PAST MASTERS 125

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.

24 April 2023

Contents

1: Murder in Morocco / Frederick C. Painton

2: How I Heard My Own Will Read / M. E. Braddon

3: The Strange Case of Thomas Blakewitch / Wm. E. Lanham

4: Radium Nemesis / Carey Moran

5: A Female Crusoe / Captain R. F. Coffin

6: McKeevers Dinosaur / George L. Knapp

7: Fresh Paint / John Clemons

8: The Poppa-Guy and the Flapper / George B. Jenkins, Jr.

9: The Fur-Lined Overcoat / Will A. Page

10: Dead Man's Hand / Henry A. Hering

11: The Crew of the Flying Dutchman / Henry A. Hering

12: Vanderdecken's Message Home / Anonymous

13: Time to Unmask / William Almon Wolff

14: Lucifer / Achmed Abdullah

15: A Parish Scandal / Athol Forbes

16: The Sting of Victory / Paul Vernier

17: Passion Fruit / H. De Vere Stacpoole

18: Films and Flapjacks / Sam Hellman

19: The Necklace of Rubies / Lee Holt

20: Desert Gesture / Anthony M. Rud

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1: Murder in Morocco

Frederick C. Painton

1896-1945

Popular Detective April 1940

1: Marrakech Le Rouge

MARRAKECH, Morocco, at noon! A khamsin wind like the breath of a furnace,  sweeping off the stark, arid bled, and yellow with choking dust. Overhead a brassy African sun, merciless and terrible. In the Place Djma El Fna, the very heart of Marrakech, a thousand donkeys honk in horrid notes. Thousands of Berbers, yell, shout, laugh and fight. For just beyond the square are the famous souks, or market places, where come desert tribesmen from as far south as Timbuktu, to sell their wares and buy their necessities.

Moorish girls twist and wriggle in ancient dances. Professional story tellers scream the deathless legends of Islam. The snake charmers pirouette with black cobras and sand asps, to the accompaniment of drums beaten by calloused hands. Pipes squeal shrilly, piercing an endless roar.

Marrakech, Morocco, at noon, and a slim, supple girl coming to her destiny.

She stepped out of the C.T.M. office, the bus line that runs from Casablanca to Marrakech, and stood there beneath the white hot sun, exquisite in her white doeskin suit. Her face beneath the white summer hat was oval, crowned by reddish-gold hair. Her eyes were bright blue and her mouth was full and generous.

The noise buffeted her ears. The primitive savagery of it made her shudder, and these brown men, with their rifies and knives, frightened her. Desperately, her gaze swept the endless throng. Had he been unable to come? Her eyes filled with tears.

And then, suddenly, the Berber erowd swept into new formations and she saw, firongh a new opening, the olive drab uniform, the red and blue kepi of a fereign legionnaire on point duty as police. He was leaning against a bicycle, and now, as he turned, she saw his bronzed youthful face clearly.

A cry of joy burst from her.

"Basel!" she called. "Oh, Basel!"

Instantly she ran, skirts flying, toward him. He saw her, and his own expression of disgust and unhappiness lifted, to one of indescribable joy.

"Susan!" he called. "Dear God, you did come."

He dropped the military bicycle with a crash and in two bounds had her in his arms,

"Oh, darling!" She clung desperately to him, laughing, crying in the same breath.

He held her in a fierce embrace, and could only kiss her hair, her cheeks and finally her coral eager lips and mutter:

"Susan! you so!"

Around them the djellabed Moors closed in, amused by the sight of the Franswazi soldier putting his mouth against that of a thin sitt, and mut- tering to themselves that the ferengi were, indeed, strange animals that they touched lips instead of hands, heart and forehead. This sitt, she was so thin and slight that there wasn't a good day's work in her. And saying that Allah—upon whom be prayers— knew that a fat woman was beautiful, and this one was not.

"After months of these brown devils," Basel whispered, "you look like an angel. Oh, I hadn't known your hair was so golden, or your eyes like cornflowers in the summer wind. I spent endless nights trying to re- member the soft touch of your skin, the little lovely laugh in your voice."

Oblivious to those laughing Moors, they stayed in close embrace until Susan Darrel thrust him back.

"Susan! Oh, I've missed you so!"

"Gosh," she said, "they're laughing at us."

Basel Quintaro waved it aside. "I was afraid you'd never get my note, telling where I was, And then I was afraid you'd never come."

"I got your note," she said, "and I've come to take you away."

"Take me away?" he repeated. "Darling, you forget! I'm in the For- eign Legion—and TIl stay as long as my father wants me to."

His young face grew bitter. His father, the fabulous Sir Zerby Quintaro, salesman for cannon and battle-ships, had objected to Basel falling in love with the young American girl, Susan Darrel. Always, hitherto, Basel had obeyed his father, for all of his twenty-four years. This time, however, he had rebelled and fled. Before he could get to Susan he had been captured by his father's private detectives. He had run away again, been caught, and there had been a terrible scene.

"You'll marry the Greek Princess Dactos," his father had thundered.

"I'll marry Susan or no one," Basel had said. "And you can't stop me."

HE HAD been stopped. He had forgotten his father's enormous influence. The man, who made and unmade wars, had merely had his son enlisted in the Foreign Legion for five years.

"You could escape detectives," the old man had said, "but you'll not escape the Legion. I was in it once myself. You try to escape and see what happens."

Basel had tried and the punishments inflicted haunted him even now. He found that fellow soldiers could also be spies for his father and for officers in his father's pay.

His father had said:

"When you give up this silly American girl you can leave the Legion, not before."

So now Basel laughed harshly. "Darling, I can't leave the Legion. I can't stir a step out of Marrakech."

"But you will," she said flatly. "It's all arranged."

"Arranged? What do you mean?"

"If you can get out of French hands," she said, "the French can't extradite you for desertion from the Legion. Steve told me so."

"Steve? Who is Steve?"

"That big man drinking beer on the terrace of the Café du Glacier," she explained. "He's a private detective and I hired him to come with me. And he's worked out the scheme."

"How?" Basel turned his eyes across the plaza to where a man in crumpled whites was just dunking his mouth into an enormous mug of beer.

"I've chartered a plane," said Susan, "and we've got a car. We can reach Tangier and the plane there will fly us to London. We catch the Exochorda and a week later we can be married in New York."

Longing and desire flamed in his eyes.

"If we only could," he whispered, "but golly, darling, you don't know the power of my father! People are afraid of him. They'd probably stop the liner— or make it turn back."

"Not the Exechorda," said Susan firmly. "The captain is a friend of Steve's and, besides, it's an American ship." She looked adoringly into his lean, sensitive face. "Oh, darling, let's try it. If I have to wait five years for you I think I'll die."

He was silent, confused. She waited anxiously for his answer. '

"Let me talk it over with this Steve. He must know the risks," he said finally.

HAND in hand they walked toward the café.

From the south end of the Place Dima El Fna—where you get the best view of the snow-capped Atlas Mountains— a huge Rolls Royce limousine moved slowly toward the spot where Susan and Basel must pass to reach the Café du Glacier.

Their every movement was watched by the white-haired man within the car, He stroked a white mustache and white imperial, and somehow locked like a European imitation of Buffalo Bill.

"Seize them and be sure to gag them so there will be no outcry," he ordered the two men with him. "Use your blackjacks if necessary."

"Yes, Sir Zerby," said one. "We may have to. The boy is strong and she is a veritable she-devil."

Sir Zerby Quintaro ignored this. He spoke to his chauffeur.

"Cut them off from the café. When I give the word, swing and go swift- ly back."

"But all those Berbers, Monsieur!" said the chauffeur. "They will block

"Do not stop for them or any one," ordered Sir Zerby. "I have influence here. No one will punish you if some are— er— hurt."

By now the limousine was bearing down steadily on Susan and Basel.

On the terrace of the Café du Glacier, Steve Hilary continued to get outside a quart or so of beer. You had to start beering early in Morocco, he had learned, because at this season of the year you could fry an egg on a shady sidewalk, at high noon.

A young Moor, in a bright new tarboosh came up, scanned the drinkers. His liquid dark eyes finally examined Steve's new solar topee, studied Steve's square-cut homely face. Finally, he examined the big, enormously powerful body that looked so awkward in the tropical white ducks.

"You are Hilary, Sidi?" he asked in Arabic.

Steve nodded, replied in Arabic. The boy handed him a blue cablegram. Steve read:

STEVE HILARY, HOTEL CONTINENTAL ET ORIENT, MARRAKECH, MAROC MESSAGE BEGINS YOU SCREWBALL COME BACK TO PARIS AT ONCE BIG ASSIGNMENT IN LONDON RECOVERING LORD ASHTON'S STOLEN DIAMONDS STOP FORGET THAT DARREL DAME BECAUSE SHE DONT LOVE YOU MESSAGE ENDS

LELAND THORPE

Steve's smoky gray eyes stared across the howling square, past the snake charmer and so to the slim giri in white doeskin walking slowly to- ward him, hanging onte the arm of the stalwart young man in Foreign Legion olive drab.

"Garçon?" yelled Steve, and got a pen and a cable blank. He sent:

LELAND THORPE INTERCONTINENT INVESTIGATION BUREAU PARIS FRANCE MESSAGE BEGINS RIDICU- LOUS STOP I AM ON VACATION AND ABOUT TO BECOME A CRIMINAL STOP LORD ASHTON'S JEWELS DOUBTLESS TAKEN BY THE RED- HEAD HE WAS WITH LAST MONDAY AT CIROS STOP ANYWAY TO HELL WITH HIM AND YOU HAVING A FINE TIME AND WISH YOU WERE HERE MESSAGE ENDS STEVE HILARY

He threw the Moor boy a handful of brass francs and gave him the message. "Imshi, and Allah's smile go with thee," he said.

He ordered another quart of beer. For a brief instant his gaze rested on the slim, sunny-haired girl. His smoky gray eyes, usually so hard, became wistful, and the disarming smile, with which he covered the workings his keen brain, died.

THAT'S the way it is, he thought.

You go twenty-eight years ploughing furrows around the world, and redheads and brunettes, and blondes and platinums, fall and are forgotten. And then, just when you think you're immune, you kindle a torch for Susan that is burning you up.

He frowned, gulped a vast swig of beer and deliberately turned his at- tention back to the snake charmer. Snakes didn't make you sad and, be- sides, he had been waiting for hours to see if the black cobra would bite the charmer.

A few moments later he heard a quick, impressive step beside him. He turned to stare up at a man as big as himself, a man whose face was the color of an old saddie and as hard as the steel of a sword. The man had greenish eyes that flashed like green ice under the sun. You knew he had come up the hard way, lived tough, and would die hard.

Steve contemplated him calmly, not missing a thing.

"Buck Eastman, as ever was," he said. "What brings America's foremost gun-runner to Africa in the hot weather."

Buck Eastman, who had begun as a machine-gun operator in teapot revolutions in Central America, pulled out a chair and sat dewn opposite Steve.

"I'm here to collect half a million dollars, Hilary," he said harshly, "and if you're here to get in my way I'll kill you dead as hell. This is Morocco and I can get away with murder."

2: Quintaro Strikes

STEVE had been staring at Susan and Basil. Now a Rolls Royce limousine cut them from view. He drank another gulp of beer and smiled.

"In me, guy," he said, "you see Cupid, halo, wings and sweet disposition. I am here to see united in the bonds of holy matrimony that beautiful young lady walking toward us, and the young legionnaire with her."

Eastman switched his gaze. Susan and Basel were in sight now, curving around the stopped car. His Jaw dropped.

"Hell, man, that's Basel Quintaro, ar Zerby's son. She can't marry him—"

Steve drank a third of the remaining beer. He didn't like Eastman. He was curious about what Eastman was up to, and for a moment he had a regret that he couldn't jump in here and draw cards. As it was, however, he sighed.

"He's walking with his future wife now and you can make book on it."

To his surprise Eastman sneered:

"I get it. You're lying. Quintaro hired you to watch his kid for fear I'd snatch him."

"Does Quintaro owe you the half million?" Steve asked,

"Yeah, and to hell with you and your big Luger. I'm going to get it." He leaned forward. "Listen."

Steve interrupted to summon a waiter and order another quart of beer.

"Go ahead, I'm listening."

"Three months ago"— Eastman bent closer, lowered his voice— "I had a shipload of ten thousand rifles, ten thousand hand grenades, twenty million cartridges, three knocked-down airplanes, and fifty Stokes mortars and sixty field guns, all going to a certain spot in the near-east. The stuff cost me two hundred thousand bucks, and I had another ten grand tied up in the ship.

"I stood to make— me and my friends— three hundred thousand when we dumped that cargo on the beach. That's a turnover of a half million bucks. That ain't hay, Hilary."

"No," said Steve, "it ain't."

He was watching how Susan's slender, lovely fingers were tightly clasped about the boy's brown ones. He noticed, too, that the Rolls Royce had darted ahead, turned around and was going back.

"Well," Eastman was saying, "Sir Zerby Quintaro's guys hijacked that load of arms. They killed every man I had aboard. After they had transshipped the cargo, they sank my ship."

Steve nodded. "He's done it before. You knew what you were up against. Quintaro starts wars to settle his private grudges. Where do you get off trying to muscle in on his munitions racket ?"

Eastman cursed softly. "I'm here, Hilary, to collect that half million. I'm going to get it if I have to shoot my way into that electrified estate he's got on the edge of the town. I'm going to get it if I have to shoot my way through you."

Steve wiped his lips of beer, fished absently for a cigarette, found it, and lighted it.

"Eastman, I hate your guts," he said softly. "At another time, as much as I loathe Quintaro, I'd take that challenge just for the hell of it. As it is, I don't care what you do to Quintaro. But I'm seeing to it that that boy and Susan get married if it's the last thing I do. So don't get in the way of that."

HE LEANED forward. The Rolls had suddenly stopped, blocking Steve's view of Basel and Susan. The car door opened. Two big men jumped down. Steve couldn't see what they did. But he heard Susan scream. A suddenly muffled yell must have been Basel's. Then Steve saw two human bundles shoved into the car. The Rolls motor awoke, roared.

Steve Hilary jumped up, tipping over the table with a crash, spilling beer over Eastman's silk suit. He shoved Eastman out of the way. Into his hand, as if by magic, had leaned the huge Luger eight shot pistol. His face was white, his nostrils pinched.

He came off the terrace in two bounds. The big gun in his hand roared once, twice, three times. The dust kicked from the road near the rear tires but the car kept on rolling, attaining enormous speed. Before he could throw another shot at the rear tires, the Rolls lurched around the edifice of the Banque de Maroc and was out of sight.

One Berber was down, his leg broken where the front wheel of the car had run over it. A woman ran up, snatched up a Berber baby by the single black scalp lock, and darted back into the shouting mob of natives.

His gun still smoking, Steve Hilary turned, saw Eastman standing there and suddenly jammed the muzzle into the gun-runner's stomach.

"All right, Buck," he said softly. "You kept me occupied while your guys made the snatch. Now go and bring them back."

Eastman turned white. Hilary's eyes were blazing sparks. "Lay off," he protested. "That wasn't my job. Hell, didn't you see the license numbers, ZQ-4? And Sir Zerby Quintaro was inside himself. I saw him."

"White mustache, goatee?" Steve said.

"Sure. That's him."

Steve put away the big Luger. "Okay, Buck," he said. "Sorry. But I didn't figure a father would snatch his own son."

"Heil, you don't know Quintaro. He's probably had that skirt tailed and figured he'd put her out of the way permanently."

"You mean— murder?" asked Steve.

"Why not? He's killed plenty in his time. You can't own eighty million bucks without hurting somebody."

Steve looked around for a conveyance.

"What are you going to do?" asked Eastman interestedly.

"Go out to Quintaro's and get Susan," said Steve.

Eastman laughed. "Fat chance! Cripes, don't you know Quintaro practically lives in a safe and you can't get in unless you know the combination?  The guy is screwball about protecting his life. He's scared somebody will assassinate him.

"I know. I've been trying for two weeks to bust into his place. He's got electric wires around the joint— electrocute you if you touch them. The doors are steel, double windows of bullet-proof glass are always locked. The guy has air-conditioning. To get in you'd have to heist the place like a bank safe."

STEVE said nothing. He waved a summons to the Arab driver of a victoria, drawn by a tired, fly-exhausted horse.

"Listen, Hilary," said Eastman suddenly. "You and me are playing the same pitch. I want dough; you want the girl. Throw in with me. I've got a way to bust into that Quintaro joint and I'll cut you in."

Steve hesitated. He wanted to know how you got into Quintaro's place, wanted to know badly. But Eastman would entangle him in his plans to get a half million. Steve sighed.

"No, I'll play it my way."

He jumped into the victoria and had himself driven to the Palmerie, the northern oasis of Marrakech where, frem the headquarters of the Fourth Regiment, the French Foreign Legion conquered, policed and governed that part of Morocco.

He was rudely disappointed when he got there.

The French colonel, Armand, shrugged. "Monsieur Hilary, you must be mistaken. Sir Zerby is a great man. I know he would not kidnap his son, or a girl, either."

"Then where is the boy now?" asked Steve angrily. "He's not on duty as he should be."

The colonel looked at a memorandum.

"He was relieved, given a twenty-four hour pass to visit his father."

Steve scowled.

"I get it. Quintaro telephoned and cracked the whip...."

"Monsieur, you are insolent," the colonel jumped up. "I think your story is preposterous and I must ask you to leave."

Steve left, knowing that in a militarily policed area like Marrakech, Quintaro held all the aces and kings and queens. He got into the victoria and was driven back to the Place Djma El Fna.

The sun in that open carriage was brutal so he paused at the Café du Glacier for a quart of beer. He reloaded his gun. He deliberately watched the shaven-pated snake charmer get bitten by a sand asp and torment a deadly black cobra.

Watching the snakes, drinking his beer, Steve thought it out, made his decision. He finally climbed into the victoria.

"The house of Sir Zerby Quintaro," he said.

The driver gave him a queer glance, whipped up his nag, yelled "Imshi," and drove off.

3: Sir Zerby Quintaro

IN a fertile oasis, a mile south of Marrakech, Sir Zerby Quintaro had built a steel and concrete fortress. It rested in the center of a million and a half dollars worth of landscape gardening and Greek statuary.

He lived there six months out of the year because, as he often said, "In civilized countries there are laws that make me defenseless but cannot protect my life. In Morocco I am the law, and protect myself."

It was a swell place, as Steve immediately admitted. Through the wire and stone fence was one gate. A man came out of the gate house, scowled.

"Go away. No one enters here without Sir Zerby's permission," he said.

"Really?" smiled Steve, and although he apparently made no quick movement, the gateman suddenly was looking down the muzzle of the big blue-steel Luger. He turned pale. "Unlock the gate and take me to Sir Zerby or I will shoot," Steve said. "I am insane and I never miss."

The gateman tottered but he unlocked the gate. Steve entered, very pleased with himself. "I'll bet Eastman never thought of walking through the gate when he said this was impregnable," he said to himself.

Prodding the gateman with the gun he walked up the concrete driveway.

They reached the house and a Turk in baggy trousers and a bright scarlet fez came out onto the vast enclosed porch. Steve pushed the gateman in front of him. In good Turkish dialect he said:

"Unless you take me at once to Sir Zerby I shall shoot you in both knees. I am mad and Allah, upon whom be peace, protects me." He leveled the big Luger.

The Turk turned green and retreated. Steve and the gateman followed.

The inside of the house was moist and ten or twelve degrees cooler than the blazing heat of the day. It felt marvelous.

Steve walked over a quarter of a Million dollars worth of rugs, past priceless pictures and statues, and into a room that was so big it had marble pillars to hold up the ceiling. Here, smoking on a cigar and sipping what appeared to be a glass of sherry, sat a man with pure white hair and a Buffalo Bill mustache and goatee.

Steve looked at the famous salesman for Death and his heart started drumming in spite of himself. It was a powerful, brutal face, and the eyes glinted dangerously as they stared at Steve.

Steve had his silly grin at its widest.

"Sir Zerby, I presume," he said.

"Don't get up. I'm quite all right. I've just stopped by for a couple of people and I'll go on at once."

Sir Zerby's tricky, lidded eyes hid the glitter.

"Steven Hilary, no doubt," he said quietly. "I've heard of your— er—  queer methods of achieving results."

"We can talk about it some other time," said Steve. "Now, I want Miss Susan Darrel, and while I'm at it I'll take Private Quintaro."

"You'll take nothing out of here," came the reply. "And if you continue to act the fool, as you are now, you may leave your life."

"Now, now," chided Steve. "This cannon of mine shoots very straight and very fast. And to get Susan I'd be glad to use it— say on both legs to start with."

SIR ZERBY was unmoved.

"I see," said Sir Zerby. "But did it occur to you that I am prepared for such an invasion? Remember, Hilary, that I have, as the newspapers have said, a phobia on assassination. That's why this is a steel fortress with safe combinations on the doors. That is why I keep several guards around."

"The guards couldn't be as quick as this gun," said Steve.

"I think so," said Sir Zerby casually. "Look at the walls, for instance. Do you see those men with the machine guns? What chance do you think you have?"

Warily Steve let his eyes swivel. There was something about the way Sir Zerby spoke that made him look.

He saw that three apertures, like ports, had opened in the wall. He could see three faces, and they were behind three light Spandau machine guns. The guns were set, and could spew five hundred bullets into the room while a man was coughing to clear his throat. Instinctively, Steve grabbed the Turk and the gateman for shields. Sir Zerby smiled grimly.

"They wouldn't save you, Hilary, after they had fallen."

Steve swallowed. What kind of an egomaniac was this Quintaro, who would kill two of his own men to get an enemy?

"I see," he sighed. "You've doubtless got on a steel vest."

"Of course."

"What do you suggest?" asked Steve after a pause.

"That you drop your weapon, and sit down and talk the matter over."

"And if I don't drop the weapon?"

"Then, when I knock the ash off my cigar, my men will start shooting."

Steve shrugged. He released the Turk butler and the gateman. He heaved the heavy Luger onto a sofa.

"I'Il listen for a while." His face remained impassive in the face of this defeat.

As he sat down Sir Zerby was dismissing the Turk butler and the gate-man. They were scowling angrily at Sir Zerby. Steve didn't blame them and looked up at the gun ports that would have snuffed out their lives. The ports had closed. But Steve knew the men were there, watching. He relaxed, waiting.

"Suppose I let you take Susan away," Sir Zerby said, "and paid you money to find my secretary, Biester. Would you accept?"

"What's this about Biester?" Steve said, to gain time to think.

"My secretary, Roland Biester, is missing. I'd like to have you find him."

"Good God," Steve was thinking, "with this maniac for a father-in-law Susan could get no happiness out of marrying the kid. I wonder."

"I think Biester stole two hundred thousand kronen," Sir Zerby said. "I want him found and punished. I'd pay a thousand American dollars."

She could forget the kid in time, Steve thought, and be thankful. I love her and I could make her happy.

"I'd see that Susan Darrel met with a fatal accident before Basel married her," Sir Zerby said.

"You do," said Steve, "and you'll die even if you're protected by a machine-gun regiment."

"She will not marry him. He will continue the Greek Quintaro dynasty." Quintaro paused. "Find Biester, have her renounce Basel, and I'd make it five thousand dollars to you."

Abruptly Steve asked:

"Can I talk to her— and him?"

"If you like," shrugged the baronet. "I hope you can convince both of them." He clapped his hands. The Turk butler appeared.

"Selim, take the effendi to my son and the sitt."

STEVE was taken to a rose-colored room upstairs, a room whose windows were covered by battleship steel blinds, securely locked into place.

The butler first brought Susan and then Basel. Susan flew into the boy's arms and Steve watched grimly what happened.

Finally he spoke harshly. "The turtle-doving can wait. Listen to me and the jam we're in."

Steve pointed to a couch across the room. "Sit there, the both of you. Susan, this boy's father is crazy. If you try to go on with Basel he's liable to kill you."

"You're exaggerating, Steve."

"Ask Basel," shrugged Steve.

Basel frowned. "Darling, father was always queer, even when I was younger and saw more of him than I have lately. And he is ruthless, terrible. He seems changed, even to me. Worse than ever. Harsh, devilish. He's changed for the worse, even in his looks."

"Then you think..." Susan began.

"Oh, Hilary is wrong. He wouldn't kill you. But he'd keep you a prisoner.

"He'd kill her," said Steve. "I saw it in his eyes."

Basel scowled. "He's changed terribly since the last time I was here. He— he—" Basel's voice died away.

Steve walked to Susan, took her hands, pulled her to her feet. He gazed deeply into her eyes.

"Susan," he said slowly, "this is a bad spot. We can get off it simply by your giving up Basel and my finding some lug named Biester,"

She didn't reply but he felt her quiver.

"Is this the McCoy with you?" Steve asked. "Do you want to stay here? We can take our chances."

"Steve," she said, her throat dry, "I hired you as a friend and a great detective to help me get Basel away from this horrible place. I still want you to."

"You mean nothing will make you give him up?" Steve asked.

For reply she went to Basel, who had risen, and kissed him on the lips and clung to him.

"Steve," she said, "I am not silly. But I say, that if I can't have Basel I don't want anything."

Basel suddenly embraced her. "And that goes for me, too."

Oblivious, momentarily, to Steve, they clung together and Steve, watching their eyes, knew this was the love that came once in a lifetime. He suppressed a sigh and forced a grin.

"Okay, Sue," he said. "We'll go on from there."

She ran to him, pressed his hands fiercely. "You can get us away, can't you, Steve? You always think of something. I'm not afraid with you here."

"Nor I," cried Basel eagerly.

Steve rescued his hands. "Well, kitten," he said, grinning, "I'll make you a wife yet. Keep the chin up."

4: Attack by Night

DOWNSTAIRS once more, Steve glanced casually at Sir Zerby.

"Well," he said, "she wants some time to think it out. And I think she'll agree. I'm for it."

Sir Zerby smiled unpleasantly.

"Youre a bland liar, and if I did not have a microphone in each room and an amplifier here"— he gestured— "I might believe you. As it is, it doesn't matter. I will settle with them."

Steve took out his last package of American chewing gum. He doubled up a stick, put it in his mouth.

"And what about me?"

"You," Sir Zerby shrugged. "Tomorrow you can start looking for Roland Biester."

Steve never saw the gesture, but suddenly two thick-set men, looking like Greek wrestlers, were standing beside him and one had quickly put a come-along around his left wrist. It hurt terribly as he brutally tightened it.

Steve turned and, with a savage ferocity, drove his fist into the man's face. The man cried out in pain and his bulbous nose spurted blood.

"Tell your gorillas to handle me carefully, Quintaro," Steve said thickly, "or I'll make you shoot me and toate murder you can't get away with.

Quintaro spoke in Greek. The come-along was relaxed.

"I doubt it," he said, and broke off to curse the Greek who was shouting passionately.

The man shut up, but not until Quintaro's eyes were blazing murderously.

The two men took Steve upstairs. On the way, he added two more sticks of gum to his cud and masticated lustily until they reached a room in the east wing.

Here the heavy steel lock was thrown. As Steve entered he removed the cud, stuck it on the outside panel near the lock. Pressing it down, he also pressed firmly into it a piece of what is called invisible cord, the kind that is used to bind paintings upright.

He stood by the door and pretended to lose his head.

"Okay, you cheap monkeys," he raged. "You've done your stuff, Close the door and get to hell out of here."

They were armed and he was not, but that made no difference. As he slammed the door at them, they both jumped backwards. The lock clicked into place.

But the cord, held outside by the gum wad, ran through the door-jamb, back of the lock-tongue and the other end was in Steve's hand. Come the moment to move, he had only to pull cautiously on the cord, the tongue-lock would be drawn back, and the door would open.

It's an old stunt, but you can always use it, thought Steve. For the moment, however, it was enough to wait and think and figure out things.

At ten o'clock he heard an airplane whistle downward to a landing nearby. Steve thought of Buck Eastman.

A guy could rent a plane, drop a flare and land inside that electric fence. But this couldn't be Eastman. It was probably Quintaro's plane.

At eleven Steve figured the house had gone to bed. It was time to prowl. Cautiously he tugged at his cord. The lock was well oiled and presently it retreated enough to permit the door to slide ajar. Steve left it so while he went to the light switch.

IT WAS then that he felt giddy suddenly, lost his balance and fell down. He got up, his throat now on fire, his ears roaring, his feet hitting the floor, which moved unexpectedly, like a ship's rolling deck, making him lurch crazily,

"God!" he croaked hoarsely, and staggered toward the door. The lights, which he had never doused, swam before his eyes.

His hand finally found the knob, pulled the door open. But he never went out. He fell drunkenly against the door-jamb.

There before him, swimming crazily, was a man with a pig's face. Only it wasn't a pig's face. It had big, goggle eyes, a pig's snout and, from the mouth, a tube led down to a box strapped to his chest.

Steve's reeling brain finally got it.

"Gas mask!" he croaked hoarsely.

He lurched forward, fists and arms upraised.

The masked man struck him full on the mouth. The floor suddenly bent upward and hit Steve in the face. The roaring in his ears became a fierce buzzing.

"There's been some mistake. "I'm dying," he said distinctly.

Then his heels drummed three or four times and he lay perfectly still. The man in the gas mask lifted the mouthpiece, exhaled as he looked carefully at Steve. Then, he laughed heartily, kicked Steve in the ribs, replaced the mouthpiece and walked hurriedly away.

Steve Hilary opened his eyes and instantly felt terribly ill. He fought down the nausea to stagger to his feet. The hallway swam violently. But he finally saw his room, the door atill open, the lights still burning. He lurched to the bathroom, violently ill. When he could retch no more he drank water and started all over again. He got a whiff of himself then.

"Ethyl-chloride," he muttered, recognizing the surgical anaesthetic. "I'll toss my toenails unless I get a drink."

He gagged and staggered dizzily to the staircase. In the big living room he found a taboret containing a decanter of Napoleon brandy. He tilted a good three fingers into a glass, and tossed it gingerly into the back of his throat.

"Whoof!" he gagged, as the potent liquor burned a way to his stomach and exploded. He started to put back the decanter, then muttered, "A bird can't fly on one wing," and threw another three fingers after the first.

He felt better immediately and set out to investigate the deathly silent house. The results were astonishing. In the servants' quarters he came on the three Greek wrestlers, prone and thoroughly anaesthetized. He didn't bother them. In the butler's pantry he found Selim, also breathing heavily. The Turk had a bundle of keys and Steve's big Luger. Steve took both and then, just to be safe, he bound all four of them hand and foot.

Finally, he unlocked a room, beautifully done in blue, with every necessity of a woman's toilet. He found a wisp of handkerchief that was Susan's and knew she had rumpled that bed.

BUT Susan herself wasn't there.

The muscles in Steve's neck constricted. He unlecked the next room. Here was one single clue—a red and blue kepi with the gold exploding bomb of the Foreign Legion on the front.

But Basel Quintaro was also gone.

Steve cursed thickly. "If Quintaro gassed us to snatch them both out of the country—" He let his voice die away, and started looking for the munitions baron.

He was surprised to find Quintaro in a big safe of a room in the west wing. Somehow, he had had it firmly in his mind that Quintaro, for his own reasons, had done this mysterious thing, so that finding him in bed in that darkened room was a shock.

It was also a shock to find the man unconscious and exuding fumes of ethyl-chloride. Moreover, Sir Zerby's face was bruised and purplish and there was a lump over his right ear as large as a robin's egg.

Steve was nonplussed. For the moment he did not disturb the heavily breathing man, Instead, he rapidly cased the room. He found nothing until he came to a series of chiffonier drawers. In the bottom of it was a human hair wig of white, a white mustache and a white goatee. Also, a theatrical make-up box.

"Cripes!" muttered Steve.

Swiftly he hurried to the bed. He tweaked the hair, the mustache, the goatee.

No doubt of it, these were not affixed with glue.

His experiment brought only one result. Sir Zerby turned over, moaned horribly and continued to sleep. Steve did not disturb him again.

This time he ransacked the house from attic to cellar. And he made only two discoveries— the house was locked up as soundly as a bank safe, and there was a hospital-size, empty can of ethyl-chloride in the chamber that housed the air conditioning unit.

The anaesthetic had been poured into the intake manifold, blown throughout the house and then gradually sucked out as new air was taken in.

"And that's a hell of a lot of help at a time like this," muttered Steve with a grimace. He wondered wildly if Base] had rigged this scheme to get away with Susan.

But Steve remembered the masked man who had socked him. Whoever the man in the gas mask was, he was not Basel Quintaro.

Steve went back to Sir Zerby. He got a pitcher of water from the bathroom. He tossed this on the gun salesel and began to shake and pummel him.

Five minutes of this brought a groan.

As Sir Zerby sat up, Steve looked at him grimly. "You've been doped, and so have the rest of us, and Susan and Basel are gone, Did you plant this?" Steve asked.

"I don't understand," Sir Zerby groaned.

Steve gave him all the details. "These," he concluded, pointing to the wig and fake mustache and goatee, "made me think you did it."

"No, no," cried Sir Zerby with a semblance of his usual arrogance, "I have a phobia about assassination. For a while I had a bodyguard wear those and sleep in my bed. That has nothing to do with this."

"What has?" asked Steve.

"Roland Biester, my cursed secretary."

"Biester, the guy that lammed with the money? Why should he do it?"

"He hates me and he'd do anything for revenge."

"Well," said Steve, "while you were out cold he could have cut your throat."

"And gained nothing. This way he hopes to force me to pay— I say, what is this?"

THE MOVING around Sir Zerby had upset his pillows. And now there fell from between them a folded note. Steve snatched it up and read:

Sir Zerby— If you wish to see your son alive, you will come alone to the Red Kasbah tonight at eleven, and bring two hundred thousand pounds, If you tell the military, I will know it and you will only find your son and the girl dead. Tell Steve Hilary to stay out of this and he will get Susan Darrel back unharmed. If he tries anything, she will die. Wait in the Kasbah for the sound of the thrush.

There was no signature.

"Who does that sound like?" demanded Steve.

"Who else but Biester?" growled Sir Zerby. "The devil is cleverer than I thought. Two hundred thousand pounds! Why, that's nearly a million dollars."

"I wouldn't argue for the difference," muttered Steve.

"And, good God, that devil will kill them if I go to the military. He's made friends around here and he'd know."

Steve looked thoughtfully at the banker.

"He certainly gets news quick. He knew all about me."

"Of course," shrugged the banker. "He probably has a spy here who let him in and permitted him to gas us and make the abduction."

"It seems queer, though ..." began Steve, but he broke off quickly, because from below stairs there came a terrific thumping and shouting.

"M'sieur le Baron!" screamed the voice. "A moi!"

"It's that fool gateman, Pierre," Sir Zerby groaned.

"M'sieur le Baron, the summer house!" Pierre called. "It burns to the ground and there is a man burning inside."

Steve muttered an oath and raced for the stairway. As he reached the porch where the gateman stood dancing up and down in excitement, Steve saw the summer house beyond the marble swimming pool blazing furiously. He ran to it as fast as he could.

The heat of the flames forced him to stand yards back. But even so he could see, at intervals, the body of a man lying right in the heart of the flames. Already it was so burned as to be unrecognizable, and long since dead.

Steve commandeered Pierre and two buckets, and for an hour he and the gateman heaved water on the body. Because of this, when finally the flames subsided so that Steve could dash in and jerk the corpse out, he had more than just blackened bones.

But not too much. The head was only a charred skull. There was some flesh on the hand and a gold signet ring with a queer crest. There were a few fragments of buttons, charred tweed cloth, some odd pieces of shoes. But to Steve they gave no clue to the dead man's identity.

All he knew definitely was that the fire had not killed the man. A bullet hole through the skull, squarely between the eyes, was mute witness to this fact.

Examining this burned debris, Steve heard a noise and turned swiftly. Sir Zerby Quintaro stood there, his face gray and twisted into such malevolent hate as to shock Steve.

"You know him?" asked Steve.

"Aye," growled Sir Zerby fiercely, "it's that dirty thief, Roland Biester."

"Biester!" exclaimed Steve.

"Aye! Look at that ring. I've seen it on nim manys the time. And that suit, those shoes. It's he all right, the thief!"

Steve Hilary stared up at the munitions baron.

"If this is Biester," he said quietly, "then he couldn't very well have kidnaped Susan and Basel."

"No," said Sir Zerby. "Unless— unless he tried and ran into someone else who killed him and went on with the abduction."

"Someone," repeated Steve very thoughtfully, thinking of the airplane he had heard in the night. "Eastman, for example?"

Sir Zerby swore a mighty oath.

"That dirty swine of an American, Buck Eastman! That's who it was."

5: Cash At The Bank

BENDING down, Steve was examining the rather thickish bones of the dead man's knees. The flesh had been burned absolutely off, so that he could study the formations clearly. They were, he realized, unusually thick, as were the bones of the ribs. He prodded and poked delicately with his fingers.

"What are you going to do?" he asked Quintaro. "See the military about this?"

"My God, no!" cried Quintaro. "Don't you realize Eastman is dangerous? He hates me. He'd kill Basel."

"So you'll pay out nearly a million dollars?"

"What is a million dollars alongside of my son's life? Besides, to me a million dollars represents a month's income."

Steve whistled softly. He couldn't even imagine a million dollars, let alone that sum as a month's income.

"How old a man was this Roland Biester?" he asked suddenly.

"Thirty-six, I believe. Why do you ask?"

"Was he sick recently? Did he have arthritis, perhaps?"

Sir Zerby stared at him hard "Good God, no. He was in perfect health as far as I know."

Steve stood up, frowning. He was sore, baffled and worried.

"You'd better count me in on that pay-off," he said. "I don't like this."

Sir Zerby scowled. "I shall do nothing of the kind. I will handle this in my own way. I want no interference from you or any one else."

He turned. Down the walk from the main house were staggering two of his bodyguards. He turned back to Steve.

"Don't get in my way, Hilary," he growled, "or you'll regret it."

He spoke to the leading Greek. The man moaned but turned obediently to the garage.

"Nikolas will drive you to your hotel," continued Sir Zerby. "Stay there."

"And Susan?"

"If she is unharmed I'll return her to you, and you shall take her away at once."

Steve knew the baronet was lying. As soon as the man had achieved the ransom of his son, he would continue to oppose the marriage of his son by any means. But to say this now, would, Steve realized, get him nothing. So he pretended to acquiesce,

"I'll wait," he said, "and you..."

Sir Zerby gave an exclamation of horror and jumped back convulsively.

"Look!" he shouted.

The sand asp had apparently lived under the summer house and the flames had driven it out. Now it wriggled along the ground, going directly for the baronet on its way to safety. The man got a chunk of charred wood. Viciously he pounded at the writhing asp until it was merely horribly mashed flesh. Steve turned away in disgust.

"Remember," Sir Zerby growled, as Steve entered the car, "get in my way at this crisis and I'll—"

"Save your threats," said Steve, "they bore me."

The car drove on.

As he passed the main gate Steve saw the gateman, his head bandaged, repairing the copper wires of the electrified system. Steve ordered the car to stop.

"What has happened?" he asked the man.

"Monsieur, all is madness. Last night came someone who cut the wires. When the alarm bell awaked me I was struck on the head. When I regain my senses the summer house burns with Monsieur Biester in it and my electric system is temporarily smashed."

