a reasonable arrangement about— your daughter," said Tom Amherst. "After all— I like Patsy, you know."

"Oh, shut up!" said Ned Colton wearily. "Shut up! Stop talking."

"What?" said Tom Amherst.

"Shut up," said Ned Colton. "I've heard you. Yes, I know there's a poker right next you, but I can hit you before you can reach it. I don't care whether you're in love with Nancy or not. I don't care whether she wants to marry you or not. All I know is this: The day you try to marry her, I'll shoot you. With a gun."

"What?" said Tom Amherst.

"I don't say I'll kill you," said Ned Colton. "You can't tell about that. And yes, it'll be hard on Patsy and Nancy. But not so hard as some other things."

"You're mad," said Amherst strongly, but his eyes flickered.

"Oh, no," said Ned Colton in a tired voice. "Just from Dallsburg. And I'll grant you, you could stand up to being shot. But not to the papers afterward! You see, you're afraid of the papers. They're possibly the one thing you're afraid of. And you couldn't hush it up— not that. But I'm from Dallsburg, and I know just enough about guns to shoot you rather painfully. And in Dallsburg, we don't mind about the papers at all."

TOM AMHERST opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment Nancy entered. She was not Nancy-at-a-party, Ned Colton noticed. She had her hat on, for one thing, and worry in her eyes. She did not look at Tom Amherst, but at Ned Colton.

"Why didn't you tell me Patsy had a temperature?" she said fiercely to Ned Colton, and her voice was the voice of an irritated partner, not at all the voice of the strange Nancy of the last two days.

"I called the apartment this morning," said Ned Colton stupidly. "She didn't— I mean I'm awfully sorry. I ought to have told you she'd picked up a cold."

"It doesn't matter," said the Nancy who worked at Delphine's and caught subways and painted the kitchen chairs with ten-cent enamel. "I've packed us, anyway. We've just time to catch the eight-five."

"I'll send you back in a car," said Amherst in an unrecognizable voice. But Nancy shook her head. She looked at him frankly, an apologetic but hurried guest.

"No, thanks, Tom," she said. "The train's quicker, after a holiday. And I phoned for a taxi. It's there. They're putting the bags in." She offered him her hand. "Good-by, Tom, and thanks for a lovely week-end."

"Good-by," said Amherst. "Good-by, Ned." They touched hands. "I— See you soon," said Amherst in his unrecognizable voice....

When the taxi had pulled out of the driveway, Ned Colton suddenly felt the Nancy beside him begin to shake all over.

"There, bgautiful," he said, putting his arm around her. "It's over. It's all over. It's done."

"I know it," said Nancy. "But oh, Ned— it's a bad house— a bad house. I'm so glad we're out."

"There, beautiful," said Ned Colton again. "I told him I'd shoot him if he married you. And he knows it. I ought to have spoiled his looks, too. But there wasn't time."

"He— he kissed me, on the terrace, last night," said Nancy, weeping. "Tom— old Tom! And kept telling me how Patsy could have a pony-cart. And I didn't say anything because he was your old friend, and you were getting a rest and having fun. And I thought I could stick it out. But when I got into that awful, horrible, enormous softy bathroom again and started to take another b-bath— I just couldn't stand it! Ned, has Tom gone crazy?"

"No, beautiful," said Ned Colton soothingly. "He's just spoiled. Born rich. And they're different. They don't know how to lose things."

"But Ned, we won't see him again? All that manner, and hurting people's feelings, and making a goat of that poor Hollister boy! And the stuffed shirts and the talky-talk, and being a little tin god, and always having to do things at just the right social moment. We won't see him again? Please, we won't?"

"No, beautiful," said Ned Colton. "You see, we'll never be rich. And we'll never see him again."

________________

Table of Contents

- 1: On the Film / Richard Marsh
- 2: Narcotic Man / Frederick C. Painton
- 3: Vampire / Jan Neruda
- 4: A Castle in Spain / Katharine Tynan
- 5: The Last Expedition / Richard Dehan

- 6: Titbottom's Spectacles / George William Curtis

- 7: Sage-Brush Sally's Mother / Mulloy Finnegan

- 8: Billy / J. J. Bell
- 9: The Curtain / J. J. Bell
- 10: Retribution / "Propellor"
- 11: Easy Going / Bill Bowyang
- 12: Celia and the Ghost / Barry Pain
- 13: The Unfamiliar / Richard Connell
- 14: Fooled! / Herbert Jamieson
- 15: Confession / Lizzie C. Reid
- 16: Opium / Freeman Sandom
- 17: Partners / Owen Oliver
- 18: The Avenger / J. F. Tilsley
- 19: By the Queen's Orders / Anonymous
- 20: The Studio / Robert Blatchford
- 21: The Chinese Apple / Marjorie Bowen
- 22: Jean Achard / C. Lart
- 23: Blind Chance / Fred Merrick White
- 24: Another Johnnie / John Strange Winter

- 25: We'll Never be Rich! / Stephen Vincent Benét