Steve scowled. That sounded like Buck Eastman all right, but if Buck had smashed through the electrified fence, then why had the airplane landed and who came in it?

"This," he thought, "is the honey of honeys."

THE British Bank of Morocco is one street removed from the main place, Djma El Fna, and it is one of the more substantial business buildings of the town. At noon a Rolls Royce sedan rolled up and discharged the erect figure of Sir Zerby Quintaro. As he entered the door the two guards suddenly stiffened to obsequious attention. Cuthbert Rayburn, the boss of the bank, also saw the famous figure of the munitions king and literally ran to greet him

Sir Zerby Quintaro nodded coldly to the greeting.

"I want two hundred one-thousand pound notes at once," he said. "Never pd Eee me serial numbers."

"Ah, Sir Zerby, we must keep the numbers  of such sized bills," said Rayburn, leading the way to his own desk, "The Bank of England requires it."

Sir Zerby shrugged it aside as of no moment.

"But for me," he ordered, "you will ignore that regulation, too."

He took out the small checkbook with his name embossed on it in gold, filled in a check and carelessly rolled his thumb across the place where the signature should have been.

Rayburn took the check, reached across his desk for a small tin of iodinized water. He dipped the signature of Sir Zerby into the water. Immediately the thumbprint became plainly visible.

From a file in his desk Rayburn took another enlarged print, and this he compared. But the gesture was almost perfunctory. He knew what he would find. He had done this for over fee and for larger amounts than this.

He disappeared into the main part of the bank and came back a few moments later with two hundred one-thousand pound notes which he counted into Sir Zerby's hand.

"You have hurt yourself, sir?" he said, pointing to the bandages on Sir Zerby's forehead.

"It is nothing," growled the baronet. "Call General Delage. Tell him I wish a military permit for my plane to fly from here to London via Paris."

"I shall glady do so," bowed Rayburn.

Sir Zerby went out to his Rolls Royce, climbed in and was driven off. As his car vanished around the corner of the Pasha of Marrakech's vast estate, Steve Hilary emerged into the blinding sunlight and headed into the bank. He inquired for the manager and was finally brought to Rayburn.

He showed his credentials, counter-signed by Scotland Yard and the Sureté Générale of Paris.

"Your bank is a client of ours, and I want information. How much money did Sir Zerby draw?"

"It's against our rules to divulge such information."

Steve's eyes narrowed.

"If you want a court order—" he began, waving his credentials. Hastily, Rayburn shook his head. He knew the Intercontinent Investigation Bureau and its strange international power,

"Two hundred thousand pounds," he said reluctantly.

"By check?"

"Yes." Rayburn reached across his large desk and brought out the now dry check. Steve saw the amazing signature. As his eyebrows went up in astonishment Rayburn explained. "All of Quintaro's checks are signed like that. He gives and takes money all over the world. There can be no chance of fergery this way, and no chance of not knowing his signature."

"You saw him sign this one?" Steve asked,

"Yes, He always places his thumb-print in front of witnesses. Thus his signature cannot be forged."

Steve brushed his hand across the check. He picked off a flake of wax. He asked how Sir Zerby had taken the money and Rayburn told him,

"He once drew a million pounds and I paid it," Rayburn added proudly.

It was ten minutes walk from there to Buck Eastman's room in the Hotel Continental et Orient. Buck was not upstairs. He was in the small bar off the lobby, drinking with the blond barmaid. Steve walked in and ordered a big beer.

At sight of Steve, Eastman's eyes narrowed suspiciously,

"Well, what do you want?"

"Im just going down to buy a cobra."

"A cobra?"

"Yeah," said Steve, drinking half the huge mug of beer, "a black cobra."

Eastman scowled. "Don't rib about snakes. I hate 'em. I saw a pal of mine die of a bushmaster bite once and the sight haunted me for years."

Steve smiled slightly. "What I wanted to see you about was this— you made a proposition yesterday about me going in with you against Quintaro. I'm ready to talk about it now."

Eastman stared, then roared with laughter, his eyes flashing triumphantly.

"That was yesterday, guy."

"You mean it's off now?"

"You said it, it's off."

Steve knew then that Quintaro's hunch was right. Eastman had Basel Quintaro and Susan Darrel. His eyes narrowed.

"Okay!" he spoke indifferently.

"You should have known that you couldn't crash Quintaro's joint alone," Eastman said. "I'm playing it by myself now."

For one brief instant Steve Hilary's eyes blinked wide in utter astonishment, and then they masked again. He forced a smile,

"Go ahead. I'll bust into Quintaro's and get Susan. Wait and see. And I pack a big gun, Buck, and if she's been hurt I'm going looking for the guy that hurt her."

Without waiting to see how Buck took this threat, he swung out to the dusty red street and back to the Place Djma El Fna.

But he went with a new motive now. Unknowingly Buck Eastman had given him a vital clue to this puzzle. A clue, Steve realized, that didn't explain everything but one which told Steve what he must do.

He stopped at the snake charmer's pitch.

The snake charmer was still howling and jumping around while his assistant beat a drum with calloused hands. The snake charmer recognized Steve, grinned toothlessly and permitted a sand asp to bite him in the ankle, after which he screamed and flopped awkwardly to the intense amusement of his Berber audience.

Steve gestured and took out a ten franc note. A ten franc note in Morocco is vast riches and the snake charmer literally fawned on Steve.

Steve spoke in Arabic. "Thou has permitted the sand asp to bite thee, because in thy youth thou hath eaten of the sand asp venom and thus came to feel it not. But now, Allah willing, I will give thee ten francs to permit the black cobra to bite thee."

FOR an instant the snake-charmer's tiny beady eyes stared at Steve. Then he yelled, "Wallah! In the name of Allah the Magnificent, the All-knowing, I will do it."

He went to a burlap sack, untied the throat of it and then he got a box, opened it, and held the box to the sack. Silence had come momentarily and Steve heard the slithering sound as the snake passed from the sack to the box.

"I mean the cobra in this box," Steve protested. He pointed to one that the snake charmer had been using all day. Steve could see venom on the corners of this snake's mouth.

"That one is tired," said the snake charmer, "All day he has struck and his venom sack is exhausted. In the name of the Prophet let me use a strong one."

With that he jumped and shouted, boasting of what he was about to do in such a screeching voice that the crowded square hugged close to watch him. He opened the box. Instantly there rose a ropelike body, two inches thick, black as jet, and the hood fanned out like a huge spoon.

As the snake charmer danced around, the cobra turned, never for an instant taking it's gaze from the tormentor. And then suddenly the snake charmer bent over, put out his shaved skull toward the snake. Closer, closer, closer! A cold hush fell. All watched breathlessly.

The cobra was utterly motionless, but its beady eyes were watching that brown skull, weighing the speed of its own strike, the speed of the charmer's withdrawal. The snake had been fooled many times.

Now the cobra rose a little higher. A foot of its black body was above the box.

"Ayah, ayah, ayah!" the snake charmer cried.

His head was within a foot.

Then like a blinding flash the snake struck.

The snake charmer drew back, but not fast enough. On his forehead two tiny spots apararen, and two tiny holes leaked blood. Steve, watching, knew that this man had been bitten by a black cobra, the most poisonous snake known to man.

"Ooah, ooah!" the snake charmer cried. He ran to him, holding out his hand. Steve gave him the ten francs, in American money the equivalent of forty cents.

"I will give you a thousand francs for the snake," he said.

The snake charmer looked cunning and said two thousand, and Steve came up two hundred and fifty and finally bought it for fifteen hundred, which was what he had intended to pay from the very beginning. He watched while the snake charmer put it back in the burlap sack.

The Arab— for he was a Bedouin and not a Berber— grinned again as he handed it to Steve.

"Have a care, Sidi, when you take the snake out."

"Why?" asked Steve.

"But, Sidi..." began the man. Then he read Steve's glance and laughed. "Thou art wise, Ferengi," he grinned.

As Steve turned away he saw Buck Eastman staring at him.

"So you bought one at that," cried the gun-runner.

"Yes," said Steve. "It's going to help me get Susan back."

He walked away, the burlap sack slapping his leg.

6: The Red Kasbah

THE medicin-chef, or chief surgeon, of the Foreign Legion hospital, was curious.

"So you want to see X-rays of bone formations, Monsieur Hilary. May I ask why?"

"Yes," replied Steve in French. "I am trying to rescue a girl who is in trouble and to do it I have to solve a murder."

The medicin-chef stared as if at an insane man. Then he shrugged.

"M'sieur will have his joke. Come and the roentgenologist will show you a selection." He handed Steve back his credentials and led the way to another room.

Here Steve began staring at countless X-ray photographs of gunshot wounds, fractures, osteomylitis diseases, and finally he saw two of acute arthritis deformans. The customary adhesions had enlarged the bones so that in a way they resembled the knobby formations he had seen on the dead Roland Biester.

The medicin-chef explained. "The difference in the adhesions is due to age. This one, for example, is a younger man. He would ordinarily have perfect bone structure, so that the arthritis deposits alone, are due to the disease."

He picked up another photograph and held the black and white shadows to the light. "This, however, is of an older man. The human skeleton, Monsieur, takes on arthritic deposits due to age alone. Thus, it is hard to tell how much is due to age and how much is due to the disease itself."

Steve turned suddenly pale and caught his breath.

"You can actually tell the age of a man by his skeleton?"

"Oh, but assuredly, Monsieur," said the chief surgeon. "One can tell within one or two years."

"Good God!" Steve thought. "There never was any intention of releasing Susan and Basel alive. They will be killed— and tonight. Unless—"

For the first time he knew fright, not for himself but for those two poor kids who had become pawns in murder and a gigantic theft. He was sick at the thought that perhaps nothing he might do could stop this new slaughter.

The peril to Susan and Basel drove him to risks he would ordinarily have avoided, for he liked to work unobtrusively and spring surprises that shocked the truth into confessions. But he couldn't now.

He hurried into the souks, that smelly, filthy labyrinth wherein a hundred thousand Moors work and trade, and love and hate. He bought a djellab, a kaffan, an egale and a kafieh, those being the elements of Moorish garb. For a few francs he got a walnut stain that darkened his skin. He did not need much. He was already deeply tanned.

In the back of the souk of the leather workers he donned his costume. From his belt fastened around his naked hips he slung the burlap sack and the cobra. On the lanyad to which Moors usually fix their curved scimitars, he fastened his big Luger.

Then he cased the Red Kasbah.

This was a blow. The Red Kasbah was a huge sprawling palace made of red clay and camel dung. Before the Shereefian government, it had been owned by the Sultan of Turkey and troops had barracked there. But, for years, it had stood unused, save by the beggars and paupers. And lately, they had been kept out by steel gates. These had been put up by Sir Zerby Quintaro who had bought the Kasbah from the Pasha of Marrakech.

THERE were two entrances to the Red Kasbah, one from the souks, and the other from the military road that led south to the Atlas. It meant Steve could not see all who came in, nor all who left. This was the source of his disapointment.

He might be terribly outnumbered, and there was no chance, really, for surprise. But somewhere in the Red Kasbah, Susan and Basel were hidden —or would be brought there. Whatever the handicap of its construction, here was where the pay-off would be.

With his flashlight concealed beneath his djellab, Steve stole into the Red Kasbah from the souks entrance. He had hoped that he might find Susan and Basel before the time to pay the ransom arrived. But he found nothing.

Bats flew dismally around his ears. Two sand asps hissed at his feet. He went through twenty different rooms. Dust and dry rot was everywhere.

He shrugged and returned to the entrance from the south military road. He could only watch one. He would gamble on this.

Never in his life had minutes crawled so slowly. Never in his life had he crouched immobile, knowing that two young people might be dying at that very instant. But he waited. Then out of the blackness came a man. A solar topee, white linen suit, a European. Steve couldn't see his face. He was not alone. Behind came two Berbers, their loose slippers slapping loudly on the sandstone.

The white man spoke in Arabic.

"Ali, stay here and watch for him. Lead him to me when he comes."

The voice was Buck Eastman's.

The Berber spoke assent, crouched down in the shadows. Steve heard a knife jingle.

Eastman went inside with the other native. Steve followed.

This became easy now, for Eastman had a flashlight and made no attempt to be secretive. And so Steve saw why his earlier search had been futile. In what was evidently an old guardroom there were two archways boarded up. Steve had tried both and gotten nowhere.

Now, Eastman banged at one of them and the whole board partition fell away, opening a passageway, He and the native went in.

Steve followed— and stumbled. The floor of this new room was higher.

"Wallah!" husked the native in fear.

Click!

Eastman doused the flashlight. The blackness was impenetrable. Steve heard another soft click. Eastman had pushed the safety off his automatic pistol. Steve knew the man was tense, desperate, crouched there ready to fire at the slightest sound. And, out of seven shots, an old hand like Eastman wouldn't miss. Steve listened.

Utter silence!

Working with maddening slowness, so as to make no noise, Steve unfastened the burlap sack and lowered it to the floor. He loosed the purse string at the top of the bag.

Then he silently moved to the right, hugging the wall, holding his breath that its sound might not betray him.

AND the silence continued, Then the cobra sliding out of his confinement made a soft rustling sound.

Crash!

The blackness of the room lit to the flashes of Eastman's gun. The roar pounded on the ears. And in the flashes Steve spotted Eastman, not five feet away. The Berber was crouched across the room, ten yards away.

Taking advantage of the last flash, Steve jumped the intervening distance, slammed his Luger muzzle into Eastman's stomach.

"Its me, Hilary," he said softly. "Only my thumb is holding the trigger."

He felt the starch go out of Eastman.

"Drop your rod, Buck."

The gun thudded on the earthen floor.

"Light the flashlight."

A click and the room was once again lit brightly. Eastman's face, red with baffled fury, turned to Steve Hilary.

He cursed.

"Give me the flash," said Steve calmly, "then go over and tie up the Moor."

Sullenly, using the man's turban, Buck Eastman obeyed. Then he stood dourly waiting.

"All right, take me to Susan and Basel," Steve said.

"I don't know where they are."

"And you were laying for me here."

In two steps Steve reached him. He jabbed him with the Luger gun muzzle, jabbed him hard.

"I'm in no mood for kidding, Buck," he growled. "I want those kids and I want them now."

"But damn it all," shouted Eastman furiously, "I don't know where they are. To hell with you!"

"I see," said Steve softly. "Buck, I could pistol whip it out of you— like this," and Steve slammed the gun barrel against Eastman's pulsing throat. "Those kids mean a lot to me."

"But I don't know where they are," growled Eastman.

Steve slapped him again.

"Dish it out," sneered Eastman, "I'm tough, and I don't know."

Steve swore softly, baffled. Then his gaze caught the sheen of a long black rope wriggling across the floor.

"Okay, Buck," he said softly. "There's my black cobra over there. I'll leave you with him— and see how tough you really are."

Eastman's eyes bulged. Sweat of terror broke out on him. The Moor groaned and called on Allah for deliverance. Sensing something, the cobra coiled and his head rose, hooded, and his eyes shone iridescently as he watched them.

Eastman groaned. "I don't know where the kids are, now. I swear it."

"What do you mean?"

"It wasn't me who put the snatch on them."

"Then who did?" asked Steve.

"Sir Zerby Quintaro himself."

7: Eastman's Story

ANGER flared in Steve's eyes.

"Stop lying," he growled hotly.

"But I ain't lying ma so help me God. I went out to Quintaro's joint last night because I was gonna collect a half million— or else. I had it all fixed to get through I had snippers, and I had the wire. Hassein there with me. I figured once I got inside I'd grab Quintaro or his kid and hold him until I could get one of his checks cashed and get out of Morocco.

"But when I got through the wire I found the front door open. I smelled something that made me dizzy, so I backed out plenty quick and waited to see what was coming off.

"A minute later Sir Zerby Quintaro, wearing a gas mask, came out of the house carrying the body of a man. He had the body wrapped up so I couldn't see who it was. But I figured it was Biester. That's his secretary. Biester knew plenty about Quintaro, and maybe he was putting the blackmail spot on him. I wouldn't know about that. But Quintaro hated him.

"Quintaro came back again, came out with a clock mechanism. Whatever it was, I heard it tick."

"It was a firebug's time clock to touch off the summer house fire," said Steve. "Go on."

"Quintaro came out two more times. The first time it was his own kid, Then he came out with the girl you was talkin' about yesterday. He put them in a car and drove out. I followed him.

"I didn't know what was really up. I don't yet. But I knew the first guy he carried out was dead as hell, I figured Quintaro cooled him And if I had the goods on him he'd have to shower down like a jackpot.

"I tailed him to this here Red Kasbah, but I lost him inside The lousy place is a labyrinth.

"I saw him come out, though, alone. I heard him say— I was crouched by the door— 'the ransom note— the ransom note.'

"Today, I know, he drew a million bucks out of the bank. And I knew he was coming here with it. So I came, ready to get that dough, and more besides."

"How did you know about this room?" asked Steve.

Eastman moved farther away from the cobra.

"Hassein knew about it. I wanted to case the joint first and maybe grab the kids myself."

"Then you think Sir Zerby murdered Roland Biester?"

"He's dead, ain't he?"

"You're trying to tell me that Sir Zerby snatched his own son and the girl, and then wrote himself a fake ransom note."

"That's right," said Eastman doggedly.

"It's fantastic," muttered Steve. "It could only make sense if Quintaro was scheming to cover his murder of Biester and blame it on you."

"The rat," growled Eastman.

"And you haven't any idea where Susan and Basel are?"

"No. If I did rd get them and surprise Quintaro for the whole million."

"As it is," spoke a new, harsh voice, "it is you who are surprised."

Steve whirled but he was too late. As he pivoted Sir Zerby Quintaro clicked his own flashlight. He leveled his pistol.

"Neither of you will blackmail me, or otherwise interfere," he said collly.

The pistol in his hand flashed twice.

Steve had hurled himself to the floor, shooting upward as he fell. He missed Quintaro but he had the phenomenal luck to hit the baronet's flashlight.

ONCE again the Kasbah was plunged into blackness. But Steve's own flashlight had fallen so he had no advantage until he found it.

Before he had scarcely started groping for the light, he heard Sir Zerby's voice outside the room.

Speaking in Greek. Whatever he had said, men were coming into this room. And then Sir Zerby called in Arabic for Selim, and a light.

A large gasoline lantern flared in the next room. By its light Sir Zerby's men could slaughter them.

The black cobra had evidently slithered away in the dark.

"You can play with me and shoot it out," Steve whispered hoarsely to Eastman, "or we both fold up here for keeps."

"Gimme my rod," said Eastman. "You're a square guy. Say I get my dough and I'll shoot it out."

"You get your dough," said Steve. He slipped Eastman his gun.

As he did so he heard movement in the room,

Out of the shadows the two Greek wrestlers bore down upon him and Eastman. At the same instant Quintaro came to the threshold and by the new light re-opened fire. The gun's explosions crashed and eddied like cannon roars.

But Steve was not in line with the slugs. The Greek coming toward him with the upraised knife suddenly stopped as Steve charged him. Steve jerked the man's body to him as a shield. With his gun he broke the Greek's knife arm with a bullet.

But that wasn't really necessary, because Quintaro's slugs were going accurately. The Greek screamed horribly. Then the body in Steve's arms sagged and jumped convulsively every time a bullet hit it. One slug went through, tore into Steve's clothing.

Steve twisted to see how Eastman was faring. The gun-runner was on the floor, rolling with the Greek, choking in some strangle grip. When he turned back Quintaro had a new gun and was walking slowly toward him. Steve cursed and threw the corpse.

Quintaro dodged and as Steve Hilary bounded after it the baronet started to shoot. But Steve's gun already was raised. It was a snap shot, aimed as instinctively as you point your finger.

A gout of blood leaped from Quintaro's shoulder and he whirled to the impact of the big German slug. He collapsed slowly and the gun fell from his paralyzed hand. Steve kicked it swiftly away and turned to face the door.

But Selim, who held the light, wanted no fight.

Steve yelled, "Eastman," and then turned to see what was happening there. He was in time to see Eastman smashing his gun butt against the skull of the Greek. Eastman came over to him then, his neck running blood, his face purple and his lips swollen.

"Damned near had me," he muttered, "Dirty holds."

"Watch Quintaro," Steve said,

Steve strode to Selim and drove the gun muzzle into the man's big belly.

"All is made known now," he said in Arabic. "Tell me where the boy and the sitt are, and I will speak well of you. Fail and the Franswazi will shoot you."

SELIM quivered gelatinously.

"Come, Effendi, I will take you."

The passageway was there to the right, filled with rubble that had to be pushed aside to let a man through. Selim went first with the light. Then Steve went down the time-worn steps and saw the reddish-gold of Susan's hair, the brave blue of her eyes. He cut her loose.

"See to Basel," she whispered. "Steve, he..." and she collapsed.

Steve cut the boy loose. "I can't stay here and look after her," Steve said. "Anyway, that's your job. Can you do it?"

"I'm all right," said the boy hoarsely.

"Then bring her around and get upstairs first. I'm going to need you to straighten out this mess."

He made Selim leave the gasoline lamp. As they groped up the stairs Steve heard new voices.

As he reached the top of the steps he cursed softly at what he saw. The khaki of Foreign Legionnaires, the trim gold braided kepi of an officer who had a big Ruby pistol in his hands, greeted his eyes.

And Quintaro from the floor was saying harshly, "Arrest Hilary and Eastman. They were the kidnapers of my son and the girl."

"Drop your weapon, Monsieur," said the officer sharply to Steve. He spoke a quick order and his men raised their Lebel rifles and covered Eastman and Steve.

8: Pay-Off

LETTING his gun drop, Steve chuckled softly.

"Nice going," he said to Quintaro, "but it won't work."

"The hell it won't," groaned Eastman.

"Them two kids was gassed out when he snatched them. They don't know who grabbed them."

Sir Zerby Quintaro turned to the officer, "I charge them with abduction and murder. Lock them up and I will speak to your commanding officer tomorrow about the court-martial. I am Sir Zerby Quintaro."

"Don't do it, Lieutenant," said Steve quietly. "He is not Sir Zerby Quintaro."

The officer looked bewildered.

"The man is insane," Quintaro said sharply. "Look at me, Lieutenant, any fool can see who I am. Pay no attention to him."

The lieutenant stared hard at the white-haired man.

"I only saw you once at the barracks, Monsieur," he said, "but to me you are Sir Zerby Quintaro." He shrugged. "We are the patrol. We saw lights in here so we investigated. You own the place, of course, so I beg pardon."

"He doesn't own anything, Lieutenant," said Steve. "He's a murderer. He murdered Sir Zerby Quintaro. On him you'll find a million dollars. He came here to kill a boy and a girl. And he has an airplane waiting to take him away. Let him go now and you won't catch him again and you will lose your commission."

"Why— er— nonsense," said the lieutenant.

"Oh, Basel, say something," cried Susan from the stairway. "You know Steve saved our lives."

"I know but— but," stuttered Basel palely, "it looks like father. I..."

"Of course I'm your father," snapped Sir Zerby. "Don't be taken in by this conspiracy, not only to steal two hundred thousand quid from me, but also to marry you to that girl."

Steve laughed heartily. "Nice going, Biester," he said, "but it just won't do. You've overlooked one point."

"Biester!" shouted Eastman, in amazement.

"Biester!" cried Basel.

The white-haired man flung back his head. "This is preposterous, calling me Biester. Biester is dead."

"No," said Steve quietly, "but Sir Zerby is." He held up his hand to get silence.

"Listen, all of you, because this is how it is," he said. "Yesterday or the day before— or the day before that— Roland Biester killed Sir Zerby Quintaro. His whole problem was one of getting rid of the body and escaping quickly with a fortune in cash.

"Biester himself wore a brown mustache and imperial, presumably imitating his master, actually waiting for this moment. He used a platinum hair-dye. He had been secretary to the man so long, he knew his every attitude and gesture.

"The only people he couldn't fool were his three Greeks and Selim, the butler. So they were cut in. They were to fly with him tomorrow to London in the plane.

"He could fool his own son for a short time because Basel had been three months in the Legion and had seen his father only once. Right?"

He turned to Basel.

"I did not see him closely this time," said Basel. "And I've seen him only once or twice since my youth."

"It was not a question of permanent impersonation," Steve went on. "All Biester wanted to do was draw a million dollars and get away safely. Then he could shave his face, change his appearance, and be reasonably safe, provided that Basel Zerby was not alive to make a fuss and demand a police investigation. He had to kill Basel."

"Nonsense," said the white-haired man. "How could I forge Sir Zerby's thumbprint?"

"You didn't," said Steve grimly. "That was the beauty of it. After you had killed him you rolled his thumbprint on two blank checks. His dead thumb!"

Steve glanced at the lieutenant. The man was listening intently.

"Then," continued Steve, "you went to the bank and pretended to roll your thumb on the check. But you really didn't. You had paraffin on your thumb and it left no print at all. But it did leave a flake of wax which was the first tip-off to me."

"A very neat theory," said the white-haired man, "but I will leave it to a hundred witnesses that I am Sir Zerby."

'Don't be a sap," said Steve. "There are two giveaways that you can't beat."

"What?" cried the man.

"X-rays, you fool," said Steve.

"Yours is the body of a young man. Your skeleton will be young. Sir Zerby was sixty-eight years old and there are doctors at the hospital in Marrakech who can X-ray you and tell your age within five years."

He saw the blank paleness sweep Biester's face. He laughed grimly.

"And suppose we just rolled a thumbprint of yours and compared it to Quintaro's thumbprint on file."

Biester's face dropped wide open, but only for a second. The rifles of the legionnaires were trained on Eastman and Steve. The lieutenant was looking at Steve, trying to comprehend this denouement. For a second nothing stood in the way of Biester.

He turned and with a curse he hurled himself past the legionnaires, and as he ran he crashed into the lieutenant and knocked him flat.

That delayed him just long enough for Eastman to plunge forward and swing a right hook. Biester's head shot backward at the punch and he crashed to the floor.

Steve fell bodily on the impostor.

"Easy, Biester," he said grimly. "You're lucky. Out here they shoot you for murder— no guillotine."

Then the lieutenant took charge.

"As I was saying," Steve went on, "Biester's main motive for killing Quintaro, was to get a million dollars. All the rest of this was to cover up. By pretending that his son and Susan were kidnaped, he had a reason for their disappearance and death. He also had a reason to order a plane to be here to fly him away, pretending to hope to recover his son and get him away from this dangerous place. After he brought Susan and Basel here he went back to bed to pretend he had been gassed, too.

"Also, even if he was caught later, the destruction of Sir Zerby's body by fire, and its subsequent burial here, where corpses become dust quickly, would enable him to beat a murder rap. He'd say Sir Zerby was alive and who could prove the man wasn't? He had seen to it, by using Sir Zerby's great power and prestige, that the serial numbers of the bills weren't taken down."

"Enough," said the lieutenant, "We shall take X-rays and a thumbprint to prove your point. But I believe you. Now, all of you come along to the barracks."

THE NEXT morning at ten o'clock Steve Hilary sat on the terrace of the Café du Glacier, drinking a quart of beer. It was getting awfully hot.

Susan and Basel hurried up to him and he saw thaat Basel was in civilian clothes, a black armband sewn to the suit.

"The court-martial will find Biester guilty," Basel said. "He will be shot next Tuesday." He saw Steve's eyes on the suit. "I bought my way out," he added. "I've much to attend to now. But not the way my father did. I will sell no munitions."

"Then that much good has come out of it," said Steve.

He looked past the boy and saw Eastman coming toward the C.T.M. office.

"I wanted to say, you would consider working for me?" said the boy.

Eastman clumped onto the terrace, saw Steve's look and nodded, patted his pocket. He gestured to the boy.

"He paid it himself, in cash, all on the up-and-up," said Eastman.

"Well," grinned Steve, "you see what comes of doing your good deed for the day."

"Would you shake hands?" Eastman asked.

"Why the hell not?" countered Steve, giving him a grip.

After Eastman had gone Basel repeated his request. "I need a man like you."

"I wish you would, Steve," said Susan

"Yeah, " said Steve, not looking at her. "I know you do. But I've been living out of a suitcase too long to settle down. Thanks, but no. Meanwhile, on your way. I've got my drinking to catch up on."

As he paused, Susan stepped forward, kissed him on the lips. Her own warm ones were fragrant. Then she stepped back.

"I'll never forget you, Steve," she said.

"And I'Il never forget you," said Steve slowly. To himself he added: "I wish to God I could!"

_______________

2: How I Heard My Own Will Read

M. E. Braddon

Mary Elizabeth Braddon, 1835-1915

Belgravia Feb 1867

Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Author the the sensational best-seller "Lady Audley's Secret", 1862, endlessly reprinted and filmed several times; and some 80 other novels and numerous short stories. She was founder of Belgravia Magazine, and editor of Temple Bar.

IT WAS WRONG to be led away by Scavenger. Scavenger was the third favourite for the St. Leger; and a sporting prophet of some celebrity, Mr. Mooney Dooem, of Little Hocus-street, London-road, Manchester, assured me, for the moderate consideration of three shillings and sixpence in postage stamps, that if I wanted to do a good thing for myself, the way to set about it was to back Scavenger with all the loose cash I could lay my hands on.

Now, I am not a sporting man, and I don't know much of horseflesh. If I had met Scavenger drawing a parcels-delivery van, my sense of the fitness of things would not have been jarred by the circumstance; nevertheless, I like a race. Yes, I am passionately devoted to a race. I make a point of taking Mrs. Pettifer to Epsom and Hampton races every spring. I like champagne and lobster-salad. I like to wear a green veil, and to talk to admiring servant-girls at open windows on the dusty road. I used to like chaffing the toll-keeper— one feels so witty in a barouche and pair. I like having my fortune told. I like coming home in the evening with my mind in a pleasing state of uncertainty as to whether it is the day before yesterday or the day after to-morrow; and I like finishing the evening with iced punch, another lobster, and a "frienly rub-r-r-r."

So I backed Scavenger. On Saturday I gave six to five on him, on Monday I gave five to four on him, and on Tuesday my partner Peck (Peck and Pettifer, solicitors, Gray's-inn) made me give him seven to three on that abominable brute. Peck always backs the field. He is a cautious man, and never means to marry. He makes unpleasant puns about not wanting to be hen-Pecked. I have laughed at that doleful joke so long from sheer habit, that if I heard it in a funeral sermon I believe I should burst into a loud guffaw; and I give you my honour I never thought it funny in the whole course of my life. I am rather afraid of Peck, if the truth must be told, for I think he looks down upon me. I remember once, after a jovial night we had together, going to the office next morning with a labyrinth of streaky red marks all over my face; and when I told him that I had awoke and found the cat walking over my face, he looked as if he didn't believe me.

I backed Scavenger; and then it struck-me that as Peck was going down to Doncaster for the St. Leger week, I really ought to go too. I could afford the week's holiday quite as well as Peck, though I was not a single man. So I told Mrs. Pettifer that I must run down to Yorkshire to wait on one of our best clients, who was going to marry his eldest daughter (to somebody else of course), and who required my professional services for the preparation of the settlements. Now I suppose Yorkshire sounded rather vague, for Mrs. Pettifer asked immediately what part of Yorkshire I was going to. I replied, as immediately, Slitherem-on-the-Dwingey. Now I don't know of any town answering to that name in Yorkshire; but that is no reason there should not be such a place, and I thought the address would be reassuring to Mrs. P.; and so it was. Unfortunately, she wanted me to write it down. I could not have spelt it if you had offered me a million of money; so I told my esteemed Julia Maria that I would write to her the minute I reached Slitherem; and so departed.

That brute Scavenger was nowhere, and my loose cash was jingling in the pockets of the prudent Peck half an hour after the great race. The cup was won by an outsider of obscure lineage, a rawboned chestnut animal with one white foreleg, which made him look as if he had dressed himself in a hurry and had forgotten to put on his other stocking. Peck had backed him, and came away from the course with his leathern pocket-book distended, as in a dropsy, with bank-notes. I hated him with a deep and undying hatred; but as he asked me to dine with him at the Reindeer, I went.

He is a brute (perhaps I have said that before), but he is, on the whole, a generous brute, and he gave me a very good dinner. They know what a bottle of champagne is at the Reindeer, I can tell you ; they can send you up something very creditable in the way of sparkling hock; and if you've a fancy for a bottle of old madeira, such as might rival Captain Cook for sea-voyages, don't be afraid to order it. We had some of that madeira with our fish. We didn't go into "sparkling" till the next course came in ; and when we were tired of champagne, we went in for burgundy. I think it was some time in the fourth course that I was rather annoyed by the very peculiar conduct of a partridge. It began by his sliding about my plate, and persistently eluding my fork; he then dipped— yes, this malicious bird absolutely dipped down, plate and all, as if he were taking a sensation header, or going through a trap in the table-cloth. Next he dodged me— yes, dodged me from side to side; concealed himself behind the bread-sauce to avoid my knife; till on my making a final effort to pinion him with my fork, he took to himself wings and flew away— into Peck's shirt-front. I believe this gave rise to high words between Peck and me; but I know we afterwards shook hands; and there was something so really touching in our reconciliation that I wept. It was foolish of me to wipe my eyes upon my dinner-napkin, because I thereby introduced foreign particles in the way of crumbs and mustard into those optics, which injured my sight for the rest of the evening; but Peck said my conduct did equal honour to my head and my heart. I think it was in the course of a speech he said this; and I believe he paid me some very high compliments on my professional capacity and unblemished integrity. I felt grateful to him, though he pronounced it  'feshnl cpcty,' and "nblmshd tgrity," and I didn't quite catch his meaning. This, o f course, was after the cloth was removed, and we were taking our port and walnuts.

I don't know what brought Julia Maria (Mrs. Pettifer) so vividly to my recollection at this time, but the image of that injured woman did recur to me, and my feelings got the better of me. I had not acted well towards the wife of my bosom. I had not kept my promise; I had never written to her from Slitherem-on-the-Dwingey; partly because I had not been there, and partly because I did not believe there was any place of that name in the map of England.

How we came to think about the theatre, I don't know ; perhaps it was because we had received a circular from the manager of that place o f entertainment, perhaps it was the landlord who suggested the idea, perhaps it was the waiter; at any rate there was Peck standing with his back to the fireplace (O, what had he been doing to himself to make himself so indistinct and undulating?)— there was Peck, looking at his watch and saying that it was only half-past nine, and that we might as well go and look in at the theatre.

I don't know whether earthquakes are indigenous to Doncaster, but that town was certainly agitated by some convulsion of nature on this particular evening; and as the inhabitants appeared quite undisturbed by the phenomenon, I conclude that it was quite a common occurrence.

As to that man who told us the nearest way to the theatre, I hope he may come to an untimely end. Nearest way indeed! "Bear to your left down the street opposite, and then turn sharp round the first comer you come to, into a narrow lane." I did bear to my left, whereby I bore right into a horse's mouth, and received a torrent o f abuse from a stable-boy riding the quadruped. The lad had been drinking— they will do it at these times!— so I forgave him. Then, as to turning sharp round the comer, did I not turn sharp round the comer, and did I not do the bridge of my nose a serious injury against the brickwork of the corner house? I have never quite understood how we ultimately made our way into the theatre; but I think it was side-ways, because I know something seemed to be taking me into the Market-place, which, as everybody knows, is adjacent to that building. Peck took me into a box near the stage. Peck is a play-going man, quotes Shakespeare and Maddison Morton in his conversation. I take my family to see the pantomimes every Christmas; beyond that I am not a connoisseur. The play was Hildebrand the Avenger, or the Spectre of the Mount. Peck said it was trash; I thought it interesting. Mrs. Hildebrand was a widow, Hildebrand having been murdered at some remote period. She wore black-cotton velvet, ornamented with spiky embellishments in crochet-work. I knew it was cotton velvet, because it looked brown, and clung around her queenly form as she walked. She also wore pearls in her hair— the correct costume I daresay o f widows in the time o f Hildebrand the A. She was rather a big woman, and she might have been younger; but she was a model o f conjugal propriety; and 0 , didn't she annihilate Hildebrand's bad brother in yellow boots, when he revealed a guilty passion which he had ehee-yerished— he pronounced it " chee-yerished"— for a space o f some ten or twenty years! Now I should have enjoyed this dramatic entertainment very much,— for I felt a strong interest in the female Hildebrand, and I rather admired Yellow-boots, though he was a consummate villain, and had three supernumerary consummate villains, dressed in green baize and bluchers, always ready to carry out any scheme of a criminal description,— but there was a virtuous steward, who talked a great deal more than any body else, and who seemed to obtain all the applause. I don't knowhow he came to be connected with the partridge that had so aggravated me at dinner; but he— the virtuous steward— was nearly related to that malignant bird, and from the moment he spied me in the comer o f the boxes, he made a dead-set at me. Yes, at me! The abominable and abusive language he used, I shall never forget. O, ah ! he might pretend he meant it for Yellow-boots (the noble-er Count-er, as he called him ); but when he said that "the man who didn't do so and so deserved the most ignominious treatment," it was at me he levelled his denunciations, and I felt myself the focus of a whole houseful of indignant eyes. I told Peck o f this fact, but he said he had not observed it. Peck never observes anything. I asked my partner if there was anything in my appearance calculated to attract the attention o f that obnoxious steward; and P. said I did look rather pale. Suppose I did; was that the virtuous steward's business or mine, pray? and was I to ask his permission before I turned pale? I felt pale, and I rather fancied I looked interesting: that black ballet-girl with the eyes— I mean that ballet-girl with the black eyes— thought so, to judge by the way she stared at me. Well now, who do you suppose that virtuous steward was? The most experienced playgoer would have failed to fathom that secret. That virtuous steward was Hildebrand himself, who had been cleaning his own plate in his own butler's pantry, and waiting on his own wife, and depriving himself of all the comforts and privileges of his station for ten years; for the sake of keeping his eye on Yellow-boots, who had intended to murder him, but had foolishly intrusted the carrying out of the business to one of the supernumerary villains, who had evidently made a regular fiasco of it. Now, was not that idea charmingly original? I 'm sure, when the virtuous steward threw off a white beard and a black cloak (how ever did he clean his plate or draw his corks in that cloak?), you might have heard a pin drop. I did distinctly hear the wire springs of the beard when it fell on the stage. And then there was such a burst of applause! And then poor Yellow-boots (he was a handsome young man, and would have been graceful if he had only been more settled in his ideas as to what he should do with his arms) was led away by his own minions, with a view to instantaneous execution. Perhaps he had been behind-hand with their wages, for they really seemed glad to do it.

How ever it came about, I don't know; but all of a sudden we were behind the scenes. It was very dark, and there were a good many stairs, and somebody tumbled down, and I hurt myself. Peck knew the manager; and it was by some occult and back-stairs influence on the part of Peck that we had gained admittance to those sacred precincts. And there was Yellow-boots dressed in the costume of private life, smoking a meerschaum-pipe, and playing dominoes with the virtuous steward. My first impulse was to strangle the V.S., on account of those abusive remarks he had made about me; but Peck said I had better not; and then I found that I actually had a strong feeling of friendship for the V.S., and that I should respect and admire him to my dying day.

I think presently the manager wanted to turn me out, because I was something that began with a d, and disorderly. I knew that I was a model of gentlemanly propriety, and that the remark was the emanation of an envious mind; so I did not resent it. But Peck told the manager I was a jolly good fellow, and as quiet as a lamb when I was something that began with an s; and he invited the manager to come and sup with us at the Reindeer, which the manager consented to do.

They gave us a spatch-cock and curried lobster for supper; and this time we tried the sparkling moselle, quite a lady's wine, and not the sort of stuff to get into your head, especially if you laid a good foundation of old dry sherry and bitter beer, as I did. Wasn't that manager a glorious fellow too ? And couldn't he sing a comic song too? And did not Peck and I join in the chorus? O, it was such a song! There were seven murders and nine ghosts in it; and really, though you were ready to expire with laughing while you heard it sung, it was not the sort of thing to think of afterwards when you found yourself alone in the dark.

After supper I proposed the manager, with all the honours; and the manager proposed Peck and me, with all the honours; and we drank the theatrical profession, out of compliment to the manager; and the manager proposed the law, out of compliment to Peck and me. Did he not make a witty speech about landsharks and bilge water? I believe it was extracted from the drama of Black-eyed Susan; but the manager passed it off as original. And then Peck returned thanks in a speech that was positively affecting; and then we drank the ladies— not that there were any present, but the fair sex in general; Peck said, the black-eyed ballet-girl in particular: but of course Peck is a single man. And then we went to the station.

Yes, we went to the station, though I don't particularly remember how we went. We had been to bed, of course, because it was six o'clock to-morrow morning, and there we were at the station. We might have had a cab, or we might have walked down and carried our carpet-bags ourselves— I can't say which; but I am ready to make an affidavit that it was six o'clock A.M., and there we were on the platform. How that clerk we took our tickets from came to be my second cousin Mary Jane Thomas's husband, who died when I was a little boy, I don't know; but Mary Jane T.'s husband he was; and what's more, I was not in the least surprised to see him. Neither did I perceive anything incongruous in the conduct of the manager, though, on my turning round to wish him good-bye, he all at once grew so like my great aunt Storkins— Aunt Storkins was in trade once, and no Pettifer ever would notice anybody connected with trade— that I could have taken him for that elderly individual, if I had not known all the time that he was the manager as well.

Talk of a long journey! I conclude we went express, because we didn't stop anywhere; but, upon my honour, it seemed to me as if we began that journey in the period of the old red sandstone, and didn't reach our destination till the reign of Queen Victoria. Eons and eons seemed to pass away, and still that Wandering Jew of an express-train tore onward on its interminable course; and there was Peck sitting opposite me eating sandwiches the whole time. He wasn't always Peck, by the bye; sometimes he was Earl Russell; once he was the Emperor Nero, with a faint tinge of Mr. Alfred Tennyson; but there was an under-current of himself perceptible all the time.

How we came to pass Bagdad I don't know, unless it was through the stupidity of the engine-driver; but I remember somebody pointing to a city which seemed to be constructed of brick-and-mortar pepper-boxes and fish-sauce bottles with tall stoppers, and which Peck declared to be that ancient capital of the Saracenic Caliphs. In spite of everything, we reached London by half-past ten a.m.; and before I knew where I was, I found myself opposite my own door, No. 4 Montefiasco-villas, Denmark-hill.

When I say my own door, I am bound to add that at first I could hardly believe it to be my own door; for of all the stylish funerals I ever remembered seeing, the most stylish was just starting from No. 4 Montefiasco-villas. Such ponderous mutes! I knew the grief depicted in their rubicund faces could not have cost a trifle. Such feathers! I clung convulsively to the palings, for my thoughts reverted to Julia Maria. I remembered the guilty deception which had attended my departure from home, and I felt a conscience-stricken man. Our parlour-maid Mary was standing at the garden-gate, gaping after the dismal cortege.

I gasped out, "Whose funeral? Not your mistress's?"

"No, sir; master's." Yes; she said it quite distinctly; "master's."

"Stop a minute," I said. "Collect yourself, Mary; you may have been availing yourself of a false key to the cellaret. Calm yourself, my good girl, and try back. Whose funeral?"

"Master's, sir. Fatal collision" (she said "klision") "on the Slitherem-on-the-Dwingey Railroad. Poor Mr. Pettifer brought home on a shutter!"

Slitherem-on-the-Dwingey. The girl had the name of that mysterious vicinity as pat as I have my A B C,— perhaps patter. I was a little thrown off my moral equilibrium, but I was not going to give way; so I said,

"Don't you know me, Mary?"

The girl stared at me with that vacuous expression peculiar to the lower classes.

"I never saw you before, sir, to my knowledge."

This was too much. I strode past the girl, and up the gravel walk; but she stopped me, and said she didn't think her mistress would see a stranger to-day. I used bad language; I said "Fiddlesticks' ends!" And I went into the house. She told me, this pert menial, to wipe my shoes on my own mat, that I might not injure my own carpet; and she looked at me, when she showed me into my own drawing-room, veiy much as if she thought I might mean to purloin some of my own nicknacks.

There was a newspaper on the table. I took it up mechanically. It was the Slitherem-on-the-Dwingey Chronicle and Monday Morning Advertiser. Good gracious me! this Slitherem-on-the-Dwingey— a place the very name of which I believed to be an emanation of my own brain, devised to pacify Mrs. Pettifer— seemed to have sprung into life by some mysterious agency, and to have become a flourishing city. The paper was full of advertisements, which plainly showed that Slitherem was a populous place. One column was marked with a long black streak, evidently the work of a soft quill-pen. I read that column. It was a detailed account of the fatal accident on the Dwingey Junction-line, between the stations of Slitherem and Slopeydreggon,— I never invented Slopeydreggon; that place was a frightful reality,— and of the subsequent death of Mr. Augustus Pettifer, solicitor, of Gray's-inn, from injuries received therein.

Yes; there were the full particulars. The engine had run off the bank, and I, with several other passengers, had been precipitated into a field at some distance from the railroad, fearfully mutilated. Fearfully mutilated! Yes; that was the expression.

The door opened, and admitted Julia Maria Pettifer, in tears and a widow's cap. In mourning for me! Things were really growing unpleasant.

"Julia Maria!" I was about to exclaim; but I had scarcely enunciated the J before she interrupted me by burying her face in her pocket-handkerchief with a sound as of choking. I felt very awkward; here was I expected to console my own wife for my own loss. After an embarrassing pause of some moments, Julia Maria emerged from behind the pocket-handkerchief. I don't know what she had been doing, but her eyes were not at all red. I took a note of that.

"Ah, sir," she said, "you perhaps were a friend of the dear departed." Well, I flattered myself I was.

"But," I ejaculated, "Ju—" She stopped me short at the Ju.

"In that case," she said, "I am sorry you did not arrive in time to attend the funeral. There was a vacant place in one of the carriages. Mr. Spivins had the toothache, and couldn't come."

O, Spivins had the toothache, had he! and it was too much trouble to.attend my funeral! I took another note of Spivins's toothache— I had lent Spivins money.

"But as you were a friend of the dear departed, you may like to hear the will read," continued my wife. "It will be read in the dining-room at one o'clock. You would perhaps wish to be present; you may be interested." Having said which, she went back into the pocket-handkerchief and out of the room.

Now what did it all mean? That was the question I put to myself. What did it all mean? Could it be possible that any impostor had had the impertinence to be killed on the Dwingey Junction in my name, brought home to my house on a shutter, and had even carried his audacity so far as to go and be buried in my coffin in my family vault in Norwood-cemetery? I had been induced to purchase a family vault by Julia Maria, though really I had thought it a foolish investment, because o f course if I died, somebody must bury me, or if they did not choose to go to that expense, it would be their look-out.

One thing may strike the reader as rather singular,— it struck me in that light myself,— namely, that I didn't explain myself; that I didn't say to Julia Maria, "Take ofi that widow's cap, and put that absurd handkerchief in your pocket, and draw the blinds up. For this is me ; and I never went to Slitherem-on-the-Dwingey in my life, and consequently never came home on a shutter;" and so on. The fact is, that I was continually trying to say these very words, and I continually couldn't. This failure I attributed to two causes. First, the pain at my chest— O, such a pain— a weight, an oppression! I don't suppose any body ever had an Atlas omnibus, full inside and out, settled on their lungs; but only a person who had laboured under such a disease could form a just estimate of my sensations. Secondly, really, what with the parlour-maid's asseverations, Julia Maria's mourning, and the graphic account of the accident in the newspaper, I was in a manner beginning to believe in Smitherem-on-the-Dwingey. Suppose I had been killed? Suppose I had been brought home on a shutter, and didn't know it? There was an awful situation!

I pinched myself; it was painful. There was a fire in the grate; I laid hold of the bars; that was painful, very, and I believe I swore; but O, it was such a comfort to feel that I was mortal, that I could have blessed anybody for treading upon my pet corn.

It was a nice thing to be asked into my own dining-room to hear my own will read. There was Peck, in a suit of black, with ebony death's-heads for studs,— he always had a playful fancy,— sitting in one of my morocco chairs at the top of my patent telescopic diningtable. He seemed to have forgotten all about Doncaster. I tried to recall it to his recollection, but a temporary paralysis of the vocal organs prevented me.

I suppose our dining-room must have been built on some newly-invented expanding principle, because it certainly was not as large as Exeter-hall when I left home; and in the matter of cubic feet it decidedly had the advantage of that edifice now.

It was really edifying to sit and hear how I had disposed o f my property. There was a picture I rather prided myself upon— a Titian, a genuine Titian. The man I bought it from said it was, and of course he ought to know. Now, I had bequeathed this picture to Peck ; Peck was not a bad fellow on the whole, and had stood my friend once or twice with Julia Maria after our Masonic dinner in Great Queen-street ; and what do you think was Peck's remark on reading the passage in my will which made him possessor of this gem ?

"Poor fellow!" he said; "I appreciate his kind feeling; but he wouldn't have known a Reynolds from a Morland, and he always considered Michael Angelo and Buonarotti two distinct artists. The thing is the vilest daub that ever came out of Wardour-street." I tried to express my indignation, but another touch of paralysis was too much for me, and I took another note. Peck— daub— Wardour-street. I had learnt Beniowski's system of artificial memory, and I checked off those three heads on the fire-irons.

After the will was read, we all gathered round the fire, and we really became quite sociable. Mary the parlour-maid brought in a tray of decanters. Didn't the wine go to work!— my '48 port in particular. I don't know who it was that suggested smoking; but we all looked at each other; and presently some one— I think it was Peck— said there was a box of poor Pettifer's cheroots in the sideboard drawer, and as it wasn't likely he would ever smoke them, we might as well blow a cloud. And so there was I, thanking Peck for one of my own cigars.

Our conversation was very melancholy at first; but presently we became a little more resigned; afterwards we grew quite cheerful; and at last, upon my word, we were almost uproarious. Peck told one of his best stories. I knew it by heart, and I laughed in the wrong place, and he scowled at me. I did it on purpose. Ha, ha! that vengeance at least was within my power. It was very pleasant, too, to be taken by the button and told a good story about myself, the point of which was, that I had made a consummate fool of myself; and I think if Peck told me one such story, he told me six; and what's more, I laughed— yes, I actually laughed.

I think it was Peck proposed that as we'd had a very melancholy morning, we should run down to Greenwich and take a bit of dinner at the Crown and Sceptre— of course in a quiet way.

"We shall find plenty of hansoms at Camberwell-green," said Peck; and off we went.

Now, when I say off we went, I mean to say off they went, for I did not go; and yet I wanted to go, and yet I kept continually trying to go, and yet I continually seemed to be goin g; but go I did not. Go I did not; for the substantial macadam of Denmark-hill transformed itself all in a moment into the airy nothingness of the Goodwin-sands, and I felt myself suddenly going down, down, down into a fathomless gulf, like another Edgar Ravenswood.

TWO broken wine-glasses, a plate of oyster and lobster shells, a play-bill, a candlestick, and my boots! When I opened my eyes at the bottom of the fathomless gulf, these were the articles which met my bewildered gaze. They were on the table above my head; my feet were in the boots, and I was lying on the floor of that apartment in the Reindeer in which Peck, the manager, and I had partaken of supper prior to my hearing my own will read. I was lying on my back on the floor, with my feet on the table above me; and that is not a pleasant attitude in which to abandon oneself to slumber. I had one cork-screw, two balance-handle knives, and the neck of a champagne-bottle exactly under the small o f my back. Those trifles did not add to the comfort of my position; and when I tell you that my head was against a sharp corner of the fender, and that I found the heel of the manager's varnished boot planted upon my chest, you will not perhaps wonder that I had assisted at the reading of my own will.

Yes, it had been only a hideous dream, after all; and there was the manager, asleep in an easy-chair, with my chest for a footstool, and looking quite aggravatingly comfortable. There was Peck, too in another easy-chair, with a pocket-handkerchief over his face, looking still more aggravatingly comfortable. We had a splendid breakfast, plenty of soda-water and green tea, and started (it really was to-morrow) by the afternoon express-train; and at eight o'clock in the evening I was seated before the social board, quaffing with Mrs. Pettifer the cup that cheers and does not do the other thing, in the sacred shelter of my own home.

I told her a good deal, if I did not tell her exactly all; and never again, Julia Maria, never again! No more Slitherem-on-the-Dwingeys, no more St. Leger stakes, no more Scavengers, no more Reindeers, and no more last wills and testaments. No; we will go to Epsom in the spring-time of the coming year, and hob and nob out of our modest bottle of moselle, as a steady married couple should do.

But, dream or no dream, I mean to revenge myself upon Peck for his impertinence about that picture

_______________

3: The Strange Case of Thomas Blakewitch.

Wm. E. Lanham

fl. 1890s

Belgravia Magazine, Feb 1896

Part 1. Related by Antony Marc, journalist.

IT WAS plainly evident that I needed a holiday, and I determined to have it; the only question was, where should I go?

I was feeling awfully out of sorts; couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and worst of all, couldn't work. To be sure, I managed to keep my pen going, and daily turned out a certain amount of "copy" for the journal on whose staff I had the honour to be engaged; but the work was done in a perfunctory manner, with a distinctly unsatisfactory result A novel, which, when completed, I believed would make a decided "hit," was lying upon my desk; I had written as far as "Chapter 18. How the murderer was tracked—"  and, for the life of me, couldn't add another sentence. Several short stories sent to magazines were "declined with thanks," and at last I received a delicate intimation from the editor of the Daily Fillip that my recent contributions had not been up to the mark of those which had procured me the staff appointment mentioned above, with an expression of hope that I should be able to give more satisfaction in future. This determined me. I would give myself a month's rest. I left that question of the murderer for mature deliberation, and turned my mind to the more interesting one of— where should I go?

Bath? Brighton? Jericho?— None of these places exactly suited my ideas of a restful retreat, "Far from the madding crowd," such as I longed for at present. At length I decided to run down to W——, an out-of-the-way little watering-place, in which my old friend, Dr. Quorn, had bought a large house and a small practice some three years before. He was a cut-anddried old bachelor, and for aught I knew, might be willing to receive me into his house during my brief holiday. At any rate, I should not be quite solitary, a stranger in a strange land, if I set up my tent in his neighbourhood.

And here I think it necessary to mention that the narration which follows has nothing to do with me personally; I am merely a go-between, as it were, from the Doctor to the reader. I shall endeavour to give a faithful report of what I heard from him in the course of conversation, and shall furthermore present the reader with a copy of a letter subsequently received from him: for the rest, I shall keep in the background as much as possible.

I found Dr. Quorn very comfortably settled in his house, with a cook who knew her business, and a housekeeper completely au fait on everything connected with the management of an old bachelor's establishment. He readily agreed, or rather himself, suggested, that I should become his guest while I stayed at W——.

One evening, when I had been with him about a week, we were sitting together in the miscellaneous apartment which was neither library, surgery, nor smoking-room, but a delightful mingling of all three; having lit our cigars and sampled a certain particularly fine brand of old whisky, on the possession of which the Doctor prided himself, we fell into rather rambling conversation. Among the topics we discussed, was that of hypnotism and kindred subjects. The Doctor was rather latitudinarian in these matters, and was disposed to give greater credence to the reported results of unauthorized experiments than is usually considered orthodox by the faculty in general. We theorized on the subject of doppelgangers, and whether it was possible for a person to be absent from the body during the life of the latter. Presently the Doctor said:

"Before I came here, I was acquainted with a gentleman named Thomas Blakewitch. He resided in a house which was his own property, situated in the neighbourhood of Gwillingham, where I was formerly in practice. A year before I left that place he disappeared, and I believe nothing has been heard of him since; but his case has recently been brought to my recollection by a singular circumstance. He was a hypnotist, if ever there was one; and moreover possessed of what I may call psychic powers, for which we at present lack a nomenclature.

"The house in which he lived was a sort of 'Sprites' Hall.' It was an old, worm-eaten, fungus-webbed manor-house; completely overrun with ivy in front, and shadowed behind by knotted, grotesque, witch-like trees, coeval with the mansion, was half surrounded by what had once been the moat, but was now a piece of stagnant water, coated with green scum; over which was thrown the crazy wooden bridge that led to the front door. It was a place only fit for owls and ghosts, but Blakewitch seemed to think there was some affinity between the uncanniness of the house and the peculiar pursuits of its occupant. And," added the Doctor, with a twinkle in his eye,"I don't know but what he might be right"

"What pursuits do you allude to?" I asked.

"Oh, he had all sorts of hobbies. He was of a scientific turn; indeed, our acquaintance began with his asking me to come and look at a curious machine he had had constructed from his own designs, and consisting of a powerful air-pump, attached to a long coffin-shaped receiver of ground glass; the novel thing about it was the shape and size of the latter, and an arrangement of cogs and springs by which the pump was made to work automatically upon pressing a button within the receiver. He was very reticent respecting the use to which he intended to put this machine. Also, he was a good musician. I never," said the Doctor, who was an enthusiast on the subject, and himself no despicable performer on the violin— "I never heard such strange voluntaries as he would improvise when the mood was on him. Their character was deeply tragic for the most part, but there were wild modulations into lighter moods of melancholy tenderness, and snatches of fanciful melody; in the brightest of which, however, ever and anon, a weird discord, like a Mephistophelean laugh, introduced the original m otif; and sombre harmonies led on to -the final crash, for," laughing, "he usually concluded with an earthquake. I daresay this sounds like nonsense to you— you don't care for music, or at least you don't enthuse over it. But the pursuits that I particularly alluded to were connected with the subjects we were speaking of: hypnotism and so forth. I believe he made experiments on everyone who would submit to them, and very likely tried to mesmerise himself. I have often wondered what he wanted that machine for. When he disappeared, his only living relative— a nephew— was staying at 'Sprites' Hall.' I had some correspondence with him— the nephew, I mean— and he informed me that he could not learn how his uncle had disposed of the machine, but it certainly was not in the house."

The Doctor paused to light a fresh cigar (he was a great smoker), and I asked: "What about the disappearance?"

"It happened just four years ago. Before that event, it had been noticed by the gossips of the neighbourhood that he sometimes was absent from home for days together, going and coming so mysteriously that nobody ever saw him depart or return. On this last occasion he went away in the same sudden and secret manner. Less notice would have been taken of his continued absence, if his nephew had not been his guest at the time."

"And how was it accounted for?" I enquired.

"There were all sorts of rumours afloat," he replied. "It was even said that he had been murdered, and as his nephew was his only relation, there were some who did not hesitate to accuse him of committing the crime, in order to become possessed of his uncle's property. These accusations, however, were never more than covertly suggested; and I, for one, believe them to be entirely without foundation in fact. It was reported, also, that he had fled the country in order to escape his creditors; but this is pure fiction, he was not in embarrassed circumstances. His nephew inserted advertisements in the leading newspapers and employed other means to discover what had become of him; but all without effect. Altogether, it is one of the most curious cases I ever came across."

Dr. Quorn sat silently puffing his cigar, apparently lost in reflection, for five minutes or so after he had said this; and I rose from my seat to look at a photograph in a little frame of silver filigree, that stood on the mantelpiece. It was the portrait of a man of very striking appearance, unusually so, I thought. The features were clear cut, and extremely refined; the hair and short beard, jet black; the upper lip short and curved, like that of Apollo in the old Greek statues; and the. shape and "set" of the whole head almost ideally graceful. The eyes, however, were very singular. They were dark and deep, and full of fire: even the photograph revealed that; but they had also such a vivid fixedness, such an intensity of expression, that I almost started when I encountered their glance, though they only gazed at me from framed cardboard.

"That," said the Doctor, looking up, " is the portrait of the man I have been speaking of— Thomas Blakewitch. He gave it to me a short time before he left Gwillingham— if he ever did leave it."

As I returned to my seat I remembered that my host had said something about the case being recalled to his memory by something that had happened since he came to W——, and I asked him what were the circumstances he had alluded to.

"It can only be a coincidence, a remarkable resemblance," Dr. Quom answered. " And yet, to me, there is something inexplicable about it. Shortly after I came to this place, or about eighteen months after Blakewitch was missing from his home, I was summoned to the bedside of a man ill of fever. His name is Bryant Stubbs, and he is a one-armed man. Understand me, the loss of his arm is not recent; nor indeed is it a mutilation that he suffers from : he was born so. That should go far to prove his identity! Nevertheless, when on approaching the bed, I caught the first view of my patient, I could have sworn that Thomas Blakewitch was lying before me. The expression of his eyes (have you noticed the keen look of those in the portrait?), the curl of the lip, nay, the very moulding of the features— was exact: it was Thomas Blakewitch to the life.

"But something far more extraordinary was to follow. This man was in a fever, and at times delirious. Now, what do you think? During his raving fits, he constantly spoke of Gwillingham, he mentioned things that had formed subjects of conversation between Blakewitch and myself when alone together; ay, and actually repeated our very words. Sometimes he imagined he was playing a musical impromptu; at others, he was engaged in some occult experiment; and he talked about the air-pump and glass coffin I have mentioned. Now this man, Bryant Stubbs, was in poor circumstances; his education had been neglected; and his conversation, when in health, and during the intervals of consciousness when suffering from fever, was generally neither polished nor intellectual. I say 'generally,' because it happens that every now and then he reverts to this— what shall I call it?— abnormal condition, and mystifies me, and other people also, by the suddenness with which he puts off Bryant Stubbs, and assumes Thomas Blakewitch. And whenever this occurs, it is accompanied, or rather preceded, by a remarkable change in the cast of his features, in his whole expression, even in the sound of his voice. Sometimes the change is instantaneous; at others it is gradual, one face coming slowly over the other, if I may so express myself: like the change from winter to spring, when the 'leaf' slide is pushed before the 'bare-bough' slide, at a magic-lantern entertainment. During the two-and-a-half years I have known him, there have been several transformations of this sort.

"Now, what do you think of all this? I may add that Stubbs has always lived at W——, and, so far as I can learn, has never been within a dozen miles of Gwillingham. What do you think of it?"

"Well," I replied, " it certainly seems very queer. I confess I cannot understand it. Are you sure you have not allowed your imagination to play you a trick, and exaggerate both the physical resemblance, and the coincidences of language and idiosyncrasy you speak of?"

"My dear Marc," answered Dr. Quorn, "do you think one trained in my profession would let himself be deluded by a fanciful imagination? It is usually the other way with us doctors; we are often accused of being too matter-of-fact, materialistic, or whatever you like to call it. No! I give you my word of honour, there is not the slightest shade of exaggeration in the account I have given you."

"Then," I said, "I own I am completely non-plussed, and unable to offer any suggestion that could help to solve the mystery."

A ring at the surgery bell put an end to our tête-à-tête.

"Wonder they've left me in peace so long," said the Doctor, as he hurried away.

The rest of the evening I had to myself.

A few days after this conversation, Dr. Quorn and I sallied forth to explore some romantic ruins in the vicinity. My companion was something of an antiquary, and I was glad to have him for a guide. Some scenes in my unfinished novel were to be enacted in the apartments of an old castle; an inspection of the venerable fabric we were about to visit, would enable me to give additional picturesqueness to my descriptions. It was a beautiful afternoon in early autumn. Heaven and earth were radiant. "The slumbrous light was rich and warm;" its mellow splendour transfigured the landscape; amber glory was spread over land and sea.

There is a great difference between spring and autumn sunshine. The sunshine of spring is intense, exhilarating; it sparkles like new wine. It is bright and clear, but not sympathetic. It pours a searching ray on all the relics of the pitiless days when frosts bit deep, and ruin was abroad. As pitiless, it stares in the blushing face of every weak and tempest-draggled thing. It is not passionate; it is like a vestal, beautiful but austere.

The autumn sunlight is of riper strain. Mellow; subdued; full of solemnity, but yet instinct with voluptuous languor. It loves to rest on the broad marble steps of palaces; to strain itself through the gorgeous symbolism of painted windows; to sleep on the crimson couch of the woods. It has sympathy. It broods over the grave of the dead spring; luxuriates in the glad sentiment of harvest; and flings its mournful pomp around the year's decline.

As we were turning down a narrow lane, the Doctor suddenly clutched my arm:

"Look there!" he whispered sharply. I followed the direction of his eyes, and saw a man emerge from the fields into the high road; he was of medium height and had but one arm. As he advanced towards us, I noticed the close resemblance between him, and the portrait of Blakewitch. The features in the one, and in the other seemed identical. Had I not heard the Doctor's story I should certainly have believed the portrait to be that of this stranger.

"This is Stubbs; but he is Blakewitch just now," said the Doctor, with grim humour. We stood at the angle of the lane, where it joined the road, and a clump of young trees that grew close to the path, effectually screened us from his view— though we could see him plainly enough— till he was just on us. I never saw such a change as came over that man's face when he perceived the Doctor. If he had had a mask hidden in his hat, and had let it drop down over his face that instant, the alteration would not have been greater or more sudden. It is impossible to explain in what way the change was effected. One noticed, however, that some of the most salient features became less accentuated, and vice versa; some muscles tightened while others were relaxed; lines appeared which were not visible before, and while the eyelids became more drooping, the comers of the mouth assumed an upward curve. Not only the face, but the whole man, seemed transformed. His figure seemed to swell out, his gait altered, and he appeared a different person altogether. He bowed slightly to the doctor.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Stubbs," said Dr. Quorn.

"Good afternoon, sir," he replied, rather sullenly; but the voice thrilled me. There was something strange, almost unnatural, in its tones. It seemed a double voice, if I may say so, it was as if two persons had wished the doctor good afternoon, the one in a tenor key, the other in a bass; but the notes so chorded into one sound that it was impossible to separate them.

"There," said my friend, as the man passed on along the road, and we went down the lane, "now you have had ocular demonstration of what I told you the other night. I wish he had played the role of Blakewitch a little longer. I would then have stopped and entered into conversation with him, and when he Stubbified you would have been more able to judge of the wonderful power this man has of living a double life— of the way in which he unites two separate identities in his own mysterious individuality. But you see I did not exaggerate the effect of his physical transformation."

About a fortnight later my visit came to an end, and I returned to Town. My holiday had proved beneficial in all respects. I went back to my duties invigorated in body and mind; I believe my articles in the Daily Fillip, and the concluding chapters of my novel, bore ample testimony to the fact.

Part 2. From Julius Quorn, M.D., W—— to Antony Marc, Esq. London.

THE CEDARS, W——, September 10th, 189—.

My Dear Marc, When you were staying with me about this time last year, I related to you some rather curious circumstances in connection with the case of a person with whom I was formerly acquainted—o ne Thomas Blakewitch. I have no doubt you remember the facts, and therefore I need not recapitulate them. You saw the photo of Blakewitch, and, if my memory serves me, we once met the man Bryant Stubbs, when you witnessed the extraordinary change of feature to which he was subject As you seemed greatly interested in this case, I think you will like to know something more of it, and therefore send you the particulars of a recent event which go far to elucidate the mystery.

Well, Bryant Stubbs is dead, and I have just come from his funeral. During his illness, which was a rapid decline, the duplication of his nature, as I may term it, became more pronounced. The changes occurred with greater frequency, and the difference between the two (you know what I mean) was very observable. As Stubbs, he was irritable, obstinate, and sometimes coarse in his expressions; as Blakewitch, he made no complaint of his bodily sufferings, and was always gentle in manner, though occasionally eccentric in speech. There was a doggedness in his behaviour in the former character, in strange contrast with his manner when posing in the latter.

During the last three weeks, however, the Blakewitchian element apparently gained the upper hand; I can now understand how this came to pass, and so will you, when you have read my letter. The man interested me, and I gave more time to him than, in the interests of my other patients, I could well afford to spare.

Something appeared to be troubling his mind, and he often seemed on the point of making me his confidant, but the instant he opened his lips that change, which you have seen as well as I, came over him, and he resumed the dogged sullenness of Stubbs.

The day before he died, however, he opened his mind to me fully. The statement he made is, I believe, unprecedented in its strangeness, yet it seems to offer the only possible solution of what has so often puzzled me. However, you shall judge. I was sitting by his bedside, when I observed him fix his eyes on me with a most intense expression. It was the very glance of my Gwillingham acquaintance. I asked if I could do anything for him. He requested the nurse to leave the room, and when we were alone, said:

"I do not know what good it will do, but I feel I must tell you some things about myself which you will hardly believe, but which are, nevertheless, perfectly true. If no good results to me from making you my confidant, at least the narrative will serve to warn others from that trifling with the mysteries of nature which has proved so unhappy in my instance. But first, do you know who is speaking to you?"

"Of course," I answered. "I have always understood your name is Bryant Stubbs, and I know you to be an inhabitant of this parish." He rejoined : " It is indeed the body of Bryant Stubbs you see before you, and his spirit, though dormant just now, is present in that body— but in company with another, which speaks to you by the lips of Bryant Stubbs, but is, in fact, the spirit of Thomas Blakewitch."

"Wandering in his mind," thought I, and yet the mention of the last name gave me a curious sensation. However, if he was out of his senses, it was best to humour him, so I assumed a matter-of-fact air, and enquired:

"Where is your body then?"

"That," said the voice, "I will tell you presently. I can read your thoughts. I know you feel incredulous, but hear me patiently, and I will endeavour to make myself as intelligible as possible.

"You are aware," the speaker continued, "that during the time you were in practice at Gwillingham, I was engaged in certain experiments, some of them in connection with hypnotism, but I now tell you that my investigations extended to subjects yet more obscure. In particular, I wished to find out whether it was possible for the spirit to leave the body previous to death, and, if so, whether the separation would be permanent. If it was free to come and go at will, as we daily walk in and out of our houses, I foresaw we should be enabled to increase our knowledge of this planet, and probably of other worlds, to an indefinite extent. We have it on the authority of the greatest uninspired writer of ancient or modem times, that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy, and I thought the mere imaginable possibility of the thing should incite us to investigations that might one day lead to its realisation. Briefly, my researches assured me that it could be done, and the results of my experiments eventually enabled me to disengage my spirit from its fleshly tenement, without inflicting any injury upon the material portion of my being. The risk, at the first trial, was awfully great, as there was a chance that I might be mistaken in my conclusions respecting the possibility of a return to the body. But I made the venture, and found that by an exertion of will I could soar through space, while my body remained in a comatose state, indeed, quite inert and corpse-like, and that a similar effort restored me to that mortal habitation from which I had been so strangely absent. I may mention that I found myself still confined to our own planet. There were insuperable impediments to my advance beyond the limits of this world. Within those limits I was free to wander wherever I listed. Of what I saw and felt in my disembodied condition I am unable to give an account. My thoughts are exercised night and day with the wonders of which I then obtained a knowledge, but I lack words capable of giving them expression."

"How is it possible," I interrupted, "for you to think without the aid of words?"

" hought, as well as emotion, can exist without the symbols of language," he answered. "The lower creation may convince you of this. Watch a dog dreaming: he imitates the motions of the chase, he licks the hand that does not caress him, and so on; thought must be going on in his brain, for his eyes and senses are closed to the apprehension of outward objects. Has then a dog a vocabulary? is he possessed of language in which to clothe his ideas?"

"Monkeys are said to have a speech of their own," I said flippantly.

"That is begging the question. But to resume. My aerial excursions increased in frequency and extent, and I became alarmed lest some accident should befall the body from which I was absent, sometimes for weeks; or lest the action of the air and other causes should give rise to the decay to which, in its inanimate state, it was peculiarly liable. In order to avert this danger, I invented the machine you saw in my house. When I wished to quit my earthly tenement, I placed myself in the large glass receiver, and, pressing the button, set the machinery in motion. My spirit then took flight, while the air-pump exhausted the air from the receiver; and thus my body remained hermetically sealed up from the disintegrating influences of the atmosphere. The machine itself was deposited in a secret vault under the old house.where I lived. There it remains; and my body is now lying preserved in its glass coffin, as fit for the reincarnation of its spirit as on the day, four years ago, when I quitted it."

"Then," I asked, " why in the name of common sense, don't you return to it?"

"There comes in the terrible part of my story," was the reply. "When, after an absence of several weeks, I returned to the vault, judge of my horror at finding the receiver empty; my body had disappeared."

I was getting interested, as was shown by my exclamation at this point.

"I thought you said it was lying there now?" I said.

"So it is. It has been replaced:— but listen! It was an awful time with me till I found what had become of it. It appears that Bryant Stubbs had somehow, by the merest accident, made the discovery that had cost me so much thought and toil— I mean, how to cast himself loose from the body without committing suicide. His spirit, wandering about, perceived my body lying where I left it, and straightway entered into it. I had no resource but to take possession of the one which was his own property, and then endeavour to make him quit mine. But he would not. He found the body he now possessed more convenient than the one he was born in; for the former was perfect, while the latter was minus an arm!"

Here, I am sorry to say, I could not forbear laughing.

"It was no laughing matter to me," said my interlocutor. "As persuasion was of no avail, I determined to hypnotise him; and while he was in the trance, I removed him, to the house at Gwillingham, and placed him in the receiver; and then I suggested to him that he should, immediately on awaking, return to his own body, and there remain. You know these mesmeric suggestions are always complied with. Accordingly, no sooner had I made the necessary passes, than he awoke and entered his own body, in which I was."

"But why did you not thereupon assume your own?"

"Alas! I speedily discovered I was powerless to make that impression on the brain, by means of my will, which was necessary in order to detach spirit from matter, while his will was also acting in opposition to mine. You cannot conceive with what intense effort I attempted to do so; but though I once or twice very nearly succeeded, his will was never entirely subdued, and I have never been able to escape from a thraldom which is abhorrent to me. The reason why he refused to release me was this: he found it very convenient to sink his own identity in mine whenever he had occasion to conceal that identity. Some of the transactions in which he has been engaged are not very reputable, but he was thus enabled to elude the unpleasant consequences resulting from them. Besides, by this means he obtained admittance where he would otherwise have met with scornful rejection. And as one brain served for both, any pleasure I enjoyed in those refinements to which he was a stranger, was reflected to his mind, which received the sensation, without appreciation of the cause. So here we are, two souls in one body!

"Since his illness I have not been so liable to such complete effacement at the will of another as was previously the case. Enfeebled in mind— the sympathetic result of bodily weakness,— he is no longer able to restrain me from proclaiming these facts. Formerly I had power to make only momentary revelations ; his spirit clouded over mine before I had time to seek advice or consolation. It was always on the watch. Even now it is by an effort that I continue my communications. I am holding him down, as it were, all the time.

"But if he dies, as seems likely, from his present illness, I think I shall escape at last; for as my spirit does not belong to the body in which it is now confined, there is no probability of its being dismissed from the world at the dissolution of that body. However, directly the latter event takes place, I wish you to proceed to Gwillingham. I may be there to welcome you, but if not, you will see to the security of the vault where my mortal remains are deposited."

He then described the situation of the vault, and the manner in which I could obtain access to it We had some further conversation not needful to repeat. At a quarter to one that night Bryant Stubbs died. Nothing remarkable occurred on that occasion. My letter has spun out to such inordinate length that I shall not trouble you with any observations or reflections.

To-morrow I set out for Gwillingham, I will let you know the result of my visit. In the meantime, I am,

My dear Marc,

Yours faithfully, Julius Quorn.

P.S.—I have this moment received a telegram from Blakewitch's nephew. He says, "Uncle suddenly returned. Extremely weak, otherwise well. Requests your immediate attendance."

I SHALL take the night train to Gwillingham.

___________________

4: Radium Nemesis

Carey Moran

Edwin Truett Long, 1904-1945

Spicy Detective Stories,  December 1936

Edwin Truett Long

JARNEGAN sat down and gazed with approval at Sheriff Jud Tolliver's visitor. His little eyes swept from her blonde hair and pouting lips downward over rounded breasts, to the expanse of well-filled silken hosiery revealed by crossed legs. He tossed his apple core in the general direction of the sheriff's cuspidor and said, "H'ya, babe." The blonde smirked, smoothed her skirt over a full hip, and preened herself, breasts jutting forth impudently. Jarnegan winked deliberately, started to speak but the sheriff interrupted.

"This is Miss Smith, Jarnegan. She was in the hospital office three weeks ago when the robber came. Remember, he conked her with a blackjack, cracked the safe, took six radium capsules, worth God knows what, and scrammed. There were twenty-four in the safe and why he only took six is more—"

Jarnegan spat toward the cuspidor.

He said, "Do you gals ever get a night off at the hospital, babe?"

The blonde smirked again.

Sheriff Tolliver groaned, kicked the cuspidor closer to Jarnegan.. "Now, Jarnegan, I know robbery ain't in your line but you promised to help me. I can't get a lead on this robbery at all. It's screwy. If you'll—"

'He broke off groaning as Jarnegan spat at the spot where the cuspidor had been a minute before.

Jarnegan beamed. "Okay, sheriff, murder's my specialty but I'll give you a lift. But you know how it is, I got to have privacy. You go water the county prisoners while I talk to the babe. Nothing like getting right down to brass tacks."

The sheriff got to his feet suspiciously, ambled slowly toward the door. He grunted disdainfully as he passed down the hallway, was still grunting when Jarnegan's voice stopped him.

"Hey, Jud," yelled the little man, "his head protruding from the office, "is there any way to lock this door?"

"Put a chair against it, sap," said the sheriff viciously and headed toward the Elite pool hall.

THIRTY minutes later Jarnegan joined him, sat silently in a chair against the wall, his face a mask of ill humor. The sheriff sat down beside him. "What did she say?" he asked. "Did she—?"

Jarnegan glowered. "To hell with radium! To hell with robberies! What did she say?" he mimicked. "What did she say! Solve your own robbery from  now on, drizzlepuss. I hope somebody steals the whole hospital; I hope they steal all the doctors and the patients and the nurses! I hope they, aw, to hell with blondes! What did she say, you ask!" He rubbed his jaw reminiscently. "You know, that dame didn't look so hefty, but she's got a right like the kick of a mule!"

He turned and walked out the door, still rubbing his jaw.

TEN minutes after one. Two deputies and three telephone operators scoured the town for Jarnegan. Out at the edge of town at the desolate Wayne estate, home of the medicine manufacturer, Sheriff Jud Tolliver restrained apoplexy with an effort. The sight of Jarnegan's battered roadster pulling into the rough drive was the last straw, for seated demurely beside him was the blonde nurse, Miss Smith.

Tolliver ran to the roadster as fast as fat legs would carry him. "You— you—!" he sputtered, "I been trying to "find you since ten o'clock! And then you show up with a date, This is murder, simple! What did you bring the dame for?"

Jarnegan said, "Don't pay no attention to him, babe, he's all excited. There's only one murder out here so I won't be gone but a little while. You ain't going to mind waiting, are you?"

He slid out of the car, waved a hand in farewell and stalked off, the sheriff still protesting at his heels. Straight past the big house they walked and toward a cottage that resembled a caretaker's house near the east wall of the weed grown estate. Jarnegan noted curiously that the windows bore iron bars. They nodded at a tobacco-chewing deputy and entered the cottage through a massive door.

The dead woman lay in the exact center of the front room floor. The room was a shambles, as if a desperate struggle had taken place, The corpse was stripped almost nude, only rags of undergarments clinging to the abused body. Jarnegan knelt beside her, glanced thoughtfully at the crushed skull, the smashed features, and fumbled for a cigarette.

He said, "Okay. Tell me the rest."

The sheriff said, "Her name was Irene, Irene McComas. Her old man is named—"

"Thomas McComas. He did it."

"Old man? You mean her husband?"

"Nope, her father. He— What did you find, Luke?" This last to a fingerprint man just emerging from the bedroom. "Not much. It looks sort of screwy. Picked up a few prints in odd places belonging to old man McComas and his daughter. Those spots where you'd naturally expect to find prints have been wiped clean. I even tried the typewriter keys and they're clean as a whistle."

Jarnegan said,

"Typewriter keys?"

The sheriff nodded thoughtfully, extracted a typed letter from his pocket and handed it to Jarnegan. Jarnegan unfolded it, read:

God forgive me for doing it. I have killed my own daughter. Perhaps I am insane, perhaps the thought of my revenge has driven sanity from my mind. I had no intentions of killing her.

It wasn't signed. Jarnegan looked down at the battered body, said: "Hell. If he didn't mean to do it, he did a pretty thorough job! What's this?"

This was another note. Tolliver said, "The way I get it, McComas was a chemist that worked for Wayne for years. "Wayne manufactures patent medicines, you know. Well, McComas went nuts and Wayne pensioned him off, gave him and his daughter this cottage to live in and paid all the expenses."

Jarnegan said, "Went nuts, did he? That explains the bars on the windows and the heavy door. Go on."

"So this guy McComas got away. He's crazy, crazy as a loon. Here's the note-he stuck under Wayne's front door after Wayne has been keeping him, feeding him for a long time."

The second typewritten note read:

Revenge will be mine! You have made me what I am, Wayne, and now you must pay. Your one chance to escape a fate worse than death is to raise one hundred thousand dollars by tomorrow night. You shall hear from me. If you do not do this, you and your associates will be killed, horribly mangled and burned by fire.

"The note was unsigned.

Jarnegan said, "A hundred grand, huh? The guy ain't so crazy. Well, I'll be seeing you, sheriff."

"Seeing me!" the sheriff almost groaned. "You gotta help me catch this guy. You've some damned blonde on your mind, that's all! The county pays you—"

"Sure," said Jarnegan soothingly, "pays me to solve murders. You say yourself this one is solved. Catch the guy McComas!"

HE walked rapidly into the bedroom, glanced around perfunctorily, and on into the kitchen where he made the same careless examination. When he came back," he said, "Tell the boys to haul off the body, sheriff. Then catch  McComas. That's my official report."

"Come up to the house with me and talk to the Waynes at least! The dame will wait." Still arguing, still pleading, the sheriff followed him outside. Step by  step they approached Jarnegan's battered roadster.

Jarnegan said, "All right. The dame ain't in the car anyway. She's probably seeing a man about a dog. I'll go in with you." To the deputy at the door of big house he said, "H'ya, Gus. Say, if you see a blonde wandering around, tell her I'll be with her in a minute."

John Wayne, manufacturer of patent medicines, paced the floor of his library. He was fat and florid, a cigar between his yellow teeth, his brow knit in worry. Across from him, nervously biting his nails on the divan was a younger man, immaculately clad, who was introduced as Martin Temple, Wayne's business partner. Pacing the floor at the east side of the room was Nancy Wayne, John Wayne's wife. Her face was white, unmarked by makeup, and her long slender body was inadequately covered by a thin negligee.

Jarnegan nodded briefly, kept his hat on, lit a cigarette. Tolliver encouraged  Wayne to talk. Wayne told of McComas, told of all he had done for the man, swore that it was only his bounty that kept the demented man from a state institution. And now— the fat man shrugged— now unless the police could protect him, all of them, all of them mind you, the wife, the partner, and Wayne himself, all faced death at the hands of a maniac!

MRS WAYNE had paused before the French doors, had been there several moments. Jarnegan's cigarette had gone out. His little eyes were protruding. The light behind the negligee limned every line of the woman's lush, mature figure, from boldly flaring hips to heaving, generous breasts.

Wayne concluded his story. Tolliver said, "Well, what do you think, Jarnegan?"

Jarnegan spoke dreamily, his eyes sparkling. "I think it's swell. The best I ever saw. Gee!"

"Saw?" Tolliver was puzzled. He followed the direction of his friend's awe- stricken gaze. Wearily he said, "Mrs Wayne, you go sit down on the davenport. Mr Wayne, you tell him all over again."

The sound of a commotion at the door. The butler's angry voice was saying, "But you can't go in there I tell you! The master is in conference, important—"

"Important hell, step aside before I lay you like a rug." A faint thud, a grunt, and the door burst open to reveal the deputy who had been at the porch door.

He said excitedly, "Hey, Jarnegan, I found your blonde for you!"

Jarnegan said, "I'll be right out. Tell her to wait."

"She'll wait! She's dead as hell!"

AN hour later the bodies of the two murdered women had been removed.

Jarnegan sat on the running board of his own battered roadster, the last murder weapon in his hand. Sheriff Tolliver stood beside him gloomily. In the distance could be heard the crash of bushes and ragged undergrowth, as a hurriedly deputized group of men scoured the estate for the madman, McComas.

"They'll find him, Jarnegan," soled the sheriff. "He won't get away with it."

Jarnegan tossed the blood-stained length of pipe aside. "You know," he said bitterly, "I was just getting this dame to where she liked me. But don't depend on finding the McComas fellow, sheriff."

He got up and crawled beneath the wheel of his roadster, "I'll be back after awhile. I got to see a guy. Hey, who's that?"

A long sedan rolled out of the drive and headed toward the highway. The sheriff grunted.

"That's Temple. I let him go to town to see about their business. Somebody has to—" But he was talking to space.

Jarnegan threw the roadster in gear and roared down the weed grown drive in pursuit of Martin Temple, business partner of John Wayne.

He kept his distance all the way to town, a short block behind the speeding sedan. Twice red lights caught him but he soon made up the intervening space. Temple went first to the Harmon National Bank, was inside nearly an hour. Jarnegan sat impatiently in the battered roadster, snapped cigarette after cigarette into the gutter until his man appeared.

Temple drove directly to the tumble-down warehouse that sheltered the Wayne Medicine Laboratories and went inside.

JARNEGAN spent the next three hours between the old newspaper files at the Public Library and a telephone booth. At six-fifteen he called the Wayne house. The butler answered the phone.

Jarnegan said, "Tell the sheriff that Jarnegan will be out in a few minutes to take charge. Tell him I've got this thing right in my hand and to quit worrying."

"Yes, sir. If I may be so bold, sir, you mean for me to tell the sheriff you've gathered clues concerning the two killings?"

"Sure. Tell him I've got the murderer where the hair is short. Tell him—"

The butler had hung up the receiver. Jarnegan grinned. He bought six apples in a brown paper sack at the fruit stand and headed the roadster toward the Wayne house.

Even as the battered car rolled into the grounds Jarnegan knew something was wrong. There was no deputy sheriff at the tumble-down gates. The house appeared deserted, the front door was locked. He hammered loud and long before Luke, the fingerprint man, admitted him.

Jarnegan threw an apple core into the bushes, said, "Where the hell is everybody?"

Luke's voice was a little thick. "Dead, or soon will be. This makes three in less than twelve hours. The butler just hanged himself!'

At seven-thirty the sheriff departed for home. He left three deputies patrolling the grounds, each armed with an automatic rifle, and Jarnegan in charge inside with an automatic vocabulary. Temple had returned and was talking to Wayne. The little man arose from his seat before the fireplace and stretched. He started toward the door. John Wayne said, "For God's sake, Mr. Jarnegan, don't leave us alone. That maniac is smart enough to outwit those deputies. Do you realize—?"

Jarnegan laughed. "That's what I'm trying to prevent, Mr. Wayne. I want to look the house over, want to search every nook and cranny."

"The sheriff did that," protested Wayne. "I think it's much safer for us to stay close together—"

Jarnegan lit a cigarette. Wayne followed him from the room ; Temple stayed behind with Mrs. Wayne, Through every room on the second floor of the decrepit old house they searched. The third floor yielded nothing— until they came to the end of the hall, A locked door barred farther investigation. Jarnegan turned to Wayne.

Wayne said, "That's my private laboratory, Mr. Jarnegan. We'll pass that up. I have some things in there I don't care to have investigated. I'm a chemist you know and—"

"Open the door, Wayne."

Wayne drew himself up. "Murder or no murder, the law can't force me to reveal secrets worth millions to an outsider! I—"

"Open the door, Wayne, or I'll shoot the lock off."

Wayne gulped, looked from Jarnegan's narrowed eyes to the shiny gun in his steady hand and fumbled in his pocket for the key.

As he fitted it to the lock, Jarnegan lowered the gun. Wayne, with his feet against the wall dove suddenly backward. His bald head cracked against Jarnegan's chest. Jarnegan hurtled into the opposite wall, bounced back like a rubber ball as Wayne screamed "Help! Help!"

Mrs. Wayne, Temple, and two deputies clattered up the stairs

Wayne was sitting in the hallway trying to staunch the blood from a two inch gash in his head. Jarnegan was inside the laboratory nosing around, an apple in one hand, gun in the other.

Wayne said in a loud voice, "I call on all of you to witness that this man entered my laboratory over my protests and did me physical violence in so doing!"

Jarnegan peered at a box-like contraption sitting on plated legs in the center of the room. He tossed the core to the floor, lit a cigarette, and said quizzically, "Temple, what the hell is— this, a doghouse?"

Eyes popping, Temple answered from the doorway. "That's a—"

Wayne shrieked, "Be still, you fool! You're giving away a billion dollars!"

Jarnegan shrugged, said to the deputy, "Take this guy down to the jailhouse. Tell Jud to book him for resisting an officer or something. Get rid of him before I shoot him! He's getting in my hair. Now what is it, Temple?'

"You put me in jail and I'll sue this county for a million dollars," screamed Wayne.

"You talk big money," sneered Jarnegan, "for a man that's broke! Come on, I'll take you myself!"

As they went down the steps he glanced back. Mrs. Wayne was sobbing in the comforting arms of Martin Temple! Jarnegan paused and listened. Temple was saying, "There! There! Don't worry! Nothing can happen, I've got it all fixed."

At the car Jarnegan spoke softly into the ear of the deputy. The deputy pushed John Wayne inside and the car clattered away. At the front door of the house Jarnegan spoke to another deputy. Puzzled, the deputy nodded his head. As Jarnegan stole to the east side of the house, the deputy said in a loud voice, "What's that, Mr. Jarnegan? Sure! All right! If you say so." As Jarnegan faded out of sight he kept up the conversation as if he were talking to Jarnegan him self.

Three minutes later Jarnegan was once more inside the house. His feet made no sound on the soft carpet of the steps. Crouched in a shadow of the darkened hallway he paused and listened. He heard the muffled sobbing of Nancy Wayne, the consoling voice of Martin Temple.

"There, there," said, Temple, "they won't lock him up. I wouldn't worry!"

"Lock him up! What do I care if they lock him up!" Her voice was low, tense, passionate. Softly Jarnegan stole forward until he could apply his inquisitive eye to the crack of the door. He breathed hard as he watched the amazing scene within.

MARTIN TEMPLE stood against the wall, his mild eyes wide in amazement.  From across the room Nancy Wayne moved slowly toward him. The negligee, clasped loosely at the waist, allowed one long tapering leg to emerge as she walked, a leg milk white against the dusky folds of the garment. Before the shrinking man she paused. Her lips were parted, her eyes blazing, breasts rising and falling in real or simulated passion.

"Don't you understand, Martin," she said softly. "It isn't John I'm worrying about, it's you! It's you I love!"

Her hands were on his thin shoulders. He tried to pull away but she drew him closer, until her breasts were crushed to his skinny chest. "You! You! You alone," she breathed and her lips sought and found his. His whole body tensed, then suddenly his arms swept around her, drew her soft loveliness to him.

Jarnegan mopped the perspiration from his brow.

Temple was the first to break. He said, "We can't do this! It's madness. I'm Wayne's partner, his best friend!"

She said, "Don't talk, just hold me!" Suddenly she turned, started for the door. Jarnegan caught a glimpse of vibrating breasts, half exposed, long white legs emerging from the folds of the negligee, and dove around the corner. He cursed as the door clicked closed, as the key turned in the lock. Cautiously he crept back to his post, listened at the keyhole.

He heard the woman say, "Tell me truthfully, Martin, didn't you get the money to pay the madman? Didn't you draw a hundred thousand dollars from the bank today?"

The man muttered something unintelligible. She laughed triumphantly.

"Then that proves that you do love me! I know you aren't a coward; you're not afraid for your own safety, and you don't care for John. You are willing to pay that madman his demands to save me from harm! Look at me, Martin, look at me. Don't you think I'm worth a hundred thousand dollars?"

Jarnegan grinned, arose, stretched. He heard footsteps within the room, heard another door open and close. Quickly he tiptoed down the hallway to the next door, listened again. She had taken him into an adjoining room, probably her own.

HE went back to the first locked door, extracted a thin, wirelike tool from his pocket and went to work. In a few seconds the door swung open. Quietly he entered the room just vacated. Directly before his eyes, hanging on the back of a chair, was Martin Temple's coat. From an inner pocket he extracted a thin packet of currency. He opened it swiftly, gasped at the size of the bills, and thrust them into his own pocket. Footsteps in the next room, the sound of the woman's voice raised in pleading. "You've got to do it, Martin! It's our only chance! We'll take the money and run away."

Jarnegan dove from the room as the connecting door opened. Without pausing to see whether or not Temple would discover the theft of the money immediately, he trotted to Wayne's laboratory, let himself in and turned on the light. Carefully he drew the shades and set about examining the box-like electrical contraption that stood in the center of the room. The fluid contents drained into a handy receptacle. He sniffed them, found them odorless and put them aside. The inside of the casket was lined with plate glass, beneath which glowed a phosphorescent metal. Wires led into the box from many angles.

Jarnegan scratched his head and walked to the table against the far wall.

The opened drawer revealed a folded paper clipped to a folded blueprint. The blueprint bore the caption, "Wayne Synthetic Radiumizer." The title of the technical paper clipped to it was, "The Manufacture of Synthetic Radium." Jarnegan grinned scornfully as he read.

The lights went out. The papers fell to the floor as Jarnegan whirled, clutching at his gun. Seeming to swim through the air toward him was a phosphorescent face, lit by strange lights. A gleaming hand swept aloft, something crashed against Jarnegan's head. The gun dropped from his nerveless fingers,

LIGHT in his eyes awakened him.

Peering down into his face were the grim, fat-pouched eyes of John Wayne. He laughed at Jarnegan's efforts to free his bound hands, caught him by the heels, and dragged him down the hallway. The tape across Jarnegan's mouth kept him silent.

Through the bedroom door the little detective was painfully dragged by the fat man. A strange sight met his eye. Martin Temple lay across the bed unconscious, blood oozing from a cut in his forehead. Nancy Wayne, clad in an orchid dance set, industriously cleaned her nails against the vanity. "All right, John, we've got them both together now. Let me get to work!"

Wayne jerked Jarnegan to his feet, tossed him into a huge chair, and stepped back puffing. Strange lights, fires of madness, burned in the eyes of the half clad woman as she walked toward Jarnegan. She tore the tape from Jarnegan's mouth, twisted the fingers of her left hand into his hair and jerked him to a sitting position. As she leaned over him, Jarnegan saw the upper slopes of her breasts, the smooth texture of the blue-veined skin.

"Yell all you want to," she said, smiling, licking her red lips. "This room is soundproof. Now my little friend Martin Temple came here with a hundred thousand dollars. He doesn't have it now. You thought you pulled a fast one, making me think the deputy downstairs was talking to you. You slipped back to see what you could find out. You must have taken the money while Martin and I were in this room. Now where did you put it?"

Jarnegan said, "In my inside coat pocket."

She slapped him viciously across both Mm jaws, her breasts quivering, vibrating at each movement.

"You hid it some place, Jarnegan. You know it isn't on you. But you'll talk."

"Sure, I'll talk. Listen, Wayne, I know what you're pulling, I know the whole layout now. But did your wife tell you that she is Martin's sweetheart, that she advised him to take her and the money and to scram? To double cross you while you were away? Ouch!"

A red nail on a cruel thumb bit into his eye socket. She tore and dug at his unprotected eyes, her knees grinding in his groin, her breasts pressing against him, her red lips drooling while her eyes blazed!

"Liar! Liar!" she screamed.

WAYNE pulled her off the detective, tore the shoulder straps of her brassiere in the struggle that followed.

"Don't kill him, you fool," he said. "He's the-only one that knows where the money is. There's been enough killing anyway !""

"Yeah, and there'll be two more! You and the dame burning in the chair!" Jarnegan said.

Again Wayne restrained the enraged woman. Martin Temple groaned and sat up on the bed. Jarnegan shuddered. The man had been stripped to the waist. His torso was covered with red and black burns. The woman had tortured him to make him reveal the hiding place of the money!

Jarnegan said, "Martin Temple, we're going to die, you and I. But before we go, tell me how much money you were to invest in Wayne's synthetic radium?"

Wayne said, "I wanted five hundred grand. Might have gotten it, too—"

"But you decided Temple wasn't too much of a sucker after all, eh Wayne? You stole that radium from the hospital and were using it to sensitize a chemical, trying to sell Martin the idea that you were making it, manufacturing it! Right?"

Wayne smiled blandly. "Sure. That's right. But I had other irons in the fire such as letting McComas get me a hundred thousand in case the other plan didn't pan out. Nancy, go to work on him."

Nancy Wayne, red lips wet, red tongue licking at them avidly, walked slowly toward the bound Jarnegan, a long: nail-file in her hands. Her breasts swayed, — quivered, vibrated, swung from side to side. Jarnegan kicked at her viciously with his bound feet. She cursed, dodged, leaped forward to light with her knees again in his lap, holding him to the chair.

Wayne laughed in the background as her bands tore the shirt and undershirt from Jarnegan's body. The pointed steel bit into his breast muscles viciously.

"Wait," gasped Jarnegan, "wait! Listen, you two. Who hit me in the head in the laboratory?"

Man and wife looked at each other inquiringly. Wayne said, "Nancy, I guess. The sheriff wouldn't hold me, so I came on home, found you there unconscious and taped you up."

Nancy Wayne said, "I didn't hit him."

Jarnegan began to laugh.

"You're in it now, Wayne, both of you. McComas never worked for you, did he? Admit it? You poisoned him years ago on a fake radium water you manufactured. So you kept him ever since to keep his mouth shut! Now be truthful, didn't you kidnap him for an alibi for yourself, to cover up the killing of his daughter? I don't know where you hid him, but he's loose. It was McComas that clouted me in the laboratory."

"He's lying," snarled Nancy and flashed the steel again.

"How do you know it was McComas?"

"Because his face and hands were phosphorescent, a result of radium poisoning! Go took at his hiding place, the spot you were keeping him. I tell you he's loose in this house and he's got the hundred thousand dollars!"

Wayne took three steps toward the door, jerked it open and started back. A sepulchral voice said, "Yes, Wayne, I'm loose in the house. I escaped my bonds and escaped from the cupboard where you had stuffed me."

HE was tall and thin, dressed in dirty clothes. His face even in the light was ghastly, silver white, bloodless. In his hands he held a glass retort from Wayne's laboratory. He closed the door behind him.

"You murdered my daughter, Wayne, kidnaped me, and wrote those notes yourself. You were afraid that Temple would find out about us, find out that I had been poisoned on your Radio Water. You had Temple ribbed up to put half a million in another Radio Water scheme, had even convinced him that you could manufacture the radium necessary. I've listened to the whole thing!"

Step by step he advanced toward the retreating Wayne. The woman still crouched on Jarnegan's lap. Suddenly Wayne dove for a gun that lay on the vanity. The woman leaped to her feet at the same time, and Jarnegan lashed cut with his toes. They landed squarely. Nancy Wayne shot across the floor, ended up against an unyielding bedpost and lay still.

In the meantime Wayne had whirled, gun in hand. Before he could pull the trigger, the contents of the glass retort caught him squarely in the face. He screamed, dropped the gun, and clawed at his face. The avenger was on him, stamping, kicking, clawing, and biting.

Jarnegan screamed, "Temple, Temple, get off that bed and unbind me. You've at to do it; you've got to do it."

NEARLY an hour later Jud Tolliver listened to Jarnegan in the laboratory of the Wayne home. Standing against the wall was John Wayne himself, groaning aloud, his face swathed in white bandages. Beside him was the sullen virago, his wife. Jud Tolliver stared down at the square, coffin-like machine in the middle of the room.

"You see," said Jarnegan, "the patent medicine business was lousy. So Wayne got himself a new partner, Temple. But Temple wouldn't put much in the business and Wayne was nearly broke. You can tell that by the house and grounds itself, without going to the bank to make sure as I did. A good many years ago Wayne put out a radium preparation known as Wayne's Radium Water. It was a tonic for whatever ailed you. Big money-maker, too. He got fifteen to twenty dollars a bottle for the stuff. But it was dangerous. He poisoned a couple of people with it and jerked it off the market, paying the people he'd poisoned to keep still.

"McComas wasn't a crazy chemist. He was one of the poisoned victims of Radium Water. His price for silence was that he and his daughter be kept until death came to relieve his suffering. Being about busted, Wayne decided to hook Temple into investing half a million dollars in a machine to make synthetic radium. He stole several radium capsules from the local hospital and radiumized some chemicals to prove to Temple that his plans were okay. Still Temple held back, because he figured if they made radium they couldn't do much with it. So Wayne brought in the Radium Water, promised to market it again.

"He was afraid McComas or his daughter would get to Temple and tell him what Radium Water really did, so he went to warn them. He killed the daughter in a struggle, socked the old man in the head, but kept him alive. Wayne was smart. In case he couldn't get. half a million from Temple he decided to get a hundred thousand by this other method, through fear. To clinch it, Mrs. Wayne made love to Temple so he'd raise the hundred thousand rather than see her injured. So that's the way it all happened, if you see what I mean."

"But the nurse," persisted the sheriff, "and the butler."

"The nurse rode out here with me," said Jarnegan slowly. "Wayne saw her sitting in the car in the driveway and recognized her. He was afraid, he lost his head. He figured I'd brought her out here to identify him as the thief that stole the radium from the hospital, and that would spoil all his plans. So he slipped out and murdered her.

"T called the butler on the phone and told him I had the thing all solved. He told Wayne, and again Wayne lost his head. He socked the butler in the head or gave him knockout drops and then hanged him to make it look like suicide. That was to throw me off the track, to make it look like the butler had a guilty conscience. Okay, boys, take them away. Old man McComas will be strong enough to testify, and, with what Temple and I can tell, we'll send them both to the chair, thank God!"

THE little procession started for the door. The woman looked toward Jarnegan and made a derisive noise with her tongue and lips. She turned her back, pulled a thin coat over her full hips and walked with a swing and prance that was an insult.

Jarnegan couldn't stand the temptation. He leaped forward, swung his right foot in a swift arc. The woman screamed, grabbed the abused portion of her body with both hands and turned to pour out a string of profanity.

Sheriff Jud Tolliver said reprovingly to Jarnegan, "Tch! Tch! that ain't nice, Jarnegan. What was that for?"

"That," said Jarnegan with a red face, "was for me, but this is for the nurse."

Even the sheriff couldn't hold him back. Nancy Wayne screamed and ran down the hallway, the little detective right behind her. The sheriff sighed and said, "Well, boys, let's go. Jarnegan always gets them in the end."

He wondered why his deputies snickered.

___________________

5: A Female Crusoe

Captain R. F. Coffin

1826-1888

The Book of the Ocean, 1857

Sea Stories, Aug 1927

"DID you ever eat rat, sir? No, I suppose not, and I don't mean for to say they are as good as birds; but if you was hard up, and couldn't get no birds nor nothin', you'd find rats were perticlerly good scoff."

Thus much the old sailor, by way of introduction, and he thus continued:

I TOLD you about my bein' picked up by that there whale-ship, and of my shippin' into her for to go the v'yage. Well, 'tain't no wonder, sir, that whalers is such good-for-nothin' trash aboard a merchant ship, 'cause their v'yages is so long that if a chap know'd anythin' afore he started he'd forgit it all afore he got back, and no matter how smart he was to begin with he'd git lazy afore the v'yage was ended, and I won't deny that I did myself, neither.

You see, for almost the whole time from the start they have fine weather. They may git a little blow a-goin' off the coast, though that ain't likely, as they don't generally start until there's a good promise of fine weather for a day or two, and by that time they are out across the gulf, and from there down to the line is all plain sailin' and fine weather. Three or four days' calm in the Horse latitudes, perhaps, which gives 'em time for to practice the crews —which are almost all green hands— to the boats, and then they strike the trades, and away they go, scarcely touchin' a brace or a bit of runnin' gear except for to tauten it.

Well, then they have the doldrums 'twixt the trades, and if they weather St. Roque, which they almost always do, these whalers, 'cause they go well to the east'ard afore strikin' the trades, so if so be as they may take a whale a-goin' off they may put in to Fayal and send their ile home and git a good outfit of greens for to begin the v'yage with, Sometimes, too, they put in to the Cape de Verdes, but mostly to Fayal; or, as these whalers call it, the 'Isle de Dabney,' 'cause ever since the world was created the American consul into that place has been named Dabney, and has kind of been the king pin there, ownin' pretty nearly all the water front, and bein' consul and ship chan- dler and merchant, all combined to- gether. Leastwise that was so when I was there, which is a many years ago. He'd buy the ile from these whale ships and send it home to Boston in an old brig, what he had called the Har- binger, or he'd ship their ile on freight, and he'd sell 'em vegetables or what- ever else they wanted, and always had a keg of real French brandy for to give the skipper when he went to sea.

He'd tell 'em it formed part of the cargo of a brig from Bordeaux to Boston as come in there in distress in his great-grandfather's time, when he was consul, and had to be condemned and the cargo sold for the benefit of whom it might consarn; and his great-grand- father bought ten casks of this brandy, which was then twenty-five years old, and this here keg was a part of it, he'd tell the skipper. But old Manuel, his major-domo, as they called him, used to allow that this here was all a yarn, and that the brandy was made over onto the Island of Pico, right opposite to Fayal, where old Dabney had extensive vineyards. But, bless you, sir, these here whalin' skippers from New Bedford and Nantucket didn't know no better than for to take it all in, and the grog done 'em as much good as if the yarn of old Dabney's great-grand- father had all been true as this here I'm a-tellin' you on, It sent the skip- pers away good-natured, anyhow, with the addition of a big basket of oranges, and made 'em look more pleasantly on old Dabney's bills, which I've heerd 'em say was rayther steep.

Well, there you are— arter gittin' across the line and into the southeast trades then there was another spell of as bright, fine weather as a man would wish for to see, and away they went rap full till they got through 'em and into the heavy weather of the South Atlantic. Then, in course, I don't say but what they might have some pretty bad weather till arter they had passed the Horn, but what of it? They wasn't a-makin' a passage with ships of other lines a-racin' with 'em. They wasn't a-hopin' for to hear the news- boys a-cryin' out, 'Here's the arrival of the so-and-so with two days' later news from Europe; not a bit of it, and so, bless you, they jist took things easy.

When they was about a-comin' up with the River Plate, where they was likely for to git a pomparo, they'd jist send down their t'gallan'masts, and there they was snug, and in anythin' that was at all like a blow with the big crews they carried they could down and reef all three topsails to once, and most ginerally did it in the daytime, too. No goin' aloft in dark nights aboard of them ships, I can tell you. They know'd a trick worth two or three of that. Well, then, on the other side, when they got onto whalin' ground they were under snug canvas all the time, and so, you see, if a man didn't git lazy under sich circumstances he ought to have been ashamed of hisself.

Mind you, I'm speaking of the whal- in' of many years ago, when ships went arter sparm whales in the Pacific, and long afore they got so scarce there that they had to go to the Arctic arter right whales. I don't know nothin' about that business, cause I never went there, only from what I hear tell there ain't much laziness about that trade, but in my time whalin' was a fine-weather business, and sometimes for months together there wouldn't be a whale seen, and so 'twasn't any wonder if the chaps got a'most too lazy for to wash them- selves.

Well, sir, this here ship what I was in, she stuck along to the eastward arter pickin' me up, but didn't stop nowhere, and we never see no whales till we got on to the coast of Brazil. The Old Man he took a fancy to me, 'cause he seen right off I was a good sailorman and right handy with an oar, and so he made me his boat steerer in place of a chap what had shipped boat steerer and had been took sick; and the Old Man he showed me how I was for to do to strike a whale, and he was very feared that I might be galleyed or skeered when first I come on one. But I told him he needn't be afear'd of me, and that all he had for to do was to put me nigh enough and I'd put the irons into him. You see, sir, the chap what's called the boat steerer don't steer the boat till arter the whale is struck. He pulls the bow oar and the captain of the boat steers. But when they pulls up onto the whale for to kill him, then the captain he comes forward with the lance, and the boat steerer takes the steerin' oar.

Whalin' chaps may be lazy enough most times, but they wake up when they're arter a whale, I can tell you, and I reckon it's jist about the greatest sport that there is. Our Old Man seemed as if he'd jist go crazy when he got down arter a whale. You ought to hear the way he'd talk to us chaps in the boat for to make us pull, He'd begin quite easy, like. "Now, my chaps," he'd say, "now, my beauties, make her talk; give away, my hearties, only pull. I'll give you all the terbacker in the ship. I'll give you my house to home. Bend your backs and stretch your breeches— pull you— you ain't pullin' a pound. Pull, or I'll break your heads— that's my loves— that's my beauties. There she walks. Thar he blows, only three lengths off. One more good stroke and we have him. Pull, blast you, pull, and don't let that other boat beat you," and so the old fellow would go on, coaxin' us one minute, and then cursin' us up hill and down the next. Now tellin' us we was all his brothers, and then swearin' he'd never put his foot in a boat with one of us ag'in; but, bless you, he didn't know what he was sayin', and we didn't mind it, 'cause we was a-pullin' of course as hard as we could, and we couldn't do no more.

I won't say I wasn't a trifle flurried the first whale I struck, 'cause it wouldn't be true. But there wasn't much time to be skeered. The Old Man he sings out, "Peak the bow! stand up!" and I shoved my oar in the cleet and jumped up and grabbed my iron. There was the whale, a-layin' quite still on the water about a boat's length ahead of me, and in a second or two the stem of the boat was right on to him. It was a splendid chance, and I hove the one iron into him, and grabbing the other as quick as lightning I gave him that one too, jist as the Old Man sung out, "Starn all!"

"Well, when he come up arter soundin' we pulled up onto him, and the Old Man lanced him, and we soon had him spoutin' blood. The mate and second mate was jist as lucky as we was, and we had three whales alongside at one time, which made us all good-humored, cause it was a good beginnin' of the v'yage. We cruised about on the Brazil banks for about six months, and then went 'round into the Pacific. We had tolerable good luck for the first year, and were gittin' anxious for to go in somewhere to recruit, and the old man he told us that arter we had took another whale he'd go to Honolulu and refit. Of course, under such circumstances, it was an awful long time afore we did see any whales, and we was jist on the p'int of givin' up and goin' in anyhow, when one arternoon, about four bells in the dogwatch, the masthead sung out, "Thar she blows! thar she breaches!"

"Whar away?' says the Old Man.

"Two p'ints on the lee bow," says the masthead.

"Keep her a p'int off and round in the topsail yards a bit,' says the Old Man, 'and stand by for to lower."

It weren't long afore we made 'em from the deck—a large school of whales, a-puffin' and a-blowin' in all directions. We run till within about a half a mile of 'em, and then lowered. Bein' to windward of 'em, we was able to use the sails in the boats, which is the best way of gittin' on to a whale, 'cause you don't skeer him with the oars. Git right to windward of him, and then. sail right down on top of and right over him as he sounds, givin' him the two irons as you go, and that was the way we done then, As the boat shot over him I let him have both irons, and down he went. We thought he never was goin' to stop soundin', and that we should lose our line.

We snubbed him all we could, and carried the boat's nose clean down to the level of the water, with all the crew chock aft, but still he went down. All the other boats had fastened, and of course they couldn't give us any line. At last, jist as we only had one fake left in the tub, he begin to come up, and we commenced to haul in. He come up about a hundred yards from the boat, and took a look round, scared like, and then he made a bee line dead to wind- ward. Well, we made all fast and let him run, and I don't think I was ever behind a fish that went so fast afore. The boat run clean out of the water for more'n half her length, like what you'll see when a small boat is a-towin' astern of a steamboat. The water piled up on both sides a couple of feet above the gunwales of the boat, and was all of a white foam. I don't think I'd be astretchin' of it if I said that that fish run us at the rate of ten or fifteen miles an hour.

"Well, we thought he'd stop runnin' arter a bit, and so we jist hung onto him. But hour arter hour went on, and he didn't seem any more tired than when he started. It was jist dusk when we struck him, and of course we soon lost sight of the ship's lights, but that we didn't mind, 'cause we always carried a couple of days' provisions and water in the boat, and were frequently away for twenty-four hours,

The day was jist breakin' when the critter begin to be tired out, and arter slackenin' up his pace gradually, he at last became stock-still. We wasn't long haulin' up onto him, and the old man soon sent him into his flurry with the lance, and we backed off out of his way and waited to see him die. In about ten minutes he turned up his flukes and lay on the water a dead whale, and then to our great disgust down he sunk.

You know, sir, they will do that sometimes, and then we lose 'em, 'cause the boat can't support their great weight, and so we have to cut and let 'em go. And so 'twas in this case arter all our trouble and bein' towed about one hundred and fifty miles from the ship, all our work went for nothin', and we lost our fish, Bein' a seafarin' man for many years, of course I've heard a deal of swearin', but I never heard any swearin' equal to that Old Man, when he see that whale sink.

Well, sir, the whale bein' lost, there wasn't any use a-cryin' over it, and all we had for to do was to git back aboard of the ship as soon as possible, There was a nice little breeze, and we set the sail and run down afore the wind. We had beef and pork and bread in the boat as well as water and arter breakfast all hands except me laid down and went to sleep. I steered her till noon, and then, arter dinner, the Old Man relieved me, and I got a nap. We didn't go over five miles a hour, and so at dark we hadn't gone much over sixty miles, and were still nearly a hundred miles from the ship. We know'd if the other boats had killed their fish, that all hands would be 'busy cuttin' in, and they wouldn't bother to look for us, so all we had to do was to keep on a-runnin' afore it, and we'd pick her up by the next mornin',

We missed the ship somehow. Arter runnin' till noon of the next day, and seein' nothin' of her, the Old Man made up his mind that we had run by her— that she was a-workin' up to windward to look for us, and had reached so far over our track as to be out of our sight when we passed her. "So," says he, " 'taint no use to run off any further, and 'tain't no use pullin' back to windward, and the best thing we can do is jist to lay still, and she'll cruise about till she finds us."

Well, we laid still for twenty-four hours longer, and then our grub was very near all used up, and things was a-lookin' bad for us. So we set the sail and concluded we'd reach back and forth on a wind, and we done so, reachin' along about southeast till six o'clock, when jist as we was a-goin' round one of the chaps who had stood up for to git a good look sings out "Land Ho!" Up we all jumped in a jiffy, and there, sure enough, about two points on the lee bow, was a small island.

"There ain't nothin' of the kind hereaway on the charts," says the Old Man; "but, anyhow, we'll edge down toward it, and at daylight to-morrow mornin' we'll git round to leeward of it and make a landin'. 'Twill be better than stoppin' out here, at all events."

These here islands, sir, away out into the Pacific, is jist as like one another as two peas, and when you have seen one on 'em you've seen 'em all. In course there's a difference in the size of 'em, but not much. I mean the low, coral islands, and not the high, mountainous ones. They are anywhere from one to twelve miles long, and are ginerally very narrow, and a'most always they extends from southeast to nor'-west, that is, south of the line in the southeast trades, and northeast and southwest in the northeast trades. When you first see one of these islands you'd a'most be fit to swear it was a fleet of vessels at anchor, 'cause you only see the tops of the trees. Then as you git nearer you see the white, sandy beach and the surf a-breakin' over the reef, which extends all round the island. That's the funniest part of it, sir, that there reef is always sure to be there, and there never ain't no passage through it, except on the lee side. You might think that as the wind changed some- times one side would be lee and some- times the other, but bless you, sir, the wind don't never change out there, or leastwise it don't do it often, and when it does, then look out for squalls.

My eye, how I've seen it blow out there when what they call the trades was interrupted, But that ain't often, and mostly the wind blows steady and strong from about east-southeast or east-northeast, accordin' as you might be to the north'ard or south'ard of the line. These here islands don't have much growin' onto 'em— jist a little kind of a wiry beach grass and a few coconut trees. Sometimes there's fresh water onto 'em, but mostly there ain't any at all— that is, on them that ain't inhabited, and there's plenty of 'em yet scattered all over the ocean that nobody has ever seen, and maybe with folks livin' onto 'em what's been shipwrecked or lost from whalers, like them chaps from the Bounty, that lived for years and years and raised up children and grandchildren afore anybody hearn tell on 'em.

You see once you git onto one of these islands you are all right. 'Cause most of 'em is swarmin' with life, though there mayn't be any natives onto 'em. The worst thing is lack of water, and you can mostly git that by diggin', or you can rig somethin' to catch the rain water, and though they don't have no regular rainy days, there ain't a day passes scarcely when there ain't some tain squalls for a few minutes, in which a chap what was a-lookin' out could catch enough for to wet his whistle with, at all events. Then there's the coconuts, and the milk of them ain't to be sneezed at, I can tell you. These here coconuts what they sell down yon- der by Fulton Market ain't nothin' like them out there. You see, you can git 'em off the trees when they are green and when they are all milk afore the shells harden or the meat forms inside, and they're jist good then, you may bet your life.

Well, then there's birds no end, if there ain't no natives onto the island. Frigate birds and gannets and terns and tropic birds, and I don't know how many others, and jist as tame as barn- yard fowls. You can jist go and lift the she bird off of the nest if you want for to git the eggs from under her. There's always what they call a lagoon inside of the reef, and 'twixt that and the island, and this is always full of fish of a many different kinds, and eels— the biggest I ever seen— I've seen round these islands. There's another thing, too, that ain't so pleasant, and that is sharks, and big ones at that, forty or fifty feet long, and regular man-eaters.

They say these here islands is manyfactered by little bits of insects, but that's all a yarn, you know, 'cause I've been there, and I never see no insects a-manyfacterin', and of course I would 'a' seen 'em if they'd 'a' been there. If they made the island, I suppose they'd tell us that they made the trees onto it, and the birds and the fish and the sharks, and p'raps they'll say they made the reef outside of the island too. They might as well tell a tough one while they was about it. It is really astonishin', sir, to think of the way people would be bamboozled, if it weren't for us sail- ormen, as goes to these places, and then brings home the truth about 'em. Talk about little insects a-makin' them islands— why, to show you how ridiculous that there is, the reefs come right up out of deep water. Why, at a ship's length from the reef you'll have ninety fathoms of water, and when ships want to anchor there they had to run their jib-boom right over the breakers afore they lets go their anchor.

I mind a funny thing happened in the Californy times to a ship as touched at Honolulu on the way across to Calcutta. The captain of her he was a young chap as hadn't never been around there afore, and he got frightened at the looks of the surf a-breakin' onto the reef, and didn't let her shoot up far enough afore he sung out for to let go the anchor. Well, whether it ever touched bottom or not I don't know, but it didn't bring her up, and she got starnway onto her, and off she went. Well, then, he lets go the other anchor, and runs out the whole ninety fathoms onto each cable, but bless you, I suppose there was three hundred fathoms under her by this time.

The old native pilot had come aboard with his Kanakas to help get the ship through the reef, and so they turned to for to heave up the anchors. But you see, sir, it's no joke when you have the weight of ninety fathoms of chain besides the anchor, and so arter heavin' a while they broke the windlass purchase. You see, it was one of these patent windlasses without ends, and so it was good for nothin' arter the pur- chase was broke. Well, then they got out their purchase blocks, and rove off tackles, and clapped on to the chain luff upon luff, and the fall to the capsten. And arter gittin' a few fathoms of the chain the blocks all broke to pieces with the strain, and they was jammed ag'in.

The ship all this while was a-driftin' off shore, and the night was a-comin' on, and the native pilot he got frightened and wanted for to slip the chains and let the anchors go. But the skipper of that there ship, he wasn't a-goin' for to lose his anchors, and so he wouldn't do no such a thing, and so the pilot took one look at the island a fast fadin' away into the distance, and, callin' his Kanakas, he got into his boat and away he went for the shore. The Old Man, he sent a note ashore by him to the American consul, if so be as how he couldn't send him some assistance. Well, there was a French man-of-war there at that time, and as soon as the captain of her heared of it, he sends two boats out to her assistance, and they carried out a set of big blocks what they use to put masts in, and they turned to with them, when they got aboard, and rove off heavy tackles, and went at the anchors one at a time. It was slow work, you may be sure, and it took 'em twelve hours steady heavin' afore they got the anchors to the hawse. Then they went to work and put the canvas onto her and beat her up, and the French midshipman he piloted her in,

Now, you see no insects could ever build them reefs in sich deep water as that I know, but there's lot of people to this day that believes they do. In course they ain't sailors, and so don't know much. Do you suppose that a insect what had never been to sea would a-known enough to have left the openin' through the reef jist to leeward of the island, so that ships could take a harbor? Stands to reason he couldn't any more'n he could make the men and women what you'll find onto some of 'em— reg'lar fine specimens, and no mistake— but then, there's a reason for that, 'cause they kills off all the unlikely children, and as for the old men there ain't any of them, 'cause when a man begins for to grow old, he jist makes a grand party, and he tells his friends that he reckons he ain't any: more good in this world, and they'd better put him out of it as soon as possible, and so his oldest son or else his nighest relation knocks him on the head, and there's an end of him.

You wouldn't think they had grog on these here islands, would you? But they have, though, for all that. 'Tain't like the whisky or gin or brandy we have here, but it'll make a drunk come as quick as any chain-locker poison I ever drank, and the way they make it is the funniest part of it. If you'll believe me, sir, the way they do it is to git some of the young women for to chew up a root they have there called the kava root, and then spit it out into a bowl same as we would into a spittoon with our 'bacca juice, and then they jist pours water onto this and let it stand a little while, and then they strains it through a sieve of leaves and there you are— a grog that will make your eyes snap about as quick as anything you can scare up.

But I sot out for to tell you of our coming athwart that there island that time when we missed our ship, and here I've been a-yarnin' about all the islands into the Pacific. This here island what we saw when we was into the boat our Old Man said wasn't down onto his chart, and he'd made the position of the ship that arternoon afore we'd left her to be about 16 degrees south and 145 degrees west. Well, we laid by all night, and at daylight we set our sail and run down to leeward of it, and there we found the water smooth on the reef, although there wasn't any openin' through it as there is most gin- erally. Hows'ever, we didn't have no trouble in crossin' it and makin' a land- in' onto the beach.

It appeared to be a little bit of an island, not more than a mile across and nearly round in its form, and with plenty of coconut trees onto it. What we wanted jist then more than anythin' else was somethin' for to drink. We hadn't had no water for nearly twenty-four hours. You may jist imagine, then, how glad we was when one of the party by the name of Tom Bunker— he belonged to Nantucket— sung out, "Here's a spring!" You see, sir, there was six of us, all told, and the Old Man had made us separate as far apart as we could and yet be within hail, and so go across the island for to survey it like and try for to find wood and water afore we got to the grove of coconut trees, which was about the center of the island, :

At Tom's hail, hows'ever, we all come to at once and ranged up to him, and sure enough here was a little spring of beautiful clear water. If you want to know what first-class tipple is, you must try spring water arter you've been in a boat twenty-four hours without any. Tom told us that afore he come up with the spring he seen the whole ground alive with some kind of creepin' animal, but what they was he couldn't tell. Well, we didn't h'ist that in exactly, but we thought that maybe Tom being so long on the water with- out anything for to drink had made him kind of loony, and so he had imagined he seen animals when he hadn't. "What's funny about this here island," says the Old Man, "is that there ain't no birds onto it. I've landed on plenty of islands afore which didn't have no natives onto em, and there was always thousands of birds, and here, except some gulls a-flying, we ain't seen a bird."

"Talking about inhabitants," says one of the chaps just then, "what do you call that thing yonder?" We looked where he p'inted, and there, sure enough, was a native. He appeared for to be kind of frightened at us, and kept at a respectful distance, and as we advanced he retreated. So the Old Man he says, "You stay here, my lads, and I'll go for'ard alone, and then maybe it won't be so much afeer'd." So we sit down, and the Old Man he goes on ahead, puttin' his hands onto his breast and amakin' all sort of motions, for to show that he didn't mean no harm, and finally the savage seemed to understand, and stopped still for to let our Old Man come up.

But it seemed, as he told us arterward, when he got within about hailin' distance, all of a sudden the native, as we had took it to be, runned toward him, and with a kind of a yell like jist tumbled down all into a bunch at his  feet. Well, we heer'd the yell the critter gave, and we rushed up to where the Old Man was, and if I ever. see a man flabbergasted completely it was that Old Man. "Boys," says he, "that ain't no native, it's a woman, and a white woman at that, and however on 'arth she got here beats me entirely."

"Well, she soon comed around to herself, and if ever you see a critter delighted for to see us! And the first words she said when she come to was:

"It ain't no dream— you are real? Thank Heaven, I am saved!"

"Well, as to that, marm,' says our Old Man, "of course we'll do anythin' for you that is in our power, but whether you be saved or not there's different opinions about, but there ain't no doubt of the fact that we are lost. You see, marm, we went arter a whale and lost him, and missed our ship, which is somewhere around here at this bless- ed minit, marm, for my mate, Jabez Robinson, if so be as how he got on board all right, won't leave this here locality not for six months without findin' us, and if so be as my ship comes along this way and you want for to be took off, all I can say is that my cabin is at your sarvice. And now, marm, as were complete strangers onto this here island, and are perticlerly hungry, if you could direct us to any place where we can find somethin' for to eat I'll be extremely obliged to you."

"The yarn she spun us arter we'd had somethin' to eat and had had a nap and been made comfortable, was that she come to that island in the bark Sarah Louisa, of Nantucket, of which her husband, Jedediah Starbuck, was the skipper. That she left Nantucket above seven years afore we fell in with her, and when she was about two years out the bark fetched up onto this reef one night. She didn't know much about how it come about, whether the craft was under way or jist hove to a-driftin', but I suppose it's likely the latter, and that all hands was asleep, jist as they usually is in whalers in the night-time, and so she fetched up on this reef without no way onto her, and jist swung round side on and bilged.

Bein' to windward of the reef, she had no show to git off, and probably arter about three thumps she would be hard on and full of water. That's about the English of it, though of course this here woman didn't know much about it. All she could tell was that she was woke up with a tremendous thump, and that she went on deck with her husband, and found the sea breakin' all over the ship. That her husband put her into the port-quarter boat, which shows that the bark's head was to the north'ard, and that she hadn't no more'n got there afore there came a sea over all, and took her and boat and all away, and the next minit she found herself in the deep water, away inside of the reef, and clear of the breakers altogether.

Of course, belongin' to Nantucket she could swim like a fish— babies all swim natural there, same as they do at the Sandwich Islands— and so she struck out jist as any one would do, and in due time she reached the shore all right. How upon 'arth she escaped the sharks I don't know, for they're jist as thick as flies in summer inside of them reefs. But maybe as she hadn't nothin' onto her but her nightdress the whiteness of that in the water scared Mr. Shark, for he's a mighty skeery fish afore he gits blood, or it might be he was attracted toward the reef by the blood already there from some of the rest of the crew. However it might be, she come ashore all right, and she were the only one of all the lot that done so.

Well, it weren't very pleasant for her next mornin' when the sun got up, to find herself stranded all alone in that way, but she were a Nantucket gal, and they ain't easily daunted, and then she had been to sea with her husband a whole v'yage afore this last one, and so had got to be somethin' of a sailor, and of course could look out for herself a heap sight better than one of these shore gals could, and so she determined for to make the best of it, anyway. She thought that most likely the men folks had got off in the boats, and that in the arternoon they would be landin' onto the lee side of the island, and so she jist stirred herself round for to git some grub and water.

At that time the whole island was alive with birds, and as tame as could be, and there was eggs jist as many as she wanted, and durin' the day, a-roam- in' round, she come to a spring of water— not the one Bunker had found, but another one—and so she was all right for drink.

About four o'clock that first arternoon that she was onto the island, as near as she could tell by the sun, the old hulk come ashore. You see, it had beat over the reef and into deep water, and the oil casks what was into it had kept it from sinkin'. As the beach was bold, the old hulk come within a cable's length afore she grounded, and, as is always the case where a ship goes ashore on a sandy surf beach, as soon as she grounded the sand begins to make up inside of her, and in three days this here woman was able to walk off aboard of her almost dry-footed. That was a good thing for her, 'cause she was able for to git her dunnage, which she needed, havin' nothin' onto her but her nightgown. Not that it was cold there at all, or that there was anybody for to look at her to see which way she dressed, but still a woman, you know, ain't like a man, and they likes to have their riggin' onto 'em, no matter whether they're alone or not.

Well, then, there was lots of provisions that weren't much hurt by the salt water. The biscuits in them ships is always packed in tight casks, and so they weren't hurt. The only job was how for to git at 'em, 'cause they was under water at the first, but as the sand kept makin' up around her more and more the water receded, and the casks of biscuits and many other things come into reach. The flour, also, in them ships, and the rice, and, in fact, all articles that are perishable if exposed to the air, are always packed: in air-tight barrels, 'cause, you know they are expected for to keep for years, But for all that I've seen biscuit so lively that you had to stick a knife through 'em and pin 'em to the chest or they'd walk off in spite of you. But that was when they'd be a matter of three years old.

Well, then, this here woman was able for to git lots of things of use to her by this old hulk's washin' ashore, although no doubt she could have lived without 'em, since the island was swarmin' with birds and the lagoon with fish. But it was good to have 'em. It was good to git flint and steel and tinder box. It was good for to git cookin' utensils. It was good for to git some tools and some boards and light stuff for to build herself a hut, 'cause by hav- in' all these things she was kept busy, and didn't get so homesick as she would if she hadn't a had somethin' for to do. You see, there was a matter of a month went by afore she got everythin' fixed shipshape and Bristol fashion, her house done and moved into, and a store of grub, and other things lugged up from the wreck to the high ground.

You see, she knew, that at any time there might come up a storm or an upheaving of the tidal wave, and cover all over the wreck, and so she know'd it was judgment to git a good stock of provisions up as high as she could. You see, she didn't give up, but all along thought that by and by some ship comin' along that way would take her off. Probably plenty did come pretty near, but, you see, these here islands ain't visible more than ten or fifteen miles, and ships ain't so plenty, or weren't then, as to make it likely they'd see it, except by accident, and so there she'd been all that five years all alone by her own self onto that island.

Well it was a good job for us, anyway. When we got to her hut she says to our Old Man, "Now you and your men set down here behind the house, and I'll go to work for to cook you a breakfast. Of course I didn't expect company, and so I haven't got none ready at present, but there's plenty here, and I won't. be long a-gittin' of it? Well, she takes a stick that looked somethin' like a boat's tiller, and away she went into the grove of coconuts, and we seen her a-runnin' back and forth a-strikin' at somethin' on the ground, but whatever it was we didn't know, and to tell the truth we didn't care. Fact was, we was pretty well tuckered out, and gittin? where all was comfortable and a good breakfast promised, we jist stretched down and went to sleep.

"The Old Man he sot the example, and I heerd him a-borin' pump-log afore I dropped off. I was woke up by one of the finest smells of cookin' I ever smelt, and it fetched me right up onto my feet to onct, and I went along to where the woman had her fire— jist some stones with a fire build onto 'em— and found that what I smelt come from a big sasspan which she had over the fire. "Wait a few minits," says she, "it's a'most done, and if you don't say it's a good stew, then call me a bad cook." The nice smell had waked up the rest of the chaps by this time, and we was all ready for our meal when she dished it up. Well, sir, I never eat any- thin' like that stew in all my born days. I s'pose it was 'cause J was hungry partly, but then it really was extremely nice as she made it, for we had it often after that, when we wasn't so sharp set.

The woman she looked on quite delighted for to see us eat, and a-fillin' each chap's dish as fast as it was empty, but arter she had helped us all round for the sixth time, she said that there weren't no more left, and we'd have for to wait till dinner time. Says she: "I'll bet you don't any of you know what you've been eatin'."

"Well, marm," said our skipper, "that 'ere is jist the question I was agoin' for to ask you. This here's a powerful good stew, and shows that you're a fust-class cook but that of course would be, comin' from Nantucket— but I hain't seen no birds onto the island, and I can't jist judge from the taste what sort of an animal you've made it of.'

"Well," says she, "that there was a rat stew, and rats is now about the only livin' thing there is upon the island except ourselves, and I begun to think that if they increase much more they'd eat me as they have everythin' else. You see when the ship come ashore there was lots of rats aboard of her, and they jist left her by the hundred and took up their quarters on shore, the numerous eggs in the birds' nests provin' a great temptation to them. Well, you all know how fast they breed, and the island now is literally overrun with 'em, There's millions of 'em here now if there's a single rat. Arter eatin' the eggs they turned to and eat all the young birds they could find, and they either eat the old ones or else they flew away to some other island where they were no so much molested, for there hasn't been a bird here for the past two years.

"I had been livin' on birds and birds' eggs, and when they began to grow so scarce, and the rats so plenty, it struck me I might as well try rat, and I knocked a couple over and skinned 'em, and the flesh looked nice, and I cooked it and found it very good. Since then, so far as meat was concerned, I've lived on rat. But, bless you, where I've eat one, there's a hundred been born, and they're increasin' every day. I've found em useful about one thing— they climb up the coconut trees and eat off the green coconuts so that they fall down, and only in this way could I get any, 'cause, of course, I couldn't climb up arter 'em, but, you see, if this had to go on all the coconuts would be gone, and then I don't know what we should do. Hows'ever, now that there's so many of you to feed, we shall use plenty of these critters."

Well, sir, 'tain't no use makin' a long story of this here thing. Of course you know the way we lived there with plenty for to eat and drink and nothin' to do all the blessed day long. You might think, sir, that this was all very pleasant, but 'tain't no use, sir. Coop a man up on a little island and tell him that he sha'n't go off of it, and you may. jist give him all the grub you like, he won't be contented, nohow. We had rat to eat all ways— roast rat, broiled rat, fried rat, rat fricasse, and rat stew— and I can jist tell you what it is, sir, rat ain't bad, especially if you can git a Nantucket woman to cook it for you. Of course we had fish, as many as we wanted, for there was plenty of them in the lagoon, and we had hooks in our boat, and the woman had a plenty what she had got from the old wreck, and what with the coconuts and the nice cookin' we jist lived like fightin' cocks. But still we wasn't satisfied, 'cause, you see, we wanted for to git off.

The old man he stuck to it that the mate would never leave till he found him, and he was sartain that the old ship was a-cruisin' around somewhere near us. One of the chaps managed for to shin up to the top of the tallest of the coconut trees, and there he fastened a big shawl what belonged to the woman, so that if by chance our ship or any other should happen for to sight the island their attention might be called to this signal, and then we know'd they'd send in a boat.

Well, I think we was there in all twenty-seven days, when one mornin' one of the chaps what was up in a tree lookin' out— we all took our lookouts regular, jist as if we'd been aboard lookin' for whales— sung out, "Sail ho!" That started the whole of us, you may be sure, and we went to work and fetched pieces of the old wreck to the highest part of the island and made a rousin' big fire, pilin' onto it arter it got a-goin' well a lot of leaves and beach grass for to make a big smoke, and then we watched for to see if the sail what we saw came nearer. By noon there was no doubt about it at all, for we could make out her topsails from the ground, and we kept up our fire, you may well believe, the smoke risin' high in the air above the island. By one o'clock we was sure she had seen our signal, for she was a-headin' right down towards us, and in another hour she had rounded to leeward of the island, and lowered away her boat.

They didn't have for to come across the reef, hows'ever, for we had launched our own boat and put the woman and her dunnage into it and pulled out for to meet 'em. We hadn't exactly been able for to make out whether it was our ship or not, as comin' head on as she did all ships look alike. But as soon as she rounded to and the Old Man got  a look at her he know'd her at once, and you may just believe he was delighted. The poor woman was in a dreadful way when she found she was to be took off, and she laughed and cried all at once. When the chaps in the other boat made out who we was they jist peaked their oars and stood up and give three cheers, and we jist jumped right up and returned it, and that made Mr. Robinson, the mate, know who it was, and he jist called all hands to the gangway for to give us another salute as we come alongside.

The appearance of the woman in the boat with us was a matter of surprise to the mate; but the Old Man soon told him who she was and how much she had done for us, and as soon as the boats had been h'isted up we squared away to the westward for Tahiti, that bein' the nighest spot where we could go in for to refit and land the woman, where she could be put in charge of an American consul. You see this island what we had been on was jist to the north'ard of the Paumatu Island, and the Society Islands, that Tahiti belongs to, is away to the south'ard and west 'ard of 'em.

There ain't much more for to tell. The wind was light, and it took us about a week for to reach Tahiti, and there we put the woman on shore, and the consul took charge of her, and, I suppose, the first chance he got he sent her home. Leastwise I never heerd tell of her arterward. We stayed in port a month and refitted and recruited regularly but from that day to this I never see a rat that I don't think of them stews that we used to have onto that island. And if ever you're hard up, sir, and can't git nothin' else in the way of meat you'll find that rat ain't to be sneezed at.

_______________

6: McKeevers Dinosaur

George L. Knapp

1872-1950

The Blue Book Magazine April 1926

EVERYBODY remembers the story told to the prohibition authorities a few months ago by "Lengthy" Ryall, the Kentucky mountaineer who came down from his native hills and stills, and threw in his lot with a rum-running wharf-rat from New York by the name— or alias— of Kees. The two quarreled over their illicit profits; Ryall was badly wounded, and about to be murdered by his treacherous partner, when the Devil appeared and carried Kees away. That is the gist of the tale. Of course it was received with whoops of derision, and witty comments on the quality of hooch that could stir the imagination to such flights. But I happen to know that Ryall was telling the truth as he saw it. Here is the whole story:

Wallace B. McKeever is well known to many scientists and a few prominent manufacturers; but he needs an introduction to the general public. He is Scotch, as one might guess from his name. He came to this country while a boy, and there is only a slight burr in his speech, unless he is excited, or— which happens frequently— in a mood that makes him "wishful to get mair out o' the gude worrds than can be done by singin' 'em through your nose, ye ken, or bitin' 'em aff wi' your teeth." He is a chemist of sorts— a familiar figure at gatherings of the fraternity, and enjoys a good income from some of his discoveries. But he is first and foremost an adventurer. Fate built a wall of duties and necessities around him that kept him from seeking adventures on strange coasts when he was young; so now, in the afternoon of life, he seeks them in the laboratory instead, and has more joy over some useless stuff that can be exploded by radio than over a practical improvement that will bring cash in the open market. That is not the character which the world ascribes to Scotchmen, nor even the one which Nature gives to most of them; but it is true of McKeever.

I HAD not seen him for weeks, when one day I found him lying in wait for me at the club. He led me to a secluded table, and when the waiter disappeared, leaned over and asked in a stage whisper:

"Do ye mind my tellin' you a good while back that I'd made a discovery, an' was waitin' to confirm it?"

"Yes," I said. He told me something of the sort several times a year, and I had not the remotest idea about this particular prophecy. He nodded wisely.

"Tis confirmed," he said. "A great discovery— greater than I dreamed!"

"Does it run to explosions or to smells?" I asked, having had some experience with his discoveries. He regarded me with indulgent pity.

"Neither," he said. "It lives, moves an' has its being. Though there might be something verra like an explosion, given the right provocation. I'll take ye to see it this afternoon. Don't tell me you're busy." :

"Tm not," I said; and then, as the logic of his reply penetrated my slow brain, I exclaimed:

"You don't mean to say that you've been able to make life, in the laboratory?"

"Hush!" he said, as some fellow-members looked our way. "Not quite makin' life, though 'tis a long step that way—a long, long step. There's another chap I want!" He signaled a tall, cadaverous-looking man, famed on two hemispheres as a mighty hunter and a traveler of almost superhuman endurance. "Ho, Greene! This is the head table!"

"Sure," said Greene, coming at the call. "Where McKeever sits— you know the rest." He smiled pleasantly, and the piercing black eyes that hardly seemed to belong in his pale face twinkled as he surveyed the little Scot. "Another invention to announce?"

"Precisely!" returned McKeever. "A biological invention. When ye have fortified yourselves wi' a good meal, I'll take ye to inspect it. As a hunter, 'twill be of interest to ye."

HE refused to say more, and we knew there was no use in pressing him. We finished our lunch and went down to the street. McKeever was about to signal a taxi to take us to the station; but Greene had his car handy, so we went out in that. A little less than an hour of the hunter's emotionless driving brought us to the bungalow where McKeever lives most of the year, alone save for his Chinese servant and the occasional visits of his two grown daughters. It is a lonesome place, too far from town to be cut up into lots, and too barren for truck-farming; the nearest neighbor is almost half a mile away. We supposed the "discovery" would be in his basement experiment station; but he turned toward the structure, half barn, half laboratory,— where garden tools and chemical reagents. often repose on the same bench,— but steam heated and electric lighted.

"Prepare your eyes to gaze on wondrous things!" he intoned, rolling his r's as he unlocked the door. We followed him inside; he pointed to a big glass case, and proclaimed:

"Look!"

"Good heavens!" I cried; and even Greene, usually as impassive as the Senecas whose blood he boasts, gave a grunt of surprise. Behind the thick glass was the largest python either of us ever had seen. The biggest snake of my acquaintance was reputed to be twenty-five feet long, and I always thought they stretched it at least half a yard. This fellow— I measured the coils with my eye as well as I could, discarded the result as incredible but found no change on repeating the process— was well above thirty feet.

"Thirty-eight," said McKeever at my question. "A bit mair, now. "Tis a week or so since I had the tape on him."

"Where on earth did you get him?" asked Greene. The Scot ignored the question to put one of his own:

"Did ye ever see the like o' him?"

"I never did," said Greene frankly. "The longest skin I ever saw was twenty-nine feet, and that had been stretched. He's a whale— and a beauty."

He was a beauty, even to me, who hate all snakes. As we talked, he came out of his coils and began circling the cage, flowing round it, one might say, so smooth was his motion. I repeated Greene's question:

"Where did you get him?"

"I made him," said McKeever. We stared, and he went on, grinning at our surprise. "That is, I made twenty-seven feet o' him. He was eleven feet long when I got him, not two years syne. I ha' made the rest."

He stopped, waiting to be questioned further. Greene, with his Indian patience, would have outwaited him; but McKeever always wins a contest of that sort with me.

"Will you kindly tell us what the devil you mean?" I demanded.

"Surely. Not out of deference to the power ye naturally invoked, but juist as a matter o' politeness, I will tell. I ha' discovered and partly isolated the sub-McKeever's Dinosaur

stances which caused growth, an' fed them to the serpent, here. That is all."

"I should think it was enough," murmured Greene, as he watched the restless giant circling the cage. "Pituitary gland, I suppose?"

"At first, yes. Then I went further, an' now I find I can get the same substances out o' fresh liver an' thyroid. Juist what they are, I do not know, beyond the fact that they contain a larger percentage o' phosphorus, iodine an' potassium than the average o' body tissues. But they give a characteristic reaction in the test-tube, besides the reaction ye see here."

"Liquid?" asked Greene; and at the answering nod: "Then you must inject it into the animals you give him for his food?"

McKeever nodded again, glumly, and I inquired:

"Why didn't you try this on some worthwhile creature?"

"It doesn't seem to work well on warm-blooded animals. They grow— I had a white mouse nigh as big as a rabbit— but they get all out o' proportion. Reptiles an' fish are different; the maist o' them grow as long as they live, anyway, an' it works no havoc to speed up the process."

"Will he get any bigger?"

"No doubt. But not through my meenistrations. I've sold him to the zoo at the Big Town; they're comin' for him Monday. I think he's about as big as they can handle; an' besides," he added, confidentially, "its no a pleasant task to feed a beastie that has to get his meat alive. When he goes, I'll be ready for the real job."

"Which is—"

"I'm goin' to make a dinosaur!"

"YOU'RE crazy!" I exclaimed. Greene shook his head, and McKeever answered with cool confidence:

"Crazy like a fox. Yes. I'm no talkin' about hatchin' those ancient eggs, ye ken, or callin' fossils to life. But the' main veesible difference betwixt the dinosaurs an' some 0' our modern lizards is the matter o' size. TIl furnish the size."

"Jove!" exclaimed Greene, as the possibilities of the weird scheme rose before him. "If it works, you could put a new thrill in hunting. But be careful, old man. Don't make the Gila monster or that Australian chap— Moloch— any bigger than they are now."

"I'm not a fool!" said McKeever acidly.

"The creature I ha' chosen for the next demonstration is harmless." He led us through the building to a yard at the back, enclosed by a high, solid board fence. In one corner, basking in the still warm autumn sunshine, was a lizardlike creature about three feet long. A row of spines ran along its back, longest in the neck and shoulder region and dwindling to little knobs on the tail, and the hindlegs were somewhat longer than the front ones.

"Oh, an iguana!" said Greene. "From Mexico?"

"Aye. As far up the mountains as they could find one, so that he wouldna be too sensitive to cold— though the building's heated, as ye see."

"I've seen these fellows five feet long, anyway," said Greene.

"Sometimes six," answered McKeever. "l'll multiply that by four or five, maybe more, wi' fair luck. I only started feedin' him the extract last week, an' there's a difference already."

"His intelligence doesn't seem to be speeded up very much," I remarked.

"He's verra human in some respects," retorted the Scot. "Still, he can learn. Sandy! Sandy! Come here!" He clapped his hands loudly, the creature came at the call, and McKeever began feeding him bits of dog-biscuit from a capacious pocket.

"See?" he said. "He knows the call to meals. When he doesn't obey, I spank him lightly wi' a wooden paddle, and he comes to order. His hearin' is no his strong point, though. I ha' my own ways o' discouragin' the curiosity o' neighbors; I've spread the word that I'm experimentin' wi' explosives, an' set off a harmless powder now and then. Sandy's got so he expects to be fed when he hears them."

"What do you feed him, aside from your mysterious extract and dog biscuit?"

"Lettuce, green corn, a wee bit meal an' alfalfa hay, which I sprinkle wi' the growth elixir."

"You'll have to enrich that diet," said Greene. "These brutes get a good deal of animal food in the wild state; they're far from being pure vegetarians. You'll have to give this chap something of the sort or he'll wink out on you, as most of 'em do."

"I'm averse to that," said McKeever, in a troubled tone. "An appetite for meat would be hard to handle in a creature the size o' an elephant."

"Get your dog-biscuits baked specially, with an extra amount of animal food in them," suggested Greene. "And don't talk about elephants. If you get this fellow as big as a Shetland pony, you'll be doing well."

"Will I, noo?" demanded McKeever in a huff. "You watch!"

A MONTH later, I came to see. Sandy again. He had grown rapidly—there could be no doubt on that score; and it seemed to me that he had changed shape in some degree. The tail was fleshier and the neck longer. I mentioned this to McKeever, who nodded.

"The hind legs are growin' longer, too, compared to the front ones," he said. "I didna foresee this, but I should ha' done so. I am givin' the beastie an excess o' the elements o' growth, and ancestral tendencies that ha' been suppressed are stimulated to new activity. "Tis a more illuminatin' discovery than I dreamed mysel'."

"You'll never die of ingrowing modesty," I remarked. He answered only with a grin.

Some weeks later I was summoned by phone, and. asked to bring Greene with me. The hunter was out of the city, so I came alone, and found McKeever in much distress. His pet was sick.

"He got chilled, I fear me," he said. "But warmin' him does na good now. He will na eat, an' seems in pain."

"Have you called a veterinary?" I asked.

Mac gave me a look of scorn.

"No, nor yet a plumber, nor an astronomer, nor a specialist on Hebrew folklore. What should a vet' know about a beastie like this?" We stood by idly for a while, and then, with a gesture that bade me wait, McKeever went to the house. In a few minutes he was back with a large bottle, from which, as he uncorked it, came an unmistakable aroma.

"A remedy that's done much gude to man an' beast, an' no so much harm, when used in moderation," he announced. "Here, Sandy, taste the blood o' John Barleycorn. Twill make you feel better, whether ye are so or nicht. Down it, now."

He worked the neck of the bottle into the creature's mouth while talking, and tilted the fiery liquid down its throat. Sandy never stirred. MeKeever rose, held the bottle up to the light, and swore, softly.

"A pint, or mair, at one fell swoop! 'Tis either a copper-lined belly ye've got, Sandy, or a taste three million years ahead o' your time. Well, it should soon bring results."

Privately, I thought it would bring a funeral, for though the brute was then more than seven feet long, it seemed impossible that he should swallow such a dose of raw whisky without disaster. But I reckoned without reptilian digestion. A few minutes passed. Sandy suddenly raised his head, looked round, and settled back into his original position. A minute later he gave a start, and then, as an afterthought, scratched himself on the neck with one hind foot.

"Tis workin'," said McKeever. The lizard was still for a brief space, then raised up its forequarters, looked around the building with an air of disapproval, stood up on three legs, and rubbed its stomach with one forefoot. Evidently things were getting warm in Sandy's interior. He twisted his head, looked back at us over each shoulder in turn, and presently stretched his neck as far as it would go and gave a bawl that sounded like a steam whistle with a sore throat.

"Lord love us!" cried McKeever; and I echoed the surprise if not the words. It was the first time I had heard the brute utter a sound. Apparently cheered by his own music, Sandy pushed himself up, and for the first time balanced wabblingly for a minute on his hind-feet alone.

"Look! Look!" McKeever was fairly squealing with excitement. "Tis a dinosaur already, no less! The iguana has. become an iguanaden! Man, I ha' builded better than I knew!"

Sandy dropped on all fours— we jumped back as his knobby tail lashed our way; he upended again, took two steps that way, slapping his feet like Charlie Chaplin, dropped again. We did not suspect his aim till he halted at a shelf; far out of his normal reach, reared up and swept it clear of bottles, tools and paraphernalia, with a fine smashing of glass.

"Here, ye disorderly de'il!" shouted McKeever, springing forward. Sandy answered with his new-found squawk, and started off at the most outlandish gait ever known since time began. He was trying to run on hind-feet alone, but regularly lost his balance after the second step in that fashion, came lurching down on his forequarters, reared up and tried it over again, with the same result. It was pure awkwardness; but it looked like an incredibly grotesque dance. Plop, plop, pullallop— plop, plop, pullallop— he went round and round the room, letting out his war-cry at every other lurch, while McKeever and I held to each other to keep from falling, and laughed ourselves faint.

"J-J-Jurassic jazz!" gasped McKeever. "Hey, ye bletherin' anachronism!" For Sandy was reaching toward another shelf. His keeper ran forward, and the paddle not being handy, brought down the flat of a spade on the creature's rump. I doubt if it hurt him in the least; but Sandy gave over his riotous designs, galumphed to the opposite corner of the room, sat up, tried to scratch himself, tipped sideways and sprawled at length, tongue sticking foolishly out of one corner of his mouth. He gave a vast sigh and lay still, save for an occasional wriggle in the stomach region. McKeever covered him with a blanket, and stood looking down, fairly bursting with pride. "I ha' made a dinosaur!" he said.

SANDY slept off his souse with no apparent ill effects, though his appetite was small next morning. McKeever soon had him back on full rations, but for a time omitted the growth extract. After a month he resumed it again; and Sandy, who had lagged for a space, spurted up till you could almost see him grow. Day by day, in every way, he was getting bigger and bigger— and uglier and uglier, too, though no beauty at the start. His neck was quite long, now, his hind legs ditto; the horny spikes on his back had grown in proportion. When he balanced on his hind feet and peered round with his staring, reptilian eyes, one had to admit that he was the reincarnation of a remote past, a creature which so far as outward appearance went, might have waddled into a Mesozoic marsh and dined on tree ferns. Greene, back in the city again, came out for a visit, and shook his head.

"Better get this brute out to my place on Crocketts Bar, Mac," he said. "He's going to make trouble if you try to keep him here."

"He's gentle as a lamb!" declared McKeever indignantly.

"He wont stay so. He hasn't brains enough to tame and train like a sensible brute, and he's getting too much muscle to handle. He could kill a man in half a minute, now, if he knew it."

McKeever surveyed his pet. The brute was nearly twelve feet long, and though more than a third of that was tail, when standing on his hind feet, he was taller than a man, and already heavier than the pony that Greene had set for his limit. The fleshy tail, huge hindquarters and sagging paunch were the first things to catch the eye; but the fore-limbs were not weak; the neck was heavily muscled; and though the head held only a paltry excuse for a brain, it was well armed with teeth. The Scot spoke doubtfully:

"I do not like to call on my friends to help me see a thing through, and it happens that just now, I am in no position—"

"Never mind that," interrupted Greene. "I've got to stay at home till that suit is settled, and I'll be glad to put some of the savings into Sandy. He's your dinosaur, nothing can change that; but you can't keep him here much longer. If it wasn't for your vile reputation as a dynamiter, the neighbors would have run you and your pet out long ago. I'll send some men down to fix a corral. You and Lee Fat can live in the shack and ride herd on him."

" 'Tis more than kind of you," said McKeever. "Lee calls him a dragon and expects him to breathe fire, but he'll stick. I'll have to see about some supplies."

"Give me a list, and I'll have 'em there when you come," said Greene.

And so it was arranged. Always a man of action, Greene ordered the lumber at once by long-distance telephone, and took down some workmen the next day. It was an almost ideal place for such a tenant. Crockett's Bar is a sandspit, a dozen miles in length and from half a mile to three miles wide, curving between the ocean and the sound. Some of it is covered by scrubby trees; some is marshy and overgrown with reeds; some lies bare of all covering; and none is thirty feet above high tide. Near the upper end, a smaller spit, a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide, projects into the sound; and on this Greene had his "shack," a comfortable log dwelling of two rooms. The corral was to be in front of this— a substantial inclosure that would keep Sandy in and prying visitors out— though there was small reason to look for visitors. Four miles away, on the ocean side of the main peninsula, was a tiny hamlet of half a dozen cottages, occupied by folk who were fishermen once, and perhaps occasionally spread a net now, though reputed to be actively engaged in rum-running.

But before the corral was finished, Sandy was in trouble. For several days, he had been extremely restless, and during that time, McKeever watched him like a hawk. Then the brute calmed down; Mac came to the city to order some things needed for the proposed trip, and as if waiting for this opportunity, Sandy began to patrol the narrow boundaries of his yard, catching the top of the fence now and then in his forepaws, and pulling himself up till he could look out at the world. Apparently, he liked the view, for the next Lee Fat heard was a racket in the barn, and as he ran to investigate, the door came crashing outward. The lock and staple had held, but the hinges gave way, and Sandy floundered through. The Chinaman retired hastily to the house, locked the door, pulled . down the blinds, and then called "Mista Gleene" and myself on the phone with the news that the "dlagon" was loose, and eating up everything; and that we should seek the master and hurry him home with all possible speed.

It was really not so bad as Lee Fat said. Sandy plop-plopped toward the house, came across a flowering almond in full bloom, took a nibble at it, and the whole shrub came up with his tug. He moved on to the garden which McKeever and Lee managed between them, inspected the compost heap, decided that it was not edible, and sat down in the cold frames. Paying no heed to the smashing glass, he looked round at the landscape for a few moments, then got up and ambled away. One of the cold frame sash stuck to his latter end; he paused, pulled the wrecked framework away with his teeth as casually as a man might pick a bur from his coat; and started to visit the neighbors I have mentioned, half a mile down the slope.

Jobson was away, the children were at school; but Mrs. Jobson, an ample and militant lady, had hung out her washing that morning, and was now crating eggs for market. She heard a warning bark that ended in a howl of fear, looked out, and saw the grotesque shape entering the yard. Running out on the porch, she sicked the dog on the intruder; and with heroic courage but wretched judgment, the black mongrel obeyed. As he jumped for the enemy's throat, Sandy sat back and slapped. His forepaw caught the luckless canine broadside, and Towser landed ten feet away, with no breath and three broken ribs, entirely out of the fight. Mrs. Jobson screamed. Sandy paid no attention, and lumbered forward to inspect the poultry. A big rooster ventured near. Sandy regarded him mildly, and gathering confidence from neglect, the rooster stretched his neck to crow. He squawked, instead, a cry cut off in the middle as sharp, reptilian teeth literally bit him in two.

"The murderin' blackguard!" cried Mrs. Jobson. Sandy merely swallowed the part of the rooster that happened to be in his mouth, moved toward the clothesline, and sampled a union suit. He had to put one foot on it and tear it in two before he could get it down; but apparently it tasted good, for he followed it with a pair of stockings. A towel came next, and he might have cleaned the line, but Mrs. Jobson, blood in her eye, charged to the rescue. By vast good luck, she caught up a shovel standing by the porch, and rushing in from the rear, whanged Sandy over the rump.

Of course this did not hurt him; but one of the few lessons he had learned was to stop whatever he was doing when he got that whack on the reverse, and bolt. He bolted now, up the hill; and Lee Fat, watching from behind the blinds, vows that the angry dame followed him more than halfway.

BEFORE McKeever got home Sandy had gone into his yard, and Lee Fat, with much misgiving and many prayers to his honorable ancestors, ventured out and nailed up the door. But it was clear that another domicile must be sought at once. Jobson came up in righteous wrath, to collect damages and lay down the law that that damned cross between an alligator and a kangaroo had to move. Mac pacified him with words and cash, and next afternoon, Greene was on hand with the largest size of moving van. I think we all had dreaded the transfer and expected trouble; but Sandy never performed according to schedule. It took some time to inveigle him into the van; but once there, he curled down, peacefully enough. McKeever sat  with the truck driver; Greene led the way in a touring car with Lee Fat and myself as passengers and the tonneau filled with supplies. We started late in the afternoon, circled the city, drove all night, and reached Crockett's Bar next morning. The truck driver stared round at the empty landscape, the scrubby trees growing out of the sand, the belt of weeds and reeds that fringed the placid sound, looked back over the lonely road he had come, and remarked:

"Well, if you can get away with that kind of a stock-farm anywhere, this ought to be the place."

We unloaded Sandy in the nearly finished corral, the driver slept a few hours, and departed with a fee in his pocket that bought forgetfulness as well as service. Lee Fat, with the Chinese capacity for doing without sleep, straightened out the bungalow, arranged the stores, cooked meals and gathered wood. I loafed and drowsed; but there was no rest for McKeever and Greene; the men refused to work around Sandy without a guard. Protected by the hunter's rifle and the Scot's paddle, however, they spurted valiantly and finished their task. There was a high, close fence inclosing a yard across which ran a stream of fresh water, forming a delectable puddle in the middle; inside the yard was an open shed, facing south, and feed-troughs that could be filled from the outside. This was Greene's precaution, which McKeever pooh-poohed. Against the fence on the outside, at the west of the corral, was another shed, in which to store the bulkier supplies, meal, hay and the like. It was pretty well stocked. That night, we slept as we could on bunks and floor, and in the morning, drove away with the workmen. They asked questions about the huge beast, of course, and Greene answered, without the faintest trace of a smile:

"Its a damfinosaur from New-Guinea, named after the Dutch explorer, Dampf. Nobody's ever been able to trap a grown one, and Mac, here, is the only man that's managed to raise a young one in captivity."

Apparently, the explanation was accepted.

GREENE drove down alone next week, taking down a few additional supplies and a motorcycle. Everything was lovely, but when I saw him later in the week, he was apprehensive.

"I don't like it," he said. "It ought to be all right. I've been to the prohibition officials, and they've given the coast dry squad orders to let Mac alone; and I've been to the village, and squared him with the bootleggers. And still I feel it in my bones that there's going to be trouble."

"Your Seneca great-grandmother is whispering to you," I said, repeating one of his own phrases in regard to a "hunch." He nodded.

"Very likely; but she always tells the truth. I can see one place where trouble might come from, myself. There's an independent rum-runner, Kees, that they say is a right bad actor. I went to his hangout, a shack on the main bar, down below that narrow neck, on a little cove just off the sound. Slick place, reeds around it so thick you can't see it from either water or land; but Kees wasn't at home."

"He isn't likely to come five or six miles out of his way to hunt for trouble," I returned. Greene nodded, but stuck to his hunch.

A month or so later, I went down with him. Lee Fat seemed a bit more silent than usual, McKeever was absurdly happy, and Sandy was growing like the list of a miser's heirs. He still came to order at the whack of a spade; but it seemed to me he was growing obstreperous. Greene thought so, too. He stayed on the Bar all he could, three weeks, on one occasion, to guard against trouble or be on hand when it broke; but disaster caught him off base, after all.

Lee Fat had been in bed for hours one night, and McKeever was thinking of turning in himself when he heard the sound of a motor. He peered out, nothing was in sight, and supposing himself mistaken, started to undress. There came a heavy knock at the door, and a voice:

"Open up there, an' make it damn snappy!"

At the same moment, there was a crash of glass, and Mac looked round into the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun, stuck through a window pane. He opened the door, and five men filed in. All were obviously city gunmen, and three had the pasty faces and abnormally steady hands that belong to the "snowbird" when properly "coked up." They had come down on a hijacking job, missed their quarry, and, scouting round, had seen McKeever's light.

"What the hell you doin' here?" demanded the leader.

"Mindin' my own business!" retorted McKeever.

The hijacker raised his pistol.

"Another crack like that, an' you'll be pushin' up the daisies. Where's your gang?"

"I havent any gang— just a Chinese servant who takes care of me."

"Like hell! Turn out the joint!" It does not take long to search a two-room bungalow. Lee Fat was routed from his cot in the kitchen, and the seekers reported no other persons present, and no stores of booze. The hijacking leader turned on Mac with a snarl:

"What's your lay, mud or coke?"

"I don't know what you mean," said McKeever. "I'm here on a work o' science. I'm raisin' the greatest reptile the world has seen for ten million years. He will be—"

"Shut up! What you got in that yard?"

"The creature I'm tellin' ye about. I—"

"Come along!"

THEY took both men to the yard, but when McKeever would have opened the gate, the leader halted him. "You said you had a reptile here," he said. "Snake, or alligator?" Without waiting for a reply, he climbed on the feed-trough supports which projected outside the fence, two of his companions following. There was no moon, but the stars and a flash-light showed a huge shape, wallowing in the central puddle. Aiming carefully, the hijacker fired his automatic. The bullet went through one of the horny plates projecting from the spine in the region of the shoulders. It was about the equivalent of a slap on the back for a healthy man, and Sandy floundered up to see what the greeting meant.

"Hell's hump!" cried the hijacker, and the three came tumbling down as one. They looked at each other, to make sure that all had seen it, and that they were not dreaming. Satisfied on this point, the leader barked an order, and his men jumped to obey. They took their prisoners back halfway to the cabin, tied the hands of each behind his back with cord, and bound his ankles with baling wire. "Not too tight," said the leader. "We don't want to hurt 'em, special. You was raisin' that brute for meat, wasn't you? Well, we'll roast him for you!"

They made a cursory search of the feed shed for liquor and drugs, but apparently, had about accepted the Scot's denial of such activities. Then they dragged out the baled alfalfa, cut the wires, and scattered the hay all along the base of the fence. McKeever's pleas and protests did not even get an answer. When their kindling was laid, they set it on fire in twenty places, and gathered to watch the fun.

For several minutes, the flames went straight up in the still night, getting higher and higher, and no sound came from the corral, Then a puff of wind from the west billowed the blaze from the feed shed into the yard; Sandy gave a hoarse bawl, and they saw his head as he retreated to the farthest corner. He must have squatted back against the fence, staring at the burning shed till the fire behind him burned through the heavy boards and scorched his tail. Then there was a roar that made his earlier efforts seem puny, a splash as he went through the pool instead of going round it, a crash as he struck the fence. Weakened by the flames, it gave way, gaped outward, and the frightened dinosaur hurtled through and came straight toward the group of hijackers. They scattered like quail; one of their number fell, and Sandy stepped on his leg; another huge foot came down within inches of McKeever's head; and Sandy vanished into the wilderness of Crockett's Bar, somewhat singed in the after region; but not otherwise harmed.

IT must be said to the hijackers' credit that though they drove away in panic at first, they came back and got their injured comrade. Lee had gnawed the cords that bound McKeever's wrists, and he was bandaging the bandit's leg when his companions returned. When they were gone again, Lee took the motorcycle and rode ten miles through the night to a telephone. Half an hour later, Greene and I were starting toward the cabin, with three heavy rifles in the back of the auto. A heavy rain struck us shortly after sunrise, but we reached the scene of hostilities at noon. McKeever had just come back to the cabin from a fruitless search.

"He's most likely in the marshes below the neck," reported Mac. "I've been to the village, to buy fish, of course, an' they told me a bear had come in from the canebrakes on the mainland, pushed over one of their outbuildings, an' stolen a pig. The rain washed the tracks out, ye see. I've hunted half the ground this side o' the neck an' no Sandy."

"Good thing you didn't find him," returned Greene. "He might have eaten you as well as the pig."

The meal Lee cooked was breakfast and lunch for Greene and myself. When it was finished, we started on the search; McKeever most reluctantly carrying one of the rifles. The rain had washed out all tracks, but we found other evidences of Sandy's progress; bushes uprooted, a young pine tree broken down, a trail as if a log had been dragged through æ patch of reeds.

Scouting with the care learned on the game trails of four continents, Greene made sure that the escaped creature had taken refuge below the "neck," a place where the bar narrowed till there was less than half a mile between sea and sound. He called a halt.

"Too late to tackle that now," he said. "He's not likely to come back in the night, and if he does, his tracks will show. I can do with a little extra sleep."

"We must try to take him alive," said McKeever, for the fiftieth time that afternoon.

"We'll try, but there isn't one chance in a thousand that we can do it. Even if he's good-natured when we find him, where can we keep him till a new pen is built?"

WE were up with the first gray of the morning, ate a good breakfast, and climbed into the car. Picking our way carefully, we drove across country to the neck.. Ten minutes showed that Sandy had not come northward during the night. We looked to our guns and started, McKeever lamenting audibly, I with an uneasy feeling inside, Greene cool as a spring morning. We had not gone a hundred yards when we heard a shot, ahead and to the right.

"Pistol," said Greene, as we halted. "Came from over there, where Kees has his hang-out."

He turned in that direction, rifle at the ready, and we followed. Two minutes passed; there came another shot, a third, a hoarse bawl which we knew too well, a human scream of utter terror, more shots, close together— and silence....

Ryall's story never has varied in any important item. The day before, he discovered that Kees had been cheating, and taxed him with it. The dispute went to the verge of murder, there and then; but they needed each other, and a truce was declared, Ryall announcing that henceforth he would handle the cash. They slipped out to a rum ship that night, loaded their motorboat with whisky and gin, exchanged a few shots with fellow pirates, and ran into their hang-out on the bar. During the engagement, a bullet had gone through a case of gin. When morning came, they lifted the damaged case to land, opened it, and poured what was left in the broken bottles into a bucket, for transfer to a small keg. Both sampled the gin while this salvage work was in progress; they began to quarrel; Kees spat out a tirade of abuse, and

Ryall knocked him down. Pretending to be stunned, he managed to get hold of his pistol and fired from the ground, shooting Ryall through the right shoulder. The long mountaineer fell, Kees sprang up, and stood over him, gloating.

"I'm goin' to shoot your damned guts out!" he said— and just then the Devil stuck his head through the reeds!

I can see that scene as Ryall describes it: the mountain man, helpless on the ground, the city killer standing over him with a pistol, the flat, reptilian head, ten feet in the air, peering down at them. They stared agape, their feud forgotten. Sandy waddled into the clearing. Perhaps he just wanted to be sociable; perhaps he smelled the liquor. At any rate, he stuck his nose into the bucket and took a long drink; and at this sign of kinship with normal life, as he knew it, Kees recovered his nerve. He fired twice, one bullet going through Sandy's forepaw. Then came that roar. The Devil's head went back, says Ryall, and he struck like a heron spearing a frog. The gunman's shots and frantic scream ended as armored jaws bit through neck and chest; he was lifted in air, shaken like a rat in a terrier's mouth —and Ryall fainted.

KEES had vanished when we reached the scene. At first we thought only one man had been there and that Sandy had mauled him; but the dropped pistol and the nature of the wound told the truth. Greene produced a first-aid packet and we bandaged Ryall as well as we could, while McKeever thoughtfully lifted a case of Scotch from the motorboat, and bestowed it at the edge of the glade. Leaving Ryall still unconscious, we followed Sandy's broad trail through the reeds till he splashed across an inlet which we had to circle. It was here, no doubt, that he dropped the gunman's body, which other rum-runners found floating in the sound some days later.

"We've got to kill him," said Greene. "Don't all shoot at once. Let me start it, and if I'm hard pressed, you relieve me. I'm afraid he'll take a lot of pounding."

"Poor beastie!" said McKeever.

Sandy was no mean traveler, and for some miles, he kept to the marshy edge of the sound, forcing us to make detours. We were not a mile from the southern point of the bar when on entering an open space hemmed in by a thick growth of scrubby trees, we spied Sandy, coming toward us. His size was appalling. McKeever's prediction of a creature as large as an elephant had not been realized in bulk or weight, but it had been surpassed in length; and as he padded forward on his hind feet, his great tail serving as a balancing pole and his jaws snapping from side to side, it was plain that the dinosaur was in a bad temper.

"Sandy! Oh, Sandy!" called McKeever.

The beast's answer was a battle roar and a hip-hopping rush that covered the ground with surprising speed as Greene stepped forward to meet it.

Never have I seen before nor do I ever expect to see again such an exhibition of chilled steel nerve. Greene was working in the dark. No tradition tells the right spot at which to aim when hunting dinosaurs; the jerking head was no mark; and, standing lank and impassive, he probed that awesome thing with bullets, seeking a vital spot. One shot went through the heart, four more through other parts of the chest; and though each blow checked him for the fraction of a second, the brute kept coming. I had opened a raking fire from the flank when Greene's bullet smashed a vertebra at the base of the neck, and poor Sandy toppled forward, his head not ten feet from the hunter's toes.

"Umm," said Greene. "Rather too close for comfort. Now we'll go pick up that bootlegger, and then for the taxidermy work."

But when we got to the hang-out, Ryall was gone. He had come to his senses, found himself alone, and, convinced that he had escaped by inches from being carried bodily off to hell, got into the motor-boat, piloted it across the sound with his one good hand, and delivered it to the authorities. They accepted his cargo and his promises of reform, howled with glee at his story; and he went back to the mountains to atone for his sins by powerful preaching.

Next month, when Sandy's skeleton and mounted skin are set up in the museum, I mean to bring Ryall down from his hills to look again on the Devil that saved his life and frightened him into paths of virtue.

_______________

7: Fresh Paint

John Clemons

fl 1935-1941

Popular Detective, Sep 1935

"EVERYONE knows you've been up here in the country the past few weeks," said Detective Healy, "getting the house in shape."

Sure, everyone knew, Frank Previtt reflected. Everyone knew; his alibi was perfect.

"Just the routine questions," Healy apologized.

Frank Previtt felt relieved, even though he had expected the cops. He wiped the paint off his hands and faced the big detective, trying to appear not too cool, not too frightened. Just a little bit worried, as an innocent man should look upon being informed of his rich old uncle's death.

After all, there was nothing to worry about, really. It had been raining steadily for two days and the little village was dead as a salted mackerel, No one had seen Previtt board a train for the city, early yesterday; of that he was certain. He'd walked three miles across farm lands to a neighboring town where no one knew him, and had taken the train there.

"If it helps to soften the blow any," Healy was saying, "I don't mind telling you that you're the only beneficiary."

"He's telling me," Previtt thought. His hard, set face never changed. He looked like a man too broken to be thinking of material benefits. In reality he was thinking what fools people were, what a sap Healy was, never to suspect.

The detective changed the subject out of respect to the man's apparent grief, delaying the questions that were routine to the Department.

"Been doin' a lot of painting, lately, haven't you?" he asked.

Previtt nodded absently.

"Say, I painted my own house last month," said Healy. "Did it all myself, too. Cost me a sight more than if I'd contracted it, though. Made an awful mess of the job— but I learned a devil of a lot about paint."

PREVITT made no reply, just stared morosely at the raindrenched world without. Now all this land was his, he reflected. This house, in the city. All the money in the bank. The insurance.

The twin oaks he'd cut down the week before still lay out there on the sodden lawn. The old man would not have liked that. Previtt often wondered if that had been too bold a move, chopping those shade trees down when the old man had so often expressed his delight in them. Chopping them down even before he'd killed the old man, as if the land had been his already.

"If the old man had not been planning to marry, killing would. not have been necessary," he thought. "He was pretty old and sick, If he married that nurse, I'd have been left out in the cold. I had to kill him." It was thus he eased an aching conscience.

The realization that he had a conscience made him worry about Healy. The detective must be got rid of.

"I want to be alone," said Previtt solemnly. "You understand. Ask me whatever you want to. Let's get it over with."

Healy nodded. He lit a cigarette, offered Previtt one. Previtt declined.

"Very simple," said Healy. "Just account for your time between the hours of nine and five, yesterday."

"I was here," said Previtt, "alone. I was painting." He was pretty sure of himself now, unafraid. Healy wasn't over-bright, he decided. That was a break, even if his alibi was air-tight.

"Painting?" the detective said matter-of-factly. "Show me."

Previtt led the way into the large, old-fashioned kitchen. There was a good day's: work there, what with the walls and shelves and cupboards.

"I enameled the kitchen," he said. The enamel was so bright, it was like a mirror. Healy could see his reflection everywhere. He touched the walls and woodwork gingerly. The enamel was dry. Dry as a bone.

Previtt thought he saw the detective's jaws tighten, his nostrils flare, but he attributed it to the paint. Some fellows simply didn't like paint.

"Let's see the can this stuff came in," Healy said suddenly.

Previtt walked through the kitchen, into an enclosed porch. He came back a moment later, carrying a paint-covered pot in his hand.

Healy took a rag and washed the outside of the can with turpentine. Not much. Just a little. Just enough to see the name of the brand.

The detective straightened, hand in his pocket.

"Previtt, I think you killed your uncle!" he said. "Don't move! I've got you covered!"

"Are you crazy, Healy?" Previtt was panic-stricken. His eyes popped out like a spent rabbit's. His face was drained of blood. Standing all hunched with fright, his mouth agape and his bony nose high, he looked like a vulture.

"Almost any enamel takes a day or two to dry, Previtt," Healy said sharply. "But in this rainy weather, it would take twice as long. I thought you might have some special brand I'd never heard of, so I looked over the can. You haven't."

"I thinned it down!" Previtt shouted desperately. "I thinned it down like the devil! It was half turpentine and dryers!"

"Yeah?" said Healy, interestedly. "Well, that would dry it over-night, like you say. It would be dry as the sands of the desert, the next morning."

Previtt brightened. Close shave. Mighty close. He mopped his dripping brow.

Healy looked a long moment at his reflection in the glossy kitchen walls. He adjusted his tie; it was like looking in a mirror,

"Pretty high gloss," he observed.

"Yes. Yes, it is." Previtt choked a little, tried to smile. His heart was pounding wildly.

"Yeah. Pretty high gloss," mused the detective softly, Then he whirled suddenly, facing Previtt.

"Too damned high!" he shouted stridently, as he pulled out a pair of manacles. "All that turp and dryers would kill the gloss! It would be flatter than yesterday's beer! Tell me? I know! Didn't I try it, too!"

Previtt, suddenly crazed, hoarsed an inarticulate curse, dove blindly at Healy. He didn't see the detective's quickly drawn gun. He didn't even feel the slap-slap of the heavy weapon as it crashed down on his skull. His staggering rush was halted in a ripe moan of anguish as he fell at Healy's feet.

______________

8: The Poppa-Guy and the Flapper

George B. Jenkins, Jr.

1890-1929

The Follies, Feb 1922

MR. POTTER was a gay dog. Though his hair had vanished, and his abdomen was unusually protuberant, he was a squire of dames. Though he was no longer young in years, though he possessed a gray-haired wife and a daughter who was old enough to vote, Mr. Potter thought himself a devil. In fact, he thought he was "getting away with it."

In a restaurant noted for its cabaret, dance-floor, and prices, Mr. Potter sat at a "table-for-two." He wore a sporty gray business suit, his fingernails were freshly manicured, and his face was smooth from the soothing touch of a barber's razor.

You have seen Mr. Potter, or a gentleman who fits his description. He is technically and colloquially known as a "poppa-guy." He inhabits restaurants from nine o'clock until closing time.

The "poppa-guy" orders lavishly, and waiters buy automobiles with his tips. For him the hat-check girl always has a smile, and the orchestra is jubilant when he appears.

Almost always, the "poppa-guy" is accompanied by a "flapper." Mr. Potter's flapper is called Felice, and she can listen by the hour without having a single expression on her face.

"Flappers" usually look about seventeen; height five-seven. They wear ornate dinner-rings, perfume, permanently-waved bobbed hair, lip-rouge, powder, chiffon stockings, and the minimum amount of clothes permitted by the police. They eat with "poppa-guys."

"You're a nice poppa," said Felice admiringly across the table to Mr. Potter. "I like you," she declared.

Mr. Potter beamed. He liked to be told that he was nice; it made him feel noble and popular.

"Is there anything else you want, my dear?" he asked. "It it's on the menu, I'll order it for you. If it's not on the menu, we'll go to another restaurant."

"You're a nice, generous poppa," announced Felice.

Mr. Potter winced slightly. The word "generous" was familiar—Felice had used it exactly one week ago. Mr. Potter remembered the conversation that followed. He wondered whether the same things would be repeated tonight. He listened.

"I need some new clothes," said Felice, woefully. "This dress is a fright! And I haven't anything at all to wear tomorrow night, and—"

Mr. Potter coughed behind his hand. "The financial situation of the country is, at present, in such a state that—" He talked upon the subject for several moments.

Innocent-eyed and wondering, Felice waited until he had finished. "I can't understand," she said sadly. "What does 'the financial situation' mean?"

"Er— ah— it means, my dear, that everyone must do with as little as possible. You should not spend—"

"Oh, but I don't!" interrupted Felice. "Men are awfully nice; they take me to lunch, and to dinner, and I never eat any breakfast. But I must have clothes. I can't go around in any old thing! You know that—"

"You are looking very charming tonight," said Mr. Potter gallantly. "I fail to see a single flaw in your appearance!"

Felice consumed the last crumb on her plate; nothing now remained from an enormous French pastry. She was slender, almost thin, and the vast quantities of food she devoured failed to increase her weight one pound.

"You said that you loved me," she said. "You wrote that you loved me, and would love me for a thousand years—"

A frown drew Mr. Potter's face into a knot. A short time before, when he had first met this guileless lassie, he had written to her— merely friendly notes that might be considered both affectionate and sentimental. Reading them, anyone would think Mr. Potter an ass, an imbecile, and a fool. The letters were signed "Your own Poppa-guy." At the recollection, Mr. Potter frowned at Felice.

"Last week," he said grimly to the unsmiling flapper, "I told you that I would never give you another—"

"But if you love me, you want me to look nice, don't you ?"

With artless, feminine logic, Felice continued: "If you told the truth, you are in love with me now, because a thousand years haven't gone by; and if you're in love with me now, you want me to look pretty, and I want to get new clothes in order to keep up-to-date, and—"

"I will never give you another—" Mr. Potter valiantly began.

"Are you as stingy with your wife as you are with me?" Felice asked.

The gentleman's face turned a delicate light purple, and he seemed to swell up to the size of a dirigible. Before he could speak, another emotion rushed into his mind, and his eyes raced swiftly from side to side.

"Do you know my wife?" he asked, frightened. For the moment, he was not a gay dog. He was not even a squire of dames. He was a married man.

"No! Of course not!" Felice was bland and airy. "I don't know her, and I don't want to meet her, but—" she shrugged her .shoulders, and took out her lip-stick. With careful precision, she outlined a perfect cupid's-bow mouth, and smoother her lips with one little finger. "I might go and see her sometime, though."

Mr. Potter leaned across the table toward this slender, dainty, perfumed damsel. "Tell me what you want," he said, breathing deeply, while a single drop of perspiration trickled from his bald head. "Tell me— and I'll do what I can."

"Let's take a ride in a taxi," Felice spoke swiftly; "and— don't be angry."

As he followed his flapper from the restaurant, Mr. Potter was aware that many of the gentlemen present allowed their eyes to follow her svelte figure. This knowledge was pleasing to Mr. Potter. He was, he thought, a gay dog. Most assuredly, he was a squire of dames. And he was "getting away with it."

They entered a taxi, and Felice mentioned the amount she needed. When he had given her the sum, she ordered that the machine be stopped.

"I'll get out here," she said briefly. "I've got a date. Good-by, you nice old poppa."

Mr. Potter tried to smile, and the result was passable. When Felice kissed her hand to him, he waved back. The taxi careened onward, leaving the slender figure standing on the sidewalk.

When the machine snorted to a stop in front of his house, Mr. Potter wore an air of gloom. He entered, and stepped into the living-room of his home. His wife and daughter were there, immersed in magazines.

"Margaret," said Mr. Potter, addressing his wife, "I find that the financial situation is acute." He paused, and his wife gave him her attention. "In fact, we are facing a crisis in the country today. Business is dull, and there is reason to believe that this condition will continue—"

He went on for several moments, while his wife, a plump, gray-haired lady, with bright eyes and perfect skin, exchanged understanding glances with her daughter.

"Consequently," finished Mr. Potter, "we must cut down on expenses."

His wife remained silent. Evelyn, their daughter, made one comment.

"You mean," she corrected his last statement, "we must cut down on expenses, while yours continue just as usual."

Mr. Potter snorted. "I mean just exactly what I say. Every possible economy should be—"

Again Evelyn spoke:

"We both need new clothes," she announced.

A shudder shook Mr. Potter's bulky figure. He had heard this remark earlier in the evening.

"You will have to do with what you have!" he said firmly. We must economize!"

ii

IT SHOULD be mentioned that "poppa-guys" are observing when noticing the charms of youthful and encardined ladies, if said ladies are not members of their own families. But, not until a week after he had tightened his purse-strings, did Potter notice that his wife and daughter were newly and gorgeously arrayed.

Mrs. Potter appeared in a tailored suit trimmed with astrakhan, and a hat of breath-taking attractiveness. Evelyn entered one evening wearing a filmy scarlet evening gown, with panels of red feathers, a bodice of gold under chiffon, gold shoes, and stockings to match.

Silently Mr. Potter pondered upon these new and expensive habiliments, and grimly he awaited the first of the month. It came, and so did a few bills. To his surprise, none of the new clothes he had noticed was charged to any of his accounts.

With lifted eyebrows, Mr. Potter contemplated this fact. From his own experience, he knew that articles of feminine adornment were expensive. He was aware that those who sell attire for ladies are swift and insist in their demands for payment.

Whence had come these new costumes? Perhaps... perhaps his lecture on economy had resulted in these fruits. By dint of supervision, perhaps his wife had managed to save enough, from her household allowance, to buy such raiment for her daughter and herself. Perhaps—

A week later, Felice again allowed Mr. Potter the privilege of escorting her to an expensive cafe. Naturally, he was overjoyed. Poppa-guys gain happiness and delight by being seen with young and daringly dressed sub-ladies, provided said subladies are strange and unknown to all other gentlemen.

Felice wore a hat that covered one eyebrow, and a skirt that barely covered her knees. She displayed much pink skin, and a purely verbal fondness for Mr. Potter.

"I don't like boys," she announced. "Children are awfully tiresome; don't you think?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Potter. "I think young men of the present day are deficient in many admirable qualities. Now, this afternoon—" he proceeded to relate an anecdote which displayed a youth of unpleasant characteristics to whom he, Mr. Potter, had been both polite and forgiving.

"But he couldn't understand," said Mr. Potter, speaking of the youth; "he was too young to understand."

"You understand me ." Felice whitened her nose with powder. "You want to do things for me; don't you, poppa?"

"My interest in you is friendly," Mr. Potter declared, thinking of the notes he had written. (The trouble with his letters was that they were far too friendly.) "Ours is a pleasant companionship that—" he intercepted an admiring glance from a young man to Felice and glared at the offender "— that makes me very happy."

"I would be happy if I could go down to Atlantic City for a couple of weeks," said Felice demurely, devouring her chicken d la King .

Mr. Potter opposed this idea. While the orchestra rambled through a fox-trot, and Felice ate her way through the menu, he spoke of the "outlook in the industrial world" and the "labor situation," and the "economic condition" and other allied matters. At the end of a five-minute oration, he considered the matter settled.

"I want to stop at the Traymore," Felice said, nodding to the young man at the next table. "Won't you help me to go there, poppa?"

"No!" Mr. Potter almost bellowed the word. "If you think you can—"

Felice rose, and her "poppa-guy" came to an abrupt stop. "I'm going to dance this with Bobby Lawrence," said Felice. "If you don't change your mind, I'm going to a telephone-booth, and—"

During the rest of the dance, Mr. Potter betrayed keen interest in the revolving, sliding, tightly-gripped couples on the floor. Each time he caught Felice's eye, Mr. Potter nodded violently. He had many moments of dread before she returned and he could put his capitulation into words.

iii

DURING the week following, Mr. Potter's wife and daughter announced their intention to spend a month at Narragansett Pier. Mr. Potter imitated a volcano.

Slamming his newspaper upon the table, he stamped about the floor of the living- room. Words, portions of phrases, fragments of imprecations, rolled and reverberated from his lips. He declared he was on the verge of bankruptcy; that the world was on the edge of an international revolution; that chaos and the end of things was imminent.

"Don't you believe there is a Santa Claus?" asked Evelyn, his daughter.

"Don't I believe—" Mr. Potter tore with trembling fingers at his collar; his breath failed him. "No!" I won't countenance this extravagance! It has gone far enough! It has gone too far, and—"

He sought the quiet of his own room. For an hour afterward he grunted and groaned and growled.

When his wife and daughter had gone to Narragansett Pier, Mr. Potter had many lonely moments. Felice was at Atlantic City; she decided she would stay a month longer.

Mr. Potter wrote dutifully to his family, but he did not write to Felice. He had learned— a little.

When, at last, Felice again adorned the city with her presence, Mr. Potter spent the day in a dreamy glow. Soon he would be the cynosure of all eyes; soon he would follow Felice into a crowded restaurant, while the unlucky men in the room would look enviously upon him.

There was no joy so great, so thrilling, so truly satisfying to him as the knowledge that he was the escort of a girl who was attractively gowned, startlingly calcimined, and obviously young. Though his own youth was far distant, he was a gay dog! Besides, he was "getting away with it." No one knew, particularly his own family. So Mr. Potter thought.

He was in his most gay-doggish mood when he met Felice that evening. Henri, the head-waiter, led the little procession to a "table-for-two." A snap of the fingers, and an obsequious waiter hastened to Mr. Potter's side. Envious glances were directed from all sides; many youths, and unaccompanied "poppa-guys" sought to attract Felice's attention.

"I had a lovely trip!" said Felice. "I met the nicest man!"

"You didn't meet anyone you like better than your poppa, did you?" asked Mr. Potter, sure of the reply.

Felice was doubtful. She did not instantly reply. Instead, she looked over the menu and ordered the things with the largest numerals beside them. They ought to be the best things to eat, she thought; they cost the most.

"Harry looked grand in a bathing-suit," Felice began. "He is a nice fellow."

Mr. Potter was a trifle nettled. Before he had left the house that evening, he had had an unpleasant scene with his wife and daughter. They were utterly unfeeling; they had declared that they were going to take a trip to Europe.

In vain he had pointed out that they had just returned from Narragansett Pier; in vain he had mentioned economic laws, and the fact that foreign exchange was wavering; in vain he had announced that there was famine in India and China, and that—

He snorted when he remembered the conversation. Then he looked across the table to Felice.

"I hope," said Mr. Potter, "I hope you are not thinking of getting married, or anything—"

"Oh, but we are!" She seemed to think he would be delighted. "You and I will still be friends. I'll have you up to the house," she said, with the air of one offering a bribe. "I'll have you up to dinner, some night."

Mr. Potter mumbled his delight. As a matter of fact, he felt the opposite. How can one be gay-doggish when one's flapper plans to wed? How can one contemplate the loveliness sitting across the table when one knows that said loveliness plans to bury herself in a Harlem flat?

And his wife and daughter would be in Europe— Mr. Potter knew that they would go, though he didn't know where the money was coming from, nor where it had come from for the Narragansett trip— and he would be alone! Absolutely alone!

"Er— this young man— you say he is wealthy?" Mr. Potter knew she had not made this remark. But, he was hopeful—

"No-o," she shook her bobbed head slowly. "He's very poor."

Then, while the orchestra crashed through a dance, and a waiter piled numerous dishes before them, she told the simple story of their wooing:

"I saw him on the Boardwalk, and he followed me, and bought me a chocolate malted milk. And then we danced together every night, and went in bathing every day— oh, it was swell!"

For the nonce, Mr. Potter took the role of listener. He waited for more. But, there wasn't any more!

"When are you going to get married?" he asked. After all, her wedding would simplify things in one way. Those damnable, too-friendly letters would lose part of their power! This young "Harry" could support her.

"We're going to get married," she said, watching him closely, "just as soon as you help us to."

Mr. Potter opened his mouth, and it remained open. His eyes bulged, and his chubby hands relaxed their hold upon his eating utensils. Fortunately, his knife and fork fell on the table.

"You'll help us fix up the apartment," continued Felice; "and we've got to have nice furniture, because we want it to last for a long time; and then there's linen, and silverware—"

"But—"

"And I really think I should have a regular trousseau, because I don't believe a girl should get married unless she has some nice things, and—"

"Don't you know that—"

"And you said you would love me for a thousand years, and—"

Mr. Potter rose from the table; his napkin slid to the floor. Blindly, he drew a roll of bills from his pocket, and put three or four on the table to pay the check. He managed to find his way to the hat-checking stand, and then he passed into the night.

A soft feminine voice spoke to him. "Do you want to come in my taxi, poppa?"

Felice was speaking from the depths of a machine. "I'm going your way," she said; "I'm going to your house."

Mr. Potter staggered and stumbled. His knees were weak, and he made futile movements with his hands. The freshly powdered face of Felice wavered in the air.

"No— I don't want—" Mr. Potter managed to find the step of the taxi. "Felice I can't let you—"

"I want to get married," her clear, merciless voice chilled his ear-drums; "and I must have nice things; and you said you would love me for a thousand years; and—"

"All right, all right!" Mr. Potter stemmed the flow of words. "Anything you say— how— how much?"

When Felice had mentioned the sum, Mr. Potter gasped, choked, and sputtered. He thrust his head out into the cool night for fear he would suffocate. For one mad second he thought of throwing himself through the window of the taxi and spattering upon the street. Unfortunately, or fortunately, he was too wide and thick to get through the window.

"I was reading your letters today—" she began.

Mr. Potter surrendered. Capitulation left his pocketbook flat and empty, and he did not smile when Felice stepped from the machine.

After all, Mr. Potter ruminated as the taxi loped gaily toward his home, after all, he was a gay dog. Being a gay dog was expensive, but— he was "getting away with it." Only wild and wicked youngsters were blackmailed by lovely damsels.

Even though Felice had been uniformly distant, and the nearest approach to affection she had displayed was a kiss thrown from her fingertips, Mr. Potter undoubtedly had, at one time, occupied a large part of her heart. Otherwise, why had she kept his letters?

iv

WHEN, on the following afternoon, he came home early from the office, Mr. Potter was determined upon one thing. The trip to Europe proposed by his wife and daughter must be definitely abandoned. He couldn't afford it! His gay-doggish adventures were costly! The outgo was appalling! Therefore, any trips to Europe were utterly impossible. He would put his foot down; declare that the project was unthinkable!

He let himself into the house with a latchkey, and picked up the mail the postman had thrust under the door. There were several letters, and a circular from a steamship company. Mr. Potter stared at the circular.

"Special Rates to Europe! The Battlefields of the Great War! Switzerland! Monte Carlo!" he read, and he crushed the circular in his hand.

Still wearing his hat, and puffing upon a huge cigar, he strode toward the living- room. He would permanently crush this proposed trip to Europe!

Flinging open the door, with the crumpled circular in his hand, he declared, "I want to say, once and for all, that—!" A chill smote him in the middle, and permeated his entire figure. His heart, lungs, and vocal cords ceased functioning. The steamship circular fluttered to the floor.

Mrs. Potter, his wife, was seated, her hands placidly folded in her lap. Evelyn, his daughter, had her hand resting confidently upon Felice's shoulder. Felice, the flapper, in all the glory of her scarlet lip-rouge and dead-white nose, in all the exquisiteness of her youth and beauty and knee-length skirt, fragrant with perfume, with her bobbed, waved hair fluffed and fancy— Felice was here in Mr. Potter's home!

"Hello, my poppa-guy !" said Felice brightly.

Mr. Potter choked, paled, and fought for breath. He looked at his wife, and saw a strange gleam in her eyes. He looked at his daughter, and shriveled. Here was the time for a quick and snappy lie. If he was to "get away wifh it," he must talk fast. A quick, snappy lie, instantly!

"Henry!" This was his wife's voice. Mr. Potter had never heard this tone before. It was hard, and cutting, and red-hot.

The world whirled in dizzying, weird circles. He sagged at every limb, like a man who has been drinking raw grain alcohol.

"Henry!" said Mrs. Potter again.

Her husband took off his hat, so that his head could cool. Jagged lightning, thunder, and strange and mystifying colors dashed through his brain. His scalp was composed of tissue-paper; his feet were frozen.

"It appears," began Mrs. Potter, in that odd, unusual voice, "it appears that you have written to this innocent young girl." She indicated Felice.

"Nice poppa," said the flapper, smiling with her scarlet mouth. "You like me?"

Mr. Potter tried to warn Felice to be silent. He distorted his features in a silent signal. Felice kept on smiling.

"It appears," continued Mrs. Potter, her voice trembling with emotion, "that you have trifled with this child's delicate young dreams; that you have escorted her to public places—"

Mr. Potter interrupted. He must say something. "She was perfectly willing to go—"

"You are a husband," broke in Mrs. Potter. "You have a daughter who is older than this child. Yet, you have been so foolish, so idiotic as to take her to restaurants. You have written to her, and—"

" 'With all my love'," Evelyn quoted from one of Mr. Potter's letters; " 'a love that will last a thousand years. Your own poppa-guy'."

Mr. Potter crumpled, and leaned against the wall for support.

"Furthermore," continued Mrs. Potter, still in that terrifying voice, "you have made gifts to Felice! You have given her presents! You — old — fat—bald— married—!" Mrs. Potter could not continue. Her voice quavered.

"Don Juan?" suggested Evelyn. "Lothario? Apollo?"

Mrs. Potter ignored these suggestions. She found her appalling voice again:

"This is outrageous! Scandalous! And I demand and shall insist that Felice be treated with every consideration! Don't treat her like one of the family. You have tarnished her beautiful ideals, and you must be made to pay!"

"But— but— but—" said Mr. Potter, "I haven't harmed her. There has been nothing— nothing wrong in— our—"

"Henry Potter!"

Mr. Potter had an overpowering desire for cool, fresh air and far-distant places. He didn't like his present environment. He wanted peace and quietness. His collar stifled him. He strode blindly from the room.

v

IN THE hall, Mr. Potter paused, undecided. Then, through the half open door, he saw Felice. She was taking a roll of bills from her vanity-case! As he stared, remembering and recognizing this roll of bills, he saw his wife accept them, remove several, and hand them back to Felice!

Mr. Potter moaned. From the living-room came his wife's voice.

"And when we return from Europe," said Mrs. Potter, "perhaps Felice will want a divorce. Marriages are not always successful."

Mr. Potter crawled away, crushed and beaten. He was no longer a gay dog, he was a bruised and palpitating worm. Instead of being a squire of dames, he was a boob. Instead of being a fascinating devil, he was being scientifically exploited.

Instead of "getting away with it," he was being tricked by three ladies for their own purposes.

He saw the simple scheme, and recognized its effectiveness. Felice would continue to demand; his wife would insist upon the demand being granted, and even his daughter profited by the strategy.

Now, he would be compelled to pay and pay and pay, forever and forever. If he rebelled, Felice would probably have her husband hound him; Mrs. Potter could sue for a divorce and alimony, and very likely get them; Evelyn—Evelyn would live with her father and make his life a hell!

Mr. Potter groaned, and started back to the office. Production must be speeded up; profits must increase; his income must grow. When his family returned from Europe, huge sums must be forthcoming.

Mr. Potter groaned again.

__________________

9: The Fur-Lined Overcoat

Will A. Page

1877-1928

The Green Book, Mar 1912

1: With His Back To The Wall

"THERE is no alternative, Harold. You must pawn your fur-lined overcoat." These dread words fell from the pallid lips of Katherine Dogstory, the wife of the famous theatrical press-agent, as she faced her husband in the privacy of their little Harlem flat, a chill day in October. The lines of her countenance were tense and drawn ; she faltered in her speech, but bravely continued, while Harold staggered against the wall and gasped.

"Impossible—"

"What else can we do?" demanded Katherine, tenderly nursing the little Pomeranian pup which shared their flat with them, and which, alas, was even then whining with hunger. "The butcher has cut off all credit; the rent is long since due, and even the bologna sausage which you quietly appropriated at the free lunch counter of the Friars last night, has been exhausted. What else can we do?".

Harold Dogstory, pale, emaciated, out of work, forced a sickly smile as he strove to encourage his devoted wife.

"I have been intending to go on a diet, anyhow," he murmured. "True, it is a bad theatrical season so far. Companies have busted in every direction, and I haven't found even one chorus girl who can afford to pay to get her pictures in the papers. But never mind, something is sure to turn up soon, and then I will be on Easy Street."

"And meanwhile—?"

"We must endure every privation, sooner than part with my celebrated fur-lined overcoat. Why, that is the badge of my trade— my uniform ? What sort of a press-agent would I be if I failed to own a fur-lined overcoat? The boys at the Friars Club would laugh at me in scorn, and then I should never get a real engagement as a press-agent. Still, as the weather is quite warm now, it might be possible to hock the benny for a few days, and hope for the best.

Katherine Dogstory's eyes lit up with pleasurein anticipation of seeing a few dollars of real money, for times had indeed been hard in the Dogstory establishment, and clients for the press bureau had shown a regular delinquency regarding money matters, though willing to promise fabulous sums in advance for publicity they desired through Harold.

Tenderly she turned toward the closet. An odor of moth-balls permeated the atmosphere as she opened the door. With loving hands she lifted the old fur overcoat from the hanger, shook out the moth-balls, and held it toward the light.

"A trifle worn, in spots," she remarked, "showing the good service it has rendered. It needs a curry-comb badly, and I am afraid it is threatened with the mange. Still, I dare say you can borrow a few dollars on it from the worthy pawn-broker."

Harold sighed sadly as he threw the overcoat over his arm and started toward the door.

"Good-by, old friend," he murmured affectionately. "You have been through many campaigns with me. You have been in the forefront of the battle line, when all the press-agents in their fur coats stormed the citadels of the editors you have never failed me yet. Come and we'll see if I can soak you for ten dollars.

2: The Great English Actress

"YOU SENT for me, Madame?"

The speaker is Harold Dogstory, the press-agent, and the time is three days after the events narrated in our last chapter.

The scene is the boudoir of Olga Oversold, the great English actress who only the day before had landed upon these shores to begin her farewell tour of America.

Miss Oversoul, proudly patrician, intensely aesthetic, keenly artistic, subtly temperamental, reclined in her great easy chair and calmly sun-eyed our hero through half-closed eyelids.

"Yes," she whispered, after an embarrassing pause. "Be seated, Mr. Dogstory. Madge, ring for some tea and marmalade," she added, turning to her faithful attendant and secretary.

Harold seated himself opposite the beautiful actress, and put his hat under the chair. Ah, how he regretted the absence of that fur-lined overcoat with which to make a stunning impression upon this haughty beauty who had summoned him for a business talk.

"With a real fur coat, I could boost my salary fifty a week," he murmured sadly.

But hush— the great actress is speaking.

"You have been highly recommended to me, Mr. Dogstory," said Miss Oversoul, "as a keen and brilliant pressagent, who can devise new stories even' day. I want sensational things, yet not a line must be printed that is not dignified. Always remember that you are representing Miss Oversoul, whom the critics have kindly called the Sarah Bernhardt of the English stage."

"I shall never forget it, even in my sleep," bowed Harold.

"With a few notes of interest which my secretary will hand you," continued the great actress, "you should be able to do very well. You are therefore engaged at a salary of— shall we say a hundred ?"

"I had thought of a hundred and twenty-five—" began Harold, but a warning look in the great lady's eyes caused him to add, hastily, "but I will accept the hundred."

A few instructions from the vigilant secretary, a pleasant chat with the actress about stories which must not be used under any circumstances, and our hero rose and prepared to take his departure.

"You will leave for Chicago to-morrow," added Miss Oversoul, rising as if to terminate the interview. "My secretary will furnish your transportation and— Merciful Heavens !"

Harold stood transfixed as the actress suddenly cried out in alarm :

"You have no overcoat," she declared, "yet it is snowing."

"I— I— that is—" stammered Harold uneasily.

The actress stopped him with an imperious gesture.

"Of course, you have a fur-lined overcoat?" she demanded. "I never yet had a press-agent who didn't possess at least one."

"Of course—" Harold struggled manfully to explain.

"Oh, then that's all right. I could never think of beginning my engagement in a city unless my press-agent stood in the lobby wearing a fur-lined overcoat, to make an impression upon people. As he is my courier, my advance agent, so he must make an impression upon people worthy of myself. However, I am pleased to learn that you have this very necessary requisite for the distinguished calling which you are now following. And now. Mr. Dogstory, good-morning."

Outside, Harold reeled against a lamp-post, and clutched it for support. He felt dizzy.

"I put the bluff through all right," he said to himself. "But how in thunder can I get the coat out of hock until I draw my first week's salary?"

3: Where The Lake Breezes Blow

"TAKE my card to the dramatic editor, please."

These words were uttered in a calm, commanding voice by a pale, slender young man, neatly attired in a dark business suit which was evidently left over from year before last Under his arm he carried a large bundle carefully wrapped in brown paper. It might have contained photographs, but the office boy in the ante-room of the great Chicago daily eyed it suspiciously.

"Aw, yer gotter write yer name and business on this card."

Harold Dogstory drew himself up proudly beneath the studied insolence of the menial.

"My card to the editor at once," he repeated. "I am Harold Dogstory, the press-agent for Miss Oversoul, the great English actress, and I am here on business with your dramatic editor."

The boy looked at the young man, so inconspicuously dressed, and not even boasting an overcoat, though the day was one of winter's worst. Then he laughed.

"Aw, g'wan. You aint no press agent," he sneered. "Youse a book agent or some cheap skate, but you aint no press-agent. Why, all the pressagents from the theatres always wears fur overcoats."

Stung to the quick by this truthful retort, indignant at being taunted by a mere hireling, Harold Dogstorv was about to make an angry answer when the elevator stopped, and a pompous, somewhat stout individual, clad in a great fur-lined overcoat of expensive appearance, stepped out. Harold turned his head quickly to avoid being seen, for he instantly recognized the face and fur overcoat of Philip Bungle, the rotund press-agent who was in Chicago in the interests of Trixie Lightfoot, the musical comedy star, who was also scheduled to open her Chicago engagement on the same night Miss Oversoul planned to inaugurate her American tour.

So then, the two rivals were face to face. Now mark how easily the tide of battle could be turned.

"My card to Mr. Uplift, the dramatic editor," said Philip Bungle easily, handing the urchin a card. "I believe he is expecting me."

"Yassir," grinned the office boy. "Come right in, sir. First door to the right." gl

And as Philip Bungle, the rival pressagent, walked into the editorial sanctum and greeted Uriah Uplift, the dramatic editor, Harold Dogstory cowered in the corner, thanking his lucky stars that he had not been humiliated by being recognized. For in happier days gone by, he had put Philip Bungle's best efforts to shame, and there was a deadly rivalry between these two soldiers of publicity. To be seen without his much-prized fur overcoat, and by a rival wearing a gorgeous new outer garment, was too great a humiliation, and Harold was glad he had not been seen. As he turned toward the elevator, the office boy cried out :

"A press-agent? Huh— that was a real theatrical press-agent who just went in— the guy wid de fur overcoat."

4: A Thief In The Night

"TIME to make the rounds, Smith."

The clerk of the Hotel Windy in Chicago sleepily nodded to the night watchman, who looked at the clock, saw that it was three in the morning, and obediently started toward the elevator.

From floor to floor the faithful night watchman patrolled the corridors, ringing in his call boxes to record his tour.

On the ninth floor, crouching behind a door which was only opened a hair'sbreadth, was a tense, eager figure. As the watchman passed, the waiting, crouching form almost stopped breathing. Then, as all danger disappeared and the watchman turned the corner of the corridor, the door opened. Harold Dogstory stepped forth.

In one hand, he held a bundle of skeleton keys— in the other, a small bottle of chloroform, and a handkerchief.

Stealthily he tip-toed down the corridor to a room which he had marked with a piece of chalk earlier in the day.

Trying one key after another, meanwhile glancing furtively up and down the corridor to make sure he was not being observed, he trembled with nervous anxiety, until at last a key turned in the lock.

Noiselessly, slowlv, he opened the door.

From within came the sounds of heavy breathing, and at intervals a snore. Whoever occupied the room was asleep.

Quickly adjusting the handkerchief over the bottle of chloroform, the intruder saturated the bit of cambric with the deadly drug. Then, in three seconds, he was at the bedside of the sleeper.

In another moment, the chloroform had done its work. The victim slept without snoring. There was a relaxation of the muscles, and Harold Dogstory quickly placed the handkerchief and bottle in his pocket. He had no wish to kill his victim.

Flashing a pocket electric lamp around the room, the intruder quickly saw what he was after. With a sudden plunge he grabbed a fur-lined overcoat from a clothes-tree, and threw it over his arm.

"Sleep, Philip Bungle," he murmured in adieu at the door. "Sleep well tonight, for to-morrow something may worry you so that you cannot sleep at all."

Alone in his room, Harold Dogstory held aloft with both hands the precious treasure for which he had become a thief in the night. And then as he fondly caressed the great fur coat which had been Philip Bungle's, he cried, a la Monte Cristo:

"The world is mine!"

5: Turning The Tables

"A TRIFLE loose, but it will do."

So saying, Harold Dogstory surveyed himself in the stolen fur overcoat, as he stood before the cheval glass in his room, and felt the warm, heavy folds of the glossy fur cling to his slender frame.

"And now, to work, and undo all that Philip Bungle accomplished yesterday."

In the office where on the day before, he had been treated with such contempt, he faced an obsequious office boy, who did not recognize in this splendid raiment the man whom he had ejected from the office the day before.

"Yessir, I'll take your card in right away, sir," he cried, in awe. "Come right with me, sir— Mr. Uplift will sure be glad to see you, sir."

Uriah Uplift, dramatic editor and first aid to every new movement in the dramatic world, greeted our hero cordially. On his desk was a bundle of photo's of Trixie Lightfoot, and these Harold cleverly contrived to knock into the wastebasket, as he spread out his own wares before the dramatic editor.

"Yes. I am a great admirer of Miss Oversoul," admitted the dramatic editor. "I had intended to use pictures of Miss Lightfoot, brought in by your able confrère, Mr. Bungle, only yesterday, but as he has failed to keep a luncheon engagement he made with me for one o'clock to-day, I shall leave his pictures in the wastebasket where they have so providentially fallen."

Harold, ever ready to grasp an opportunity, was not slow to realize on this one.

"If you will lunch with me at my hotel, Mr. Uplift," he said grandly, "we can talk matters over more leisurely. May I have the honor?"

As the dramatic editor and the pressagent passed into the ante-room, the elevator paused, and a stout individual, minus an overcoat, stepped out hurriedly. Scarcely noticing them, the newcomer, who was none other than Philip Bungle, dashed to the office boy.

"I am a trifle late," he gasped. "Tell Mr. Uplift I am here."

"Mr. Uplift aint in," retorted the office boy sullenly. "There he goes down in the elevator now— he's going out to lunch with a theatrical press-agent— that guy in the fur overcoat."

And even as the car descended, Philip Bungle recognized our hero, resplendent in a gray fur coat, and heard him say casually to the dramatic editor:

"Awful bore, isn't it, to have to meet so many of these advance agents in your office? So much nicer to have a little lunch, away from such pests. There I can tell you all about Miss Oversoul and her new and wonderful play."

6: Our Hero Gets His Reward

"HAROLD, you have done splendid work."

So spoke Olga Oversoul in her private suite at her hotel, the day after she had so successfuly inaugurated her American tour.

"And what a splendid fur overcoat you are wearing. Really, I am quite proud of you."

Olga Oversoul had good reason to be proud of her press-agent. Not only had he landed pictures galore in all the papers through the magic talisman of his fur overcoat, which had been the "Open Sesame" to all editorial sanctuaries, but the very success scored by him had been the death-blow to the struggles of Plulip Bungle.

For without a fur-lined overcoat, Philip Bungle had been unable to obtain the entree to any of the newspaper offices. Year after year the real press agents had come to these offices in an endless procession, all wearing expensive fur coats. For an agent to attempt to scale these newspaper Gibraltars without a fur coat, was as futile as to shoot an arrow against the great Rock itself. And so Philip Bungle had failed, hopelessly and ignominiously, and Trixie Lightfoot had opened in her musical comedy without any newspaper showing in advance, and to only half a house, while across the street Olga Oversoul had scored a triumph before a capacity audience.

Small wonder, then, that in her generous heart of hearts, she was willing to concede some of the credit to her press-agent.

"What a splendid fur coat. But isn't it too large for you?"

Harold turned toward her suddenly. She smiled. Something in her eyes told him that he dared to tell the truth— an innovation a press-agent seldom ventures to introduce.

And then, as the full realization of his trickery came over him, he confessed. At first seriously, then as the humor of the affair struck him, with variations. He described his own sad fur coat still in hock in New York, the envy aroused by this other coat and the keen rivalry between the two press-agents, and, finally, his theft.

"And now," he said, dramatically, "now that I have attained the purpose for which I stole the coat, I shall return it to its rightful owner.

Calling a messenger boy, Harold wrote a brief note, unsigned, to Philip Bungle, and dispatched the faithful benny to its owner.

Olga Oversold, touched to the quick by this spirit of honesty, proud and happy in her own success, was filled with a feeling of admiration for our hero.

"Go forth at once to the leading furrier of the town," she cried, imperiously, "and pick out for yourself the best fur-lined overcoat they have in stock. Bid the tradesmen send the bill to me, Harold Dogstory, for you are too good a press-agent to be handicapped by the absence of a press-agent's chief tool of trade. Quick, Harold, so the reporters will be sure to see you in a fur overcoat in the lobby to-night."

"It was a good old dog," mused Harold Dogstory, as he thought of the fur coat of his enemy, and rubbed his own mink-lined garment proudly. "His was only made from the skin of a shaggy brute, but it made a great impression. These cheap coats like Philip Bungle's are made from St. Bernard dog skins. They are the dogs that go forth in storms to rescue Alpine travelers who have fainted from weariness. I surely was down and out and ready to quit when Philip Bungle's St. Bernard dog came along just in time to rescue me. Yes, it was a good dog."

_________________

10: Dead Man's Hand

Henry Augustus Hering

1864-1945

Temple Bar, July 1897

The bulk of this British short story writer and novelist's work appeared between 1896 and 1913.

KELSALL was a brilliant abort story writer and a novelist with a future. Although he made a good income from his pen he had some relatives on his hands; so he kept less than half his earnings for himself and lived in second-rate lodgings, sharing his sittingroom with another man— Tolson West.

West was a journalist; a man of considerable learning and ability; on artistic matters an authority; but he was by nature unobtrusive and retiring, and to us on the Pioneer, apart from his excellent work, he was chiefly noteworthy for his undisguised admiration for Kelsall and his tales. It was a pleasure to see a man so appreciative of another. They lived together some four years, and then Kelsall was struck down with fever. He took a chill when he was recovering, and died; and there was no one who knew the man personally or through his writings but was sorry.

It was a terrible blow to West. He had nursed Kelsall with more than a woman's care all through his illness, and he was nearly heart-broken when he died. Some of us tried to cheer him ; but our visits were not welcomed, and never repeated. And so he lived a lone and solitary man, nursing his grief— and drinking.

Then a most singular thing happened. West, who went in for solid truth, or what he took for it, and whom we did not think capable of writing a line of fiction to save his life, suddenly came out as a story writer, and in a very short time bid fair to equal Kelsall in reputation. And he didn't seem a bit proud of it, but was more annoyed than anything else when it was referred to ; as a matter of fact, he published his tales under a pseudonym. This did not ensure secrecy; and a month after his first story appeared we of the Pioneer knew that "Caleb Hardcastle" and Tolson West were one and the same man.

Before long West threw up his journalistic work and confined himself to his tales.

They were just the antithesis of Kelsall's bright writings; and yet there were those, who knew of the relationship o f the two men, who said they detected Kelsall's influence in them, said even his humour, though most gruesomely metamorphosed. Some indeed went so far as to say that West was palming off Kelsall's unpublished work as his own: in no other way could they account for his outburst as a writer.

All the while, West, instead of being elated by his sudden good fortune, seemed to grow more depressed and reserved, till at last he became absolutely misanthropic. He would shut himself up in his sitting-room for days at a time. His meals were left outside his door; he slept in the room; nothing was seen of him, and nothing heard but the interminable "click" of his typewriter.

But his tales! They fairly carried you away with them. Never since Swift was there such caustic wit and biting satire; never since Poe such abandonment to the grotesque and the terrible. His plots were daring to temerity, and before long it was rumoured that on this account some of the magazines were refusing them.

I was sitting in my room one night when a note was brought to me:—

"For God's sake come.— T. West."

I was somewhat surprised; as much to receive the note itself as at its emotional wording, for I scarcely reckoned myself among his friends— indeed, I did not know he had any. Fearing he had met with an accident I put on my hat at once and made straight for his rooms. His landlady met me at the door.

"I was to take you up directly you came, sir," she said; and then confidentially, "and I'm more than glad Mr. West has sent for you. I don't know what's come over him of late."

"Is he ill then?"

"No, sir; leastways not as I knows of, but I haven't seen him for a week. He hasn't been out of his room since last Thursday."

By this time we had reached West's door. Mrs. Harper knocked and called out: "Mr. Bethell, sir."

The door was flung open, and West stood on the threshold. He almost dragged me in, and then slammed the door in his landlady's face. He looked at me for a moment in a nervous, hesitating way, then sat down, buried his face in his hands and burst into tears.

"Come, come, man," I said, "what the dickens is up? You've got a beastly fit of the blues anyway. You've been overworking yourself."

He made no reply; so to give him time to recover himself I walked round the room, noting details as I did so. The place was dirty and untidy to the last degree, and it had evidently served as a living and sleeping-room for some time. Unwashed plates and cups were scattered among books and papers, empty spirit bottles were thrown about on the floor, and a half-filled one stood on the table with a tumbler beside it. By it was the typewriter with a blank sheet of paper in it, and all around were innumerable sheets of type-written copy. On the sofa were pillows, rugs and blankets; and the fireplace was chaotic with cinders.

West had somewhat recovered by this time and came towards me. He was terribly changed. Never robust at his best, he now looked like a broken-down old man. All life seemed to have left his drawn and bloodless face; his eyes glittered with an unnatural light; his hair was streaked with grey. His clothes were dirty and dishevelled; and I doubted if he had washed for a week.

"Bethell," he said as he came up to me, "I'm glad you've come. I don't think I conld have stood it a day longer."

"Stood what, old chap? Your room? I don't think I could either. Why don't you open the windows and have the place cleaned? You ought to go out for some fresh air."

He looked at me in a piteous way.

"I can't, Bethell; I can't. Would to heaven I could!"

"Nonsense, man," I said in as cheery a tone as I could assume; "come out with me. You can tell me all about it then;" and I made as if for the door.

"Don't leave me, Bethell," he cried, clutching me by the arm. "Don't leave me, for pity's sake. I can't go out. Sit down with me here."

Seeing it was useless to do anything but humour him, I did as he asked me. He seated himself opposite on the sofa, and when he spoke he toyed aimlessly with the rugs and blankets.

"Now, West," I said, "tell me all about it. No humbug, you know."

He glanced fearfully around. "Do you think we are alone?" he asked.

"I'd stake my last dollar on it," I replied.

West leaned forward. "You're wrong," he whispered hoarsely. "Kelsall's here."

I don't know whether it was the gruesomeness of the thought or the man's way of saying it that affected me, but I felt a cold shiver run down my back.

"Nonsense, West," I said, after a moment's pause; "you mustn't get ideas like that into your head. You ought not to have kept this room on; you brood too much."

He got up from the sofa and stood over me with the unearthly light in his eyes.

"I tell you, Bethell, Kelsall's here. Don't contradict me," he said fiercely. Then he resumed his seat. I saw it was no good irritating him, so went on:

"Well, I'll take your word for it, West. But why should you he unhappy, if it is so? You liked Kelsall better than any other man."

He eat there, fingering the rugs. His face twitched spasmodically, and he stared at the wall behind me.

At last he spoke: "I'll tell you, Bethell. I think I should go mad if I kept it to myself any longer. You never looked upon me as a likely believer in ghosts, did you?"

"No. You always seemed matter of fact enough."

West laughed harshly.

"So I was, till Kelsall died. Do you know, man, I loved him. I would have died for him when he was living; now I hate the very thought of him, but I am literally dying for him to-day. Curse him!"

He hissed out the last words, and then sat glowering at the dead fire, seemingly unconscious of my presence.

"Go on, West," I said at length; "I'm waiting."

He looked up dazedly, then passed his hand over his forehead as if to gather his thoughts.

"You were speaking of Kelsall," I said. "Yes, yes; I remember. He died in this room, on this very sofa, and I alone was with him. In his last days, when he knew he was going, we discussed the future, and I begged him to come back to me from the grave. He promised; and he made me swear by all I held sacred that when he came I would do his bidding. I swore; and he has come."

Again he glanced furtively round the room.

"You have seen him then, and spoken to him?" I asked.

"No. I have neither seen him nor spoken to him."

"Then how in the name of fortune do y ou know he is here?"

West sprang up.

"Know he is here, man," pointing to the litter of copy on the table. "Know he is here? There's evidence for you. Do you see that pile of typed stuff? Every word of it was written to-day by Kelsall."

He was mad— stark mad; I could not doubt it. Yet possibly I might do something to restore his reason.

"How do you make that out, West," I said as calmly as I could, "if you have never seen him?"

He was now quite composed, and resumed his old seat.

"It was about a month after Kelsall's death," he went on, "that I first knew it. I was working at the typewriter which he had left to me, making out my first notice of the Academy for the Pioneer. Feeling thirsty, I got up for a drink. I walked across to the sideboard there, and while I was standing by it, 'click,  click' went the typewriter. I turned round amazed, and there were the letters dotting down one after the other, just as though some one were working it. I tell you I was scared, and I stood there with my eyes like to burst their sockets. On it went, line by line, and then suddenly stopped. It was some time before I had courage to go near it, but when I did and looked at what had been written, I was stunned. I just went to the window and opened it; for following on my report was the beginning of a tale written by that typewriter, a tale the like of which no one living could have written. You know it; it was  The Dead Man's Hand."

I knew it well. It was the one that had started West on hie career.

"When I had in a measure recovered, I took out the sheet and read it, and was wondering what on earth, or under it, it all meant when a few impatient 'clicks' of the machine made me look up. It was instinct, I suppose, or was it some uncontrollable impulse that made me insert another sheet? I did so; on went the typewriter, guided by a master hand, and the next folio of that tale was typed. By that time I had grown used to the situation, and as fast as the sheets were finished I inserted others, and within tho hour I held in my hands the manuscript of the best short story that was ever written. When it was finished the machine refused to write more; and I spent the remainder of the evening and all that night in marvelling over the strange occurrence.

"I will admit that when I had got over my first fear of the supernatural element in it my feelings were of unbounded satisfaction. That it was Kelsall's tale I was firmly convinced, for he had promised to communicate with me, and this, I gathered, was his only means of doing so. Likely enough he would again show his presence in the same way; and it seemed he intended doing me a good turn by providing me with literary matter which would enable me to earn money and renown. On the other hand, did he intend me to use this for publication; and if so, was I justified in attaching my own name to it?

"After much thought I sent it to Cunliffe, with whom I had been in correspondence for Kelsall when he was ill. He liked it, and asked for more of my work, which I was able to send; for during that fortnight another tale had been written by the typewriter, and one quite as strong as the former.

"Here was a stroke of unexampled good luck; and after I had convinced myself that it was likely to continue, I threw up my Pioneer work and devoted myself entirely to the typewriter. But before long I was conscious there was a terrible obligation attached to Kelsall's bequest. I could not leave the machine when it was writing or about to write. Some invisible influence constrained me to stand by it; whenever I essayed to leave the room or lie down to rest I was held back by an unseen, all-compelling power, and it was slowly forced upon me that I was Kelsall's slave.

"About a month after I left the Pioneer, I became conscious of an added horror. Kelsall's presence gradually made itself felt. Before then I was able to move freely by the typewriter, even when it was working, and could use it at other times if I wished; but slowly an icy-cold horror has crept into that chair; and there it sits. I know it is there though I can see nothing. Bethell, I tell you it is a living hell for me to feel that shadow from the grave, and never to be able to leave its side when it wills. It is there now."

I did not believe him, for I felt convinced he was suffering from a terrible monomania: so I went to the chair, determined to show him how groundless were his fears; yet his words had made such an impression upon me that I approached it with a certain amount of hesitation. I sat down in it: there was nothing.

"There, West," I said, "it's all pure imagination on your part. Come and try it yourself."

"No, no!" he almost shrieked. "I tell you he is there. He's there to me if to no one else. I would not sit in that coffin-chair for heaven itself. Kelsall's in it."

I shrugged my shoulders and resumed my former seat.

"Yes, Bethell," West went on. "Kelsall sits there and  writes, and with an ever-increasing demand upon me— and what he now writes isn't fit for print. Read that."

He grabbed hold of a handful of copy and gave it me. I read a page, and that was enough. It simply made my flesh creep. It might have been written by a soul in purgatory, for of all the fiendish horrors the brain of man ever conceived this was surely the most terrible. To think such things was aw ful; but to read them, impossible. I let the paper fall from my hands in sheer terror.

"And I have to stand by for days at a time and see that, and worse than that," continued West. "It's beyond human endurance. Yet if I try to escape this invisible power holds me back. Good G od! what shall I do?"

I must say I felt for the man. Incredible as it may seem, I was beginning to believe in his story, for the evidence he had just shown me seemed insurmountable. Could any living being have written what I had just read? They were indeed the thoughts of one from the nether world; and every word West had spoken seemed to come from his very heart. Yet how could I help him in his terrible position?

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"I don't know, Bethell," he said wearily; "but it has eased my mind to tell you all. Surely you, with your cool head, can devise something. Think it over. Yet stay; I was forgetting. It did occur to me that if you came in when the typewriter was working, your presence might counteract Kelsall's influence. At any rate, you might try. Come in to-morrow morning and drag me out by main force, and break this infernal spell. Will you?"

"Certainly I will, West. But why not now?"

"I cannot. I haven't the strength for the struggle. I'm dead beat. I haven't slept two hours at a stretch for a week. I feel better now though after this talk with you, and I think I could sleep."

"Right you are, West. I'll come as soon as I can to-morrow. I would not leave you now!jbut for the office work; but I'll not go till you've had a good square meal. You'll let me ring for Mrs. Harper, won't you?"

West nodded listlessly. His landlady came in reply to the bell; and in a quarter of an hour West was sitting down before a substantial meal. But he wouldn't eat. He took a few mouthfuls, and then pushed the tray away impatiently; and nothing I could say would induce him to have more. He drank off some brandy, and then threw himself o n the sofa. I saw a good fire made, arranged his pillows and wraps, and then left him, reluctantly enough.

It was two o'clock before I left the Pioneer office. I was more than half inclined to return to Mrs. Harper's, but hesitated to disturb the house, and possibly West, at that time of night. So I went back to my rooms and tried to get a few hours' rest. But I could not sleep, for my mind was busy with West.

Now that I was away from his personal influence, the utter improbability of his story forced itself upon me. Yet could I say it was impossible? The appearance of a friend in spirit form after death was firmly believed in by many. But even if Kelsall could have visited West, would he have troubled and tortured his friend in this way? He was the kindest of men when living, and I knew he was attached to West, and much appreciated his devotion. And could he possibly have written the horrors I had read? And yet if he had not written them, who had? Could West have done it? Impossible. After all, what I had learnt only confirmed what some believed— that the tales really were Kelsall's. If it were so, what could be done? The mere forcing West from the room would not break the spell. Kelsall would follow him— and what then? How would it all end? West would go mad under the strain— if he were not so already.

With my brain full of these conflicting and distressing thoughts, I at last dozed away. I dreamt I was in West's room. There was no one there but myself— myself and the typewriter. As I looked at it, the keys were pressed down by an invisible hand, and the letters struck the paper. I was drawn towards it by the unknown force that had mastered West. I tried to hold back; but it drew me like a magnet, and as I came near the machine I knew Kelsall was there. I could feel his presence, cold, cold, in death; and the invisible fingers moved, and the letters clattered down. I looked over and read what they were writing; and as I read, my very heart seemed to stand still, and I shrieked aloud. But I could not move away. There I had to stand, just as West had done, by that icy horror, and read what mortal man had never read before. Then I could bear it no longer; I was going mad! With a terrible cry I burst from that fiendish room— and awoke; and found myself standing by my bedside, trembling in every limb, with sweat upon my face.

I went into my sitting-room and stirred up the dying fire, made myself a stiff glass of hot spirit, and then turned into bed again. This time I soon fell asleep, and though vague thoughts of West and Kelsall flitted across my brain, I slept long after my usual hour. It was eleven o'clock when I reached Mrs. Harper's.

"Well, how is Mr. West this morning? Did he have a good night?" I inquired.

Mrs. Harper shook her head.

" 'Deed, sir, I don't know how he is. His breakfast has been standing ontside his door since eight o'clock, and he won't come for it; and it's little enough he slept, I'm sure. Likely he had an hour or two after you went; but he was at it again soon after I went to bed, and I don't think that horrid typer of his stopped once before daybreak. I'm used to it now, and it doesn't worrit me; but I could hear it in my sleep, and on it went 'clicketyclack' the whole blessed night."

I went upstairs and knocked at the door.

"West," I called out. "West, let me in. It's I— Bethell."

There was no reply. I repeated this, and hammered loudly; still without response. I burst open the door and entered.

The room was in semi-darkness— the blinds down and the curtains drawn. The candles on the table had burnt out, and the grate was full of dead ashes. And West— he was sitting at the table in the very chair he said he dared not use, bowed over the typewriter, his fingers still on the keys!

"Wake up, old man," I said, touching him gently.

He did not move. I put my fingers on his hand; it was stone cold. He was dead. A letter of the machine still touched the paper. I looked at what he had been writing.

Great heavens! it was a continuation of the horrors he had shown me the night before.

_____________

11: The Crew of the Flying Dutchman

Henry A. Hering

Temple Bar, Jan 1896

THE myth of the Flying Dutchmen has slowly grown over the centuries. It tells of a ghost Dutch East India merchantman and its ghostly crew, which for some reason is condemned to roam the oceans for eternity, unable to enter port.

Many authors, such as Captain Marryat ("The Phantom Ship," in serial form in the New Monthly Magazine, 1838-9, later in book form), and W Clark Russell, (The Death Ship, 1888;) have incorporated the ghostly ship and its doomed crew in tales So does this one.

In May 1871 an anonymous short story appeared in Blackwoods Edinburgh Magazine, entitled "Vanderdecken's Message Home; or, the Tenacity of Natural Affection." That story I have managed to recover, and follows this one.

ON a bright summer day in the year of grace sixteen hundred and sixty-two the Reverend Richard Waddilove, A.M., Vicar of Bridlington Keye, was enjoying his mid-day meal, when his serving-girl brought him word that Reuben Oram wished to speak with him.

"Bid him come in, Letty," said the worthy clergyman, who was busily engaged with the breast of a chicken, provided by some thoughtful parishioner.

"Your pardon, Parson," said the new-comer, hesitating on the threshold.

"Come in, Reuben, come in. The clergy need to eat and drink as well as the laity— and I for one don't attempt to disguise it."

The Vicar's heavy paunch and rubicund nose bore evidence to the truth of his assertion.

"Take a seat, Reuben," the clergyman went on. "They tell me you have been across to the Low Countries. How did you find the Hollanders? Are they rearing a second Van Tromp to sweep us off the seas?"

As there was no answer, the Vicar put down the tankard he was raising to his lips and looked at his visitor. Only then did he note his troubled appearance.

In the past Oram had been as cheery and hearty in his manner as his fellows, but now he sat with care and anxiety written on every feature, and nervousness in each movement.

"What ails you, Reuben?" asked the Vicar kindly. "Are yon in trouble ? "

But the sailor sat there twirling his cap and shuffling his feet. His lips moved, but no words Came.

"Tut, tut, man. Tell me all about it. Is the wife ill, or the bairns?"

"No, your worship. Would to God it were no worse than that."

"I am not married myself, Reuben Oram," said the clergyman gravely, "but your words sound somewhat unkindly."

"Parson," cried Oram, springing to his feet and walking to and fro like a caged animal— "Parson, I don't know what I am saying. I don't know what I am doing. All I know is that I am damned— damned till the Day of Judgment, and after maybe."

Parson Waddilove rose in his turn to his feet. He put his hands on the shoulders of the other and looked quietly into his face. There was a great pity in his little ferret eyes.

"Sit down, Reuben. Damned most of us deserve to be, but God is merciful unto all men. Your sin must be great indeed if He cannot pardon you. What have you done?"

"Nothing that could deserve punishment such as mine. Parson, is there no hope for me?"

"Surely, lad, there is hope for the worst of us. But tell me what troubles you, and it may be that I can ease your mind."

"Would that were possible, sir! But listen, and you may judge."

"One minute, lad. October ale hath many uses. At a pinch it is of service as a poultice; but when a man has a tale to tell its value increases ten-fold. Drink, man," and Parson Waddilove reached him the tankard he himself had intended to drain.

Oram took a long pull, and then with firmer voice began:—

"It all happened long ago, Parson— fifteen years ago at least— five before I settled here. It was my last long voyage. Vanderdecken was owner and skipper. Wind and weather were with us. We had a quick run out to the eastern seas, and for once in a way the captain seemed passably well pleased with things. The cargo was bartered to some advantage, and we were returning with a rich store of elephant's teeth, camphor, gum, and wax; and it was said the heavy cases in the supercargo's cabin held gold.

"But from the day we left Java, homeward bound, everything went wrong, and the skipper's temper tallied with our luck. For whole weeks we lay becalmed, and when the wind did come it either came in squalls or blew from the wrong quarter. We held on as best we could till Madagascar was sighted, and then we ran into a couple of pirates, who shot our masts down and bored holes in us from bow to stern. We careened at Table Bay, and put to sea once more with a ship and a skipper the worse for wear. Next day we lay becalmed off the coast, and three greasy Hottentot heathens put off in a dug-out to barter some skins with us. They were down below when the breeze freshened, and out of pure devilment the skipper plied them with drink, and carried them and their craft to sea with us. When they came to, they found themselves in irons. They nearly went mad; and that night one of them managed to get free, and was found trying to lower their cockle-shell. The captain was on deck at the time or no one would have stopped him. As it was, the whole three of them, bound hand and foot, were put in the boat and dropped astern. Then Vanderdecken went aft and fired at them with his carbine and pistols. Each time he shot he hit a helpless victim; and he fired five times before that boat with its cargo of horrors drifted away into the darkness."

Parson Waddilove gave a gasp of horror.

"And you called yourselves men and allowed this infamy to happen!"

"A skipper does as he likes on his own ship, sir," said Oram doggedly. "Brands did tell him what the rest of us only dared think, and the next day he was keel-hauled for mutiny. We all gave the captain a wide berth, but few of us escaped his heavy hand, and never a week passed without one or another of us feeling the irons or the cat. Off the Azores we sprung a leak. The cargo— even the coffers of gold— had to go overboard, and then the pumps only just managed to keep the ship afloat. It was with a mutinous crew, a rotten ship, and the temper of the devil that Vanderdecken entered the port of Amsterdam, and when we were safely moored off the Waser Keye there was not one of us but swore he would see the skipper at Davy Jones before he would sail with him again."

"I should think so indeed," cried the Parson. "Wild beasts were the fit companions of such a monster."

"And yet, sir, when he was ready for his next voyage six of us went back on our oath. He had always had an evil reputation, and the report of his last devilries had increased it, and he couldn't make up a crew without us. He offered us, his old hands, double wage and money down before we sailed, and for the sake of the gold we took our kits into his fo'c's'le— Heckhausen, Bergh, Jansen, Krantz, Hans Biebrich and myself. We soon found out our mistake. As the skipper had paid us double wages he thought he had the right to treat us doubly ill, and nothing we did found favour with him. He came across Heckhausen staggering forrard to his bunk after a dirty night's watch in the Channel, and told him he was drunk. Heckhausen gave him the lie, and had his head broken in with Vanderdecken's speaking trumpet. He made me, master gunner though I was, clean every blessed weapon on board as they never had been cleaned before. The nine-pounders, the cohorns and patteraroes, every popgun on board was overhauled as if we were going to tackle the whole Spanish fleet, and the slipper stood over me blasting me for a lazy land-lubber the while. Jansen had too much schnapps one day— there was no doubt about that— but he got three dozen with the cat for it. Sooner than finish the voyage with that hell-hound— begging your worship's pardon— the six of us deserted when the ship ran into Lisbon river, and Vanderdecken sailed without us.

"Your worship knows the story of that last voyage of his— how the ship was beaten back again and again; how the captain heaved the pilot overboard in a fit of blind passion; how in his blasphemy he swore by the sacred cross that he would double the Cape, though he had to sail till the last day to do it; how God doomed him to fulfil his vow; and how, as a spectre ship, the vessel is still seen carrying out the decree of the Almighty, while the vessel that sees her battling against the adverse winds and weather with which she is eternally surrounded is herself doomed to destruction."

The clergyman nodded. "Yes, I have heard the story of the Flying Dutchman."

"Then perhaps your worship can tell me why God should punish an innocent crew for the skipper's faults? He damned them both equally, and to a plain sailor like myself it doesn't seem right."

"It is simply a sailor's yarn, Reuben. The whole story is a mere legend— a myth."

"There, by your leave, sir, you are wrong. But we'll come back to that. Well, we did not hang together long when we deserted, and after some years of wandering up and down, I came over here, herring-fishing with Hans Biebrich, when I chanced to meet my Sally, as bonny a lass as I had ever clapped eyes on. We agreed to hitch up together, and as you know, Parson, I married and settled here, and have lived an honest life, at peace with my neighbours, and I hope with God."

"Yes, Reuben," said the clergyman, "I know nothing to your detriment, and I have even pointed you out as a model for others to imitate." "God forbid, sir, any man should wish to live my life. Well, Parson, so I lived, happy and contented, until a month or so ago, when I took the opportunity of running over to Amsterdam, with a fleet of returning schuyts, to see how it fared with old shipmates there. I found Hans, but he was in great distress. He was expecting a letter."

"Who from?"

"From the skipper— Vanderdecken."

"But according to you, Vanderdecken exists no longer in the flesh."

"That is so, sir, and that is why the letter troubled Hans. It was a summons he expected, and it would have to be obeyed."

"But why? Spirits cannot compel attendance, can they?" said the Parson lightly.

Oram shook his head. "There were four deserters besides Hans and myself, and he told me that Heckhausen, Bergh, Jansen, and Krantz had each received the summons in their turn, and had died mysteriously soon afterwards. Biebrich was expecting his summons when I left him."

"Tut, tut, man," said the other. "He and his mates were no doubt overwrought by the thought of Vanderdecken and his supposed fate. If the others have met with sudden and even mysterious deaths it is a coincidence only, and in no way to be connected with your captain."

"There was the summons, sir— a written summons to each man."

Parson Waddilove laughed.

"Reuben Oram, I gave you credit for more sense. It's astonishing what you sailors will believe. Just look the facts calmly in the face and see what grounds you have for crediting this devilish story. After you deserted, Vanderdecken proceeded on his course, and the ship was probably lost off the Cape. The captain would have to answer the Almighty in another world for his wicked deeds. What evidence have you that his vessel was over seen as a spectre ship? You as a sailor know of what are called mirages— optical delusions whereby objects at a far distance are sometimes apparent near at hand. What is there to prevent the appearance in the southern seas of a mirage of some vessel— not unlike Vanderdecken's—surrounded by stormy seas, and maybe buffeted by adverse winds? Having heard of the legend o f the spectre ship, the crew at once conclude they have indeed seen that vessel, and should ill-fortune meet them afterwards, they readily ascribe their troubles to it. Come, Beuben, you must admit that this is reasonable. The Romanists are ready and even wishful to believe in these tales of marvel. Cannot we of the true Church teach them a lesson, and refuse to accept their childish legends?"

"But what of the written summons, sir?"

"What of it, indeed ? Your mates were, like yourself, much influenced by their connection with Vanderdecken and on the look out for further supernatural events. Any ill-natured wag might play on their feelings, and if some one chose to perpetrate this sorry joke, they would readily believe it to be a letter from the ill-fated captain himself. Much brooding over it might welt hasten their end, as it may do yours. Why even now you told me that Biebrich was expecting the summons when you left. That proves my words. He doesn't even wait for its coming. He anticipates it. Small wonder if some wag should take advantage of his weakness— no doubt well known."

Oram listened attentively to the clergyman as he spoke.

"I wish I could believe it so, sir," he said, "for what you say sounds indeed reasonable enough; but I cannot, I cannot. Parson, I am in earnest. Am I a man likely to be frightened by some old woman's tale? There is in my heart that which tells me it is all true, and that my summons will come in its turn, maybe before Hans gets his. Only one thing can I do that may avert it. I spent every guilder of Vanderdecken's gold before I knew of the curse that might attach to it, and as I received it for services I did not render, I ought not to have touched it. But I can make restitution. See, sir, here is the amount in full— something over maybe. It was put by for the wife in case anything should happen to me, but if it saves her husband's soul she would not think it misspent. Take it, sir. Give it to the service of God, and I may yet be saved."

The Parson looked longingly at the glittering heap of silver and gold. The church bell, long cracked, was now broken and useless; the pulpit was shaky in its foundations; the church roof leaked; windows were broken beyond patching, and the poor were ever at his doors. Yet he dared not, without authority, take the money for these purposes.

"I will refer the matter to his Grace the Archbishop," said he with a sigh, for he much feared the needs of the diocese would prove greater than those of the parish; "but you may rely upon it, Reuben, that the money will indeed be devoted to the service of God, and if this is the only link that binds you to a spectre captain, you need fear no molestation from him."

Oram seemed greatly relieved, and the clergyman did his best to deepen the impression he had made.

"Now, Reuben," said he, "bury your past. Lose yourself in gratitude to God that you are well and strong, blessed with a good wife and bonny children. Work for them and think of them, and banish for ever all thoughts of spectre ships and spectre captains, and all will yet go well with you."

Oram took the clergyman's proffered hand respectfully, thanked him for his consolation, and returned home with a lighter heart than he had known for many a long day.

"A strange tale," Parson Waddilove muttered as he gathered the coins and deposited them in an old teapot on his top shelf. "A strange tale indeed. I like it not. Such things have been."

ii

SOME two months after the above, Reuben Oram returned home one evening after a hard day's toil. Fish had been plentiful of late; rarely he cast anchor but his coble was filled to the thwarts with codling, whiting, or other spoil, and he now knew that, despite his donation to the Vicar, he had laid by enough to see him through the winter months.

An enterprising tradesman had recently set up a shop in the village, and Oram had had one or two long consultations with him. To-day he stepped inside again, and when he left the shop his pockets bulged out suspiciously. The children met him at the gate of his few yards of garden, for they had been on the watch for him, and his wife greeted him on the doorstep. No sooner inside than, with great importance, Reuben produced a little packet.

"Lass, this is for you," he said to his wife. "It's no great thing, but I have thought for a long time past you sadly needed something like it."

Mistress Oram gave her man a hearty kiss before she opened it.

"It's downright good of you, Reuben, to have thought of me. Well, I do declare— a brooch that looks like real gold, and glass the image of diamonds! I shall look grand in it, Reuben, on Snndays. And won't Mary Proctor envy me! Here's another kiss, lad."

The children gathered round the trinket, and eyed it with awe. The glass flashed bravely in the light, and the metal shone with fine determination to ape its betters.

"And now, lassie, what's in this parcel, I wonder?" said Oram, producing a larger and bulkier package. The little mite seized it eagerly, and with hands trembling with excitement untied the string and unwrapped the paper.

"A doll! a doll, mother! Isn't she a beauty— and look at her hair— and hasn't she rosy cheeks!" and the child took it in her arms and crooned over it with delight.

"I wonder if there's anything for Tom," said the father when he had taken his fill of his bairn's joy; "I wonder now," and he dived into various pockets with a fine pretence of Bearch.

The lad was all agog with excitement, and when the parcel at length came to light and the paper was unwrapped and a glorious cockle boat, painted in brilliant hues, was disclosed to yiew, he gave vent to his unbounded satisfaction.

"And now, lad," said Mistress Oram, beaming with importance, "presents all round to-day. I've got something for you. Not that I bought it, but it came, and I've the giving of it. See here," and she produced something from under the table-cloth.

"A letter," she said, "from Lunnon."

Letters were few and far between in those days, and this was the first which had ever reached this humble household.

"A letter— for me?" said Oram in a strange, harsh voice.

"Yes, it's been waiting at York this week past. Cockles the carrier brought it to-day, and there's a whole shilling to pay on it."

Oram did not hear her. The blood had gone from his face, and his hands trembled as he clutched it.

"Why, what ails you, lad?" cried the woman.

"It's nothing— nothing— I'm only tired," said Reuben, as he gazed mechanically at his wife's present; "I think I 'll take a turn outside. Bide indoors, Sally, till I come back."

His wife gazed at him with anxious wonder as he left the house. She watched him to the corner of the road and then turned from the window. The brooch was on the table, but the mock diamond seemed to have lost its lustre and the would-be gold looked tarnished; but the children were happy with their toys. Parson Waddilove was preparing his sermon when he was disturbed, and he left his manuscript with a sigh.

"What is it, Reuben?" he said.

"Parson," he cried with a world of agony in his voice. "Parson, it's come— the summons. Here it is."

The clergyman took the letter and read the superscription. "To Reuben Oram, mariner, at the Bridlington Keye, hard by York, England."

"Well, what is this  An unopened letter. From some old shipmate, doubtless. The summons? Pshaw! Reuben, I 'm ashamed of you and your old dames' fears."

"For God's sake read it, Parson. You'll see who's right then," and, with nails clenched into the palms of his hands and teeth biting his lips till the blood came, he stood over the clergyman as he broke the wafers and unfolded the letter.

One glance sufficed, and the Vicar sat bolt upright in his chair with a startled look. Oram turned round and faced the window. Even at that terrible moment he did not care that Parson Waddilove should see his face.

"Read it, sir," he said firmly, after a moment's silence.

The Parson read:—

To Reuben Oram.

The Captain is short handed and summons deserters; so make ready. Heckhansen, Bergh, Jansen, Kranz and Biebrich are on board. You will join the first day of December.

Vanderdecken.

There was a long pause. "Do you believe me now, sir?" said Oram with a bitter smile, turning round at length.

"Lad," said the clergyman gravely, "the letter—summons, as you call it— is here undoubtedly; but I am still of the mind it is some scurvy trick played upon you as upon the others."

"Summons or trick, they all died soon afterwards," said Oram doggedly.

"Then make up your mind to live, Reuben. If you determine you are going to die on the day named— December first— then die you may, but if you trust in God and defy the power of the evil one to reach you, then you will live."

"That cursed gold," muttered Oram.

"No longer cursed, Reuben. Only to-day I received a letter from our good Archbishop. He hath been pleased to allow your money to go to the purchasing of our new church bell. December first is yet a month ahead. I will journey this week to York and arrange for the bell to be delivered and fixed by then; and that shall be the date of its consecration. As it rings out its sacred notes you shall know that the money has lost its curse by being devoted to the service of the Almighty, and that by its agency, for generations yet to come, shall souls be saved from eternal punishment and not lost."

For the moment the Parson's words brought a ray of hope to Oram's heart; but at each step nearer home his spirits sank. The bell might ring— but the summons had come.

iii

THE DAYS passed, and the summons was never out of Oram's mind. He brooded over it by day and dreamed of it at night. He lost flesh and became a mass of nerves. His wife was mnob alarmed at his altered condition, hnt Oram, though he gave her many reasons for it, withheld the true cause. She divined it had some connection with the letter, but the very mention of it distressed her husband so much that she dared not refer to it again. She did her best to cheer and comfort him, but she was hurt he should wish to hide anything from her. His neighbours and mates were quick to note the change in his manner and appearance, and many were the explanations offered.

Of course it was known he had received a letter, and soon the rumour spread that it was from a former wife, who threatened an immediate descent on his present household. Oram vouchsafed no information: he rarely spoke to anyone now. He grew surly and neglected his work. And so the month wore on. It was the last day of November. The whole day Oram had wandered about in a fever of unrest and anxiety. The morrow was the date fixed by the summons— what it would bring him the wretched man scarcely dared think of. Was he to die as the others had died? Had the consecration of the money defeated Yanderdecken's fell purpose? Or was it all a fable and a myth, as Parson Waddilove had urged? To-morrow at this time he would know.

Dusk was falling, night was gathering in, as Reuben Oram, filled with these unhappy thoughts, was making his way homewards. His cottage was now in view: the light streaming from the window and the open door. That, at any rate, was his haven for to-night. Let to-morrow— Good God! what was that? His eyes had glanced seawards, and suddenly he stopped as though rooted to the ground. The blood ran cold in his veins; his eyes started from their sockets; his very heart seemed to stand still, while his limbs trembled as though he were palsy-stricken. There were others looking seawards that evening, and they afterwards declared they saw nothing unusual; there was the little fishing fleet at anchor— that was all. But Oram saw something more than this. With her sails set dead against the wind he saw the Spectre Ship enter the bay.

"My God," he cried, "the captain's come for me!"

There was a pause. By the second hand of your watch you could have counted twelve, and then, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and with steady feet, Reuben Oram walked to his home.

The children were in bed, but he roused them from their slumbers. With one perohed on either knee and his wife in the ingle-nook, he sat before his untouched supper and talked and laughed as he had used to. He sang them songs, he told them wondrous tales; and the youngsters crowed with glee, while their mother smiled happily upon them. The cloud had passed; her goodman was himself again. Then the bairns fell asleep in his arms and he put them to bed himself, and kissed them— and then— and then he turned to his wife— and told her all.

There was no sleep for man or woman in the cottage that night, and when the sun was high in the heavens there they still sat, hand in hand, waiting for the end. The gate creaked on its hinges, footsteps were heard outside, and a knock came at the door.

"Reuben, Reuben," said a well-known voice.

"It's only the Parson, lad," said the wife, and she rose and unbarred the door.

"Well, good folk," said the cheery clergyman. "This is a nice time to be abed. Why, how's this?" as his eye caught the ashes of yesterday's fire, yesterday's meal untouched, the bed unslept in.

Oram muttered something unintelligible, while his wife caught up the children from their cot, and took them into the wash-house to dress. Oram and the Parson were left alone together.

"Reuben, I've bad news for you. The bell was fixed yestere'en and all seemed well. Overnight one of the beams on which it was hung gave way, for it seems the strain was too great. The bell crashed through the floor below and is broken."

Oram laughed. "A good omen, sir, for to-day. But what matters it? Do you think the ringing of a bell would keep the devil away? You should try candle and censer and say mass. The Romanists have more powerful weapons, Parson."

"Reuben, Reuben," said the clergyman, greatly shocked, "these words become you not."

Again the man laughed— a hideous laugh.

"They will become me worse to-morrow, Parson, when I am damned. Vanderdecken is here. The foul ship came last night with her cargo of spectres. There would have been a choir full of them for the consecration, and the skipper could have sounded his speaking trumpet right merrily; no doubt they had a fine time of it in the belfry last night."

Parson Waddilove stared at the sailor in silent horror. He was evidently going mad.

"Parson," he went on with terrible earnestness, "you'll see to Sally and the bairns after— after to-day. Here's money," and he opened a chest and produced a bag therefrom.

"Here's money that will see them through the winter— then God help them, for I cannot. You'll look after them, sir? The lass might go as a serving wench when she is old enough, and the lad must be a sailor, I trow. But, Parson, tell him never to sail in a ship bound for the Cape. Merciful heaven! to think of him meeting his father's ship and being doomed to perish. Make him swear it, sir, by all that's holy. And the wife— my Sally— oh, G od! how can I talk of these things— it's worse than death itself—" and the man broke down and hid his face in his arms.

Suddenly he started up, pale and ashy as death.

"Hark! " said he, with "That's the captain's voice," and he stared at the door with deadly terror written on his face. He rose to his feet, swaying to and fro like a drunken man and holding on to the table for support.

"I am ready, skipper," he said. The clergyman followed the direction of his eyes, but he saw nothing unwonted in the room. There was no one there but themselves. Oram made one or two steps forward as though following an invisible guide— then he tottered and fell to the floor, insensible.

"Mistress Oram! Mistress Oram!" cried the clergyman as he bent over the sailor; and the affrighted woman rushed in.

Together they lifted him on the bed; and, leaving the wife chafing his hands and bathing his head, the Vicar ran off to procure what medical assistance the village afforded.

It was some hours before Parson Waddilove finally left the cottage. He waited till the leech arrived and the patient had been bled, and consciousness had returned; he called again in the afternoon, and once more late at night to see how he was progressing. He left him fast asleep under the influence of a potent drug the apothecary had been obliged to administer.

The clergyman left the house about eleven o'clock. He was much distressed by the events of the day, and now he determined to take a walk on the cliffs to compose himself. The night was fine, and there was a glorious moon shining on the water. All looked peaceful and calm; and a sudden desire seized the Parson to have a short pull. Despite his increasing years and weight, he often took a boat out when the tide was favourable and the water calm; and it was so now. It was almost the bottom of the ebb; in half an hour the tide would turn and bring him back.

He made his way down the cliffs to the little landing stage, alongside which the boats were moored, and chose one— Oram's— he knew of old. He hunted for a pair of blades, and, having found them, cast off from the mooring ring and pulled out into the bay. In five minutes or so he rested. His mind was too busy for physical exertion. His thoughts persisted in turning to Oram.

"His mind must have become unhinged by much brooding over the letter," said the Parson to himself; "and last night he said he saw the Spectre Ship. As if such a thing were possible—"

Then he stopped. His heart beat as though he had heard the first Trump of Judgment; his scalp tightened; the blood curdled in his veins. There, not fifty yards away, lay the weird semblance of a vessel, a three-masted merchantman. There was hurrying to and fro on board, for she was preparing to sail, but not a sound was audible. Shapes of men were straddling on the foot-ropes of the topsail yards, loosing the canvas out of the gaskets. There was a capstan on the high forecastle head, the bars manned and the cable already hove short. There was a filmy fiddler on the capstan top, fiddling a soundless tune. By the high poop lanterns stood the phantom captain, with his speaking trumpet under his arm, shouting orders unheard.

There she lay, in outward form a vessel; but there was no colour, no substance. She was white; impalpable as a shadow, vague as a dream— in truth a Spectre Ship.

Parson Waddilove gazed at the white glare in spell-bound horror. H a ! what is that? A boat swings up and out from the booms, and is lowered. Four sailors climb down, and with noiseless strokes put off and pull towards him, shorewards. Nearer, nearer they come, and he is fascinated by their approach. He tries to shout a warning, but the words stick in his throat. They are but a boat length away. Now they are on him, right amidship. He waits for the crash. A shadow flits by. They are gone. His eyes follow. Unheedingly they are pulling to the shore. A cloud passes over the moon and they are lost.

The Parson strains his senses, listening and watching in breathless suspense. Not a sound is to be heard, save the faint clash of the sea breaking on the weed-wrack and shingle. Ha! there they are again. Great God! what is that? There are now five men in the boat! On they come, the fifth man holding the tiller. They pass the Parson's boat scarce a dozen yards off.

That fifth shadow— that ghostly semblance of a man— it is Reuben Oram. They pull to the vessel, climb on board, the boat is hauled up, and the anchor broken out of the ground. One by one the sails unfold and, straining at their sheets and bolt ropes, belly out in the breezeless night. The ship swings ronnd and, against the incoming tide, surges away to sea.

The crew of the Flying Dutchman was complete.

______________

12: Vanderdecken's Message Home

Or, The Tenacity of Natural Affection

Anonymous

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine.  May, 1821.

OUR SHIP, after touching at the Cape, went out again, and soon losing sight of the Table Mountain, began to be assailed by the impetuous attacks of the sea, which is well known to be more formidable there than in most parts of the known ocean. The day had grown dull and hazy, and the breeze, which had formerly blown fresh, now sometimes subsided almost entirely, and then recovering its for a short time, and changing its direction, blew with temporary violence, and died away again, as if exercising a melancholy caprice. A heavy swell began to come from the south-east. Our sails flapped against the masts, and the ship rolled from side to side, as heavily as if she had been water-logged. There was so little wind that she would not steer.

At two P.M. we had a squall, accompanied by thunder and rain. The seamen, growing restless, looked anxiously ahead. They said we would have a dirty night of it, and that it would not be worth while to turn in to their hammocks. As the second mate was describing a gale he had encountered off Cape Race, Newfoundland, we were suddenly taken all aback, and the blast came upon us furiously. We continued to scud under a double reefed mainsail and foretopsail till dusk; but, as the sea ran high, the captain thought it safest to bring her to. The watch on deck consisted of four men, one of whom was appointed to keep a look-out ahead, for the weather was so hazy, that we could not see two cables' length from the bows. This man, whose name was Tom Willis, went frequently to the bows, as if to observe something; and when the others called to him, inquiring what he was looking at, he would give no definite answer. They therefore went also to the bows, and appeared startled, and at first said nothing. But presently one of them cried, "William, go call the watch."

The seamen, having been asleep in their hammocks, murmured at this unseasonable summons, and called to know how it looked upon deck. To which Tom Willis replied, "Come up and see. What we are minding is not on deck, but ahead."

On hearing this, they ran up without putting on their jackets, and when they came to the bows there was a whispering.

One of them asked, "Where is she? I do not see her." To which another replied, "The last flash of lightning shewed there was not a reef in one of her sails; but we, who know her history, know that all her canvass will never carry her into port."

By this time, the talking of the seamen had brought some of the passengers on deck. They could see nothing, however, for the ship was surrounded by thick darkness, and by the noise of the dashing waters, and the seamen evaded the questions that were put to them. At this juncture the chaplain came on deck. He was a man of grave and modest demeanour, and was much liked among the seamen, who called him Gentle George. He overheard one of the men asking another, If he had ever seen the Flying Dutchman before, and if he knew the story about her?" To which the other replied, "I have heard of her beating about in these seas. What is the reason she never reaches port?"

The first speaker replied, "They give different reasons for it, but my story is this: She was an Amsterdam vessel, and sailed from that port seventy years ago. Her master's name was Vanderdecken. He was a staunch seaman, and would have his own way, in spite of the devil. For all that, never a sailor under him had reason to complain; though how it is on board with them now, nobody knows; the story is this, that in doubling the Cape, they were a long day trying to weather the Table Bay, which we saw this morning. However, the wind headed them, and went against them more and more, and Vanderdecken walked deck, swearing at the wind. Just after sunset, a vessel spoke him, asking if he did not mean to go into the Bay that night. Vanderdecken replied, 'May I be eternally d——d if I do, though I should beat about here till the day of judgment!'  And to be sure, Vanderdecken never did go into that bay; for it is believed that he continues to beat about in these seas still, and will do so long enough. This vessel is never seen but with foul weather along with her."

To which another replied, "We must keep clear of her. They say that her captain mans his jolly boat, when a vessel comes in sight, and tries hard to get along-side, to put letters on board, but no good comes to them who have communication with him."

Tom Willis said, "There is such a sea between us at present, as should keep us safe from such visits."

To which the other answered: "We cannot trust to that, if Vanderdecken sends out his men."

Some of this conversation having been overheard by the passengers, there was a commotion among them. In the mean time, the noise of the waves against the vessel, could scarcely be distinguished from the sounds of the distant thunder. The wind had extinguished the light in the binnacle, where the compass was, and no one could tell which way the ship's head lay. The passengers were afraid to ask questions, lest they should augment the secret sensation of fear which chilled every heart, or learn any more than they already knew. For while they attributed their agitation of mind to the state of the weather, it was sufficiently perceptible that their alarms also arose from a cause which they did not acknowledge.

The lamp at the binnacle being relighted, they perceived that the ship lay closer to the wind than she had hitherto done, and the spirits of the passengers were somewhat revived.

Nevertheless, neither the tempestuous state of the atmosphere, nor the thunder had ceased; and soon a vivid flash of lightning shewed the waves  tumbling around us, and, in the distance, the Flying Dutchman scudding furiously before the wind, under a press of canvass. The sight was but mo mentary, but it was sufficient to re move all doubt from the minds of the - the passengers. One of the men cried aloud, "There she goes, top-gallants and all.".

The chaplain had brought up his prayer-book, in order that he might draw from thence something to fortify and tranquillize the minds of the rest. Therefore, taking his seat near the binnacle, so that the light shone upon the white leaves of the book, he, in a solemn tone, read out the service for those distressed at sea. The sailors stood round with folded arms, and looked as if they thought it would be of little use. But this served to occupy the attention of those on deck for a while.

In the mean time, the flashes of lightning becoming less vivid, shewed nothing else, far or near, but the billows weltering round the vessel. The sailors seemed to think that they had not yet seen the worst, but confined their remarks and prognostications to their own circle.

At this time, the captain, who had hitherto remained in his berth, came on deck, and, with a gay and unconcerned air, inquired what was the cause of the general dread. He said he thought they had already seen the worst of the weather, and wondered that his men had raised such a hubbub about a capful of wind. Mention being made of the Flying Dutchman, the captain laughed.' He said, "he would like very much to see any vessel carrying top-gallant-sails in such a night, for it would be a sight worth looking at." The chaplain, taking him by one of the buttons of his coat, drew him aside, and appeared to enter into a serious conversation with him.

While they were talking together; the captain was heard to say, "Let us look to our own ship, and not mind such things;" and accordingly, he sent a man aloft, to see if all was right about the foretop-sail yard, which was chafing the mast with a loud noise. It was Tom Willis who went up;  and when he came down, he said that all was tight, and that he hoped it would soon get clearer; and that they would see no more of what they were most afraid of.

The captain and first mate were heard laughing loudly together, while the chaplain observed, that it would be better to repress such unseasonable gaiety. The second mate, a native of Scotland, whose name was Duncan Saunderson, having attended one of the University classes at Aberdeen, thought himself too wise to believe all that the sailors said, and took part with the captain. He jestingly told Tom Willis, to borrow his grandam's spectacles the next time he was sent to keep a lookout ahead. Tom walked sulkily away, muttering, that he would nevertheless t rust to his own eyes till morning, and accordingly took his station at the bow, and appeared to watch as attentively as before.

The sound of talking soon ceased, for many returned to their berths, and we heard nothing but the clanking of the ropes upon the masts, and the bursting of the billows ahead, as the vessel successively took the seas.

But after a considerable interval of darkness, gleams of lightning began to reappear. Tom Willis suddenly called out, "Vanderdecken, again! Vanderdecken, again! I see them letting down a boat."

All who were on deck ran to the bows. The next flash of lightning shone far and wide over the raging sea, and shewed us not only the Flying Dutchman at a distance, but also a boat coming from her with four men. The boat was within two cables' length of our ship's side.

The man who first saw her, ran to the captain, and asked whether they should hail her or not. The captain, walking about in great agitation, made no reply. The first mate cried, "Who's going to heave a rope to that boat?"

The men looked at each other without offering to do any thing. The boat had come very near the chains, when Tom Willis called out, "What do you want? or what devil has blown you here in such weather."

A piercing voice from the boat, replied in English, "We want to speak with your captain." The captain took no notice of this, and Vanderdecken's boat having come close along side, one of the men came upon deck, and appeared like a fatigued and weather beaten seaman, holding some letters in his hand.

Our sailors all drew back. The chaplain, however, looking steadfastly upon him, went forward a few steps, and asked, "What is the purpose of this visit?"

The stranger replied, "We have long been kept here by foul weather, and Vanderdecken wishes to send these letters to his friends in Europe."

Our captain now came forward, and said as firmly as he could, " I wish Vanderdecken would put his letters on board of any other vessel rather than mine."

The stranger replied, "We have tried many a ship, but most of them refuse our letters."

Upon which, Tom Willis muttered, "It will be best for us if we do the same, for they say, there is sometimes a sinking weight in your paper "

The stranger took no notice of this, but asked where we were from. On being told that we were from Portsmouth, he said, as if with strong feeling, "Would that you had rather been from Amsterdam. Oh that we saw it again! We must see our friends again." When he uttered these words, the men who were in the boat below, wrung their hands, and cried in a piercing tone, in Dutch, "Oh that we saw it again! We have been long here beating about: but we must see our friends again."

The chaplain asked the stranger, "How long have you been at sea?"

He replied, "We have lost our count; for our almanack was blown over board. Our ship, you see, is there still; so why should you ask how long we have been at sea; for Vanderdecken only wishes to write home and comfort his friends."

To which the chaplain replied,

"Your letters, I fear, would be of no use in Amsterdam, even if they were delivered, for the persons to whom they are addressed are probably no longer to be found there, except under very ancient green turf in the church-yard.

The unwelcome stranger then wrung his hands, and appeared to weep; and replied, "It is impossible. We can not believe you. We have been long driving about here, but country nor relations cannot be so easily forgotten. There is not a rain drop in the air but feels itself kindred to all the rest, and they fall back into the sea to meet with each other again. How then, can kindred blood be made to forget where it came from? Even our bodies are part of the ground of Holland; and Vanderdecken says, if he once were come to Amsterdam, he would rather be changed into a stone post, well fixed into the ground, than leave it again; if that were to die elsewhere. But in the meantime, we only ask you to take these letters."

The chaplain, looking at him with astonishment, said, "This is the insanity of natural affection, which rebels against all measures of time and distance."

The stranger continued, "Here is a letter from our second mate, to his dear and only remaining friend, his uncle, the merchant who lives in the second house on Stuncken Yacht Quay."

He held forth the letter, but no one would approach to take it.

Tom Willis raised his voice, and said, "One of our men, here, says that he was in Amsterdam last summer, and he knows for certain, that the street called Stuncken Yacht Quay, was pulled down sixty years ago, and now there is only a large church at that place."

The man from the Flying Dutchman, said, "It is impossible, we can not believe you. Here is another letter from myself, in which I have sent a bank-note to my dear sister, to buy some gallant lace, to make her a high head dress."

Tom Willis hearing this, said, "It is most likely that her head now lies under a tomb-stone, which will outlast all the changes of the fashion. On what house is your bank-note?"

The stranger replied, "On the house of Vanderbrucker and Company."

The man, of whom Tom Willis had spoken, said, "I guess there will now be some discount upon it, for that banking-house was gone to destruction forty years ago; and Vanderbrucker was afterwards a-missing. But to remember these things is like raking up the bottom of an old canal."

The stranger called out passionately, "It is impossible! We cannot believe it! It is cruel to say such things to people in our condition. There is a letter from our captain himself, to his much-beloved and faithful wife, whom he left at a pleasant summer dwelling, on the border of the Haarlemer Mer. She promised to have the house beautifully painted and gilded before he came back, and to get a new set of and looking-glasses for the principal chamber, that she might see as many images of Vanderdecken, as if she had six husbands at once."

The man replied, "There has been time enough for her to have had six husbands since then; but were she alive still, there is no fear that Vanderdecken would ever get home to disturb her."

On hearing this the stranger again shed tears, and said, if they would not take the letters, he would leave them; and looking around he offered the parcel to the Captain, chaplain, and to the rest of the crew successively, but each drew back as it was offered, and put his hands behind his back. He then laid the letters upon the deck, and placed upon them a piece of iron, which was lying near, to prevent them from being blown away.

Having done  this, he swung himself over the gangway, and went into the boat. We heard the others speak to him, but the rise of a sudden squall prevented us from distinguishing his reply. The boat was seen to quit the ship's side, and, in a few moments, there were no more traces of her than if she had never been there. The sailors rubbed their eyes, as if doubting what they had witnessed, but the parcel still lay upon deck, and proved the reality of all that had passed.

Duncan Saunderson, the Scotch mate, asked the captain if he should take them up, and put them in the letter-bag? Receiving no reply, he would have lifted them if it had not been for Tom Willis, who pulled him back, saying that nobody should touch them.

In the meantime the captain went down to the cabin, and the chaplain having followed him, found him at his bottle-case, pouring out a large dram of brandy. The captain, although somewhat disconcerted, immediately reoffered the glass to him, saying, "Here, Charters, is what is good in a cold night."

The chaplain declined drinking anything, and the captain having swallowed the bumper, they both returned to the deck, where they found the seamen giving their opinions concerning what should be done with the  letters. Tom Willis proposed to pick them up on a harpoon, and throw it overboard.

Another speaker said, "I have always heard it asserted that it is neither safe to accept them voluntarily, nor when they are left to throw them out of the ship."

"Let no one touch them," said the carpenter. "The way to do with the letters from the Flying Dutchman is to case them upon deck, by nailing boards over them, so that if he sends back for rest of them, they are still there to give him."

The carpenter went to fetch his tools. During his absence, the ship gave so violent a pitch, that the piece of iron slid off the letters, and they were whirled overboard by the wind, like birds of evil omen whirring through the air. There was a cry of joy among the sailors, and they ascribed the favourable change which soon took place in the weather, to our having got quit of Vanderdecken. We soon got under weigh again. The night watch being set, the crew retired to their berths.

_______________

13: Time to Unmask

William Almon Wolff

1885-1933

Smart Set, Feb 1930

ANNE MURRAY had been behaving outrageously, and knew it perfectly well. But that was the idea of a masked ball. You didn't take your inhibitions and your best Sunday manners along, because you'd have no use for them if you did. So it didn't worry her at all that she didn't know from Adam the young man with whom, for hours, she'd been amusing herself. He was so nice that he undoubtedly belonged to some other girl, but what of it? As long as she didn't have positive information about that, she wasn't responsible, was she?

They'd had a gorgeous time. He'd cut in, to start with, and he was unquestionably the world's best dancer, besides being exactly the right height for her. Anne was a tall girl, and rather nice looking, she thought, when she wasn't wearing a mask. For that matter, she wasn't exactly repulsive now, because her good looks, after all, weren't contined to her face, and her costume had been designed in accordance with the liberal views of the day concerning feminine attire that have caused so much distress to Mr. Ziegfeld and other producers of revues. When all is said and done there are fields in which professionals do suffer from amateur competition.

Cutting in on Anne hadn't got this young man very far around the room of course. But he'd cut back again as soon as he could, and he'd kept on doing so until they'd both begun to laugh.

"Oh, look here— this is silly!" he said. "Why don't we elope— go outside, I mean— sit in a car— all that, you know."

"Well— why not?" said Anne.

So they'd gone, and they'd been sitting, and talking, and smoking, ever since. Sam kissed her, casually, once or twice, when the conversation seemed to call for that sort of incidental music. They'd exchanged first names, because they had to call each other something, but they'd stuck to their masks. He was amusing and clever, and he managed to give this trifling escapade of theirs a touch of glamour without being sentimental or sloppy, which pleased Anne, and suited her mood perfectly.

By midnight, naturally, they'd found out a good deal about each other. They knew a lot of the same people; they felt the same way about most of them; they liked the same books and plays— and what was more important— they shared a number of intense and unreasonable dislikes. It always makes you feel much closer to some one, you know, to find that you both abominate some popular idol than it does to learn that you have a common enthusiasm for Sinclair Lewis, say, or La Argentina's dancing.

Still, for all their talk, they hadn't discussed any of the superficially significant and seemingly important things that people tentatively approaching friendship usually want to know about.

ALL at once, inside the club, there was tremendous to-do, with the band making a great row, and horns tooting, and every one shouting and laughing.

"I expect they're unmasking, don't you?" said Anne. "I suppose we're missing all the fun."

"Do you, indeed?" said Sam. "Speak for yourself! I'm happy, I am."

He looked it. They'd picked out the back seat of a very comfortable sedan, and Anne fitted nicely into the curve of his arm. He kissed her, experimentally.

"You're probably married," he said, "and I'm an old-fashioned bozo. I don't make love to married women— not when I know it. So—"

"I'm not married, as it happens," said Anne. "I wouldn't be here if I were. I'm old-fashioned, too. We do have lots of old ideas in common, don't we?"

"Check!" he said. "You're pretty nice, Anne. I've been off women lately, but you raise the average."

"Some one been trifling with your young affections?"

"More or less. Had it coming to me, I expect. Silly stunt, falling in love! The French have the right idea. They know love's one thing and marriage is another. Lots of time for both, too— so long as the sun keeps on rising and setting."

"I see what you mean," said Anne. '"Yes—"

"You take marriage," said Sam. "Perfectly simple, if people'd only be intelligent. Good old law of supply and demand— you can't beat it! But what do we do, over here? Rich men marrying rich girls— sheer economic waste! Kids as poor as Job's turkey trying it out in a three room flat over by Second Avenue so they can have an East Side address. Fine chance they've got!

"Now me, I'm going to pick me out an heiress, when I get around to it, and teach her to live up to her means. Not but what—" He hurried on before Anne could say anything. "Not but what I'll always be able to make enough to buy my own clothes and cigarettes and pay for taxis and orchids and things like that, you know."

"That's a sound idea, too," Anne admitted.

"You wouldn't be an heiress, I suppose?" he said. She shook her head. "Thought so. You're too nice. Still—"

He sighed, faintly. Anne was disturbed. She didn't want Sam to turn serious. She'd been running away from anything that even threatened to be serious for months. Ever since— well, never mind that, now. She sat up, abruptly.

"It must be late," she said. "Time to unmask anyway."

She switched on the dome light, then took off her mask and the close fitting turban that was a part of both her costume and her disguise.

"Ho!" said Sam. "That's torn it!" .He sat up, distinctly annoyed. "Why did you have to go and do that? I know who you are, now. Pete Carter's always mooning about you. Wanted to take me over one day, at Pierre's, when you were having lunch with Beth Rogers."

"Why didn't he?" asked Anne.

"Wouldn't let him." said Sam crossly. "Didn't want to meet you. You're not my type."

"What?" Anne sat up very straight, staring at him with outraged and indignant eyes. It wasn't a line, and she knew it. He meant it. He'd taken off his mask, and was regarding her moodily. She'd known about what he'd look like, and he didn't surprise her. His looks were passable, no more. Anne loathed handsome men. She knew who he was, of course, though she'd never happened actually to meet him. Sam Prescott.

"No," Sam went on. "I prefer blondes. Strong minded you are, too. It shows in your mouth, and you must have the devil's own temper if any one crosses you. God help the man who marries you! Besides, you haven't any money, any more than I have."

"I have, too," said Anne. "I get the income every quarter from a lot of Liberty Bonds, and there's a bunch of money that piled up before I was twenty-one. I make money, too. I made seven hundred in the market last month. I was in on that crazy jump in Chrysler."

"You would be a gambler," he said. "That's another thing!" He regarded her morosely; then he grinned. "Still." he went on, in a kindlier voice, "I don't suppose you could have kept your mask on forever, and it's not your fault you're poor! Who am I to blame any one for that?"

"The way you harp on that!" she said, unreasonably annoyed. "Maybe I can't afford luxuries like you, but I get along very nicely, thank you."

"Oh, you're talking through your hat!" he said. "I wish you'd put it on again, by the way I don't like your hair. What do you need of money, living with your uncle the way you do? Oh, I know all about you! You think you're independent because you don't have to make a touch when you want to take some girl to lunch and to the movies afterward! A lot you could do in the market if you had rent to pay, and butchers and telephone companies and all that! Pocket money— that's all your income amounts to!"

"I—" Anne was almost breathless with rage. "I'd like to know what business it is of yours anyway?"

"Oh, none!" He grinned again engagingly. "I'm being an ass, of course. It's just— it was such fun, before I knew who you were."

"It was rather," Anne had to admit, slightly mollified.

"One gets ideas, you see," Sam said. "You looked blonde back in the club. You haven't the sort of eyes that go with your hair, as a rule. I could see them, through the slits in your mask. Gray, aren't they?"

"They're green, like a cat's," said Anne viciously.

"Well, they're not brown anyway. And when we came out here—oh, I thought you were swell! I— I was darned close to falling for you, if you want to know it. And now— oh, well— sorry! It's not your fault. Listen— want a tip? This one's from the stable. Buy Ingot— you can get in up to 40. Hold it till it hits 60."

"Sounds reasonable," said Anne. "I never did see why that last dividend was passed."

"That's the point. It's going for a ride."

"Thanks. I'll play that hunch."

She switched on the dome light once more, and leaned over to look at the clock on the dash.

"It really is late," she said. "I think we'd better go in."

"I suppose we had," he said.

HE HELPED her down, and they walked back, sedately, and with great propriety, to the club. Anne did think he might have been polite enough to kiss her again, just for old times' sake, as it were, but the idea didn't seem to occur to him, and there was nothing she could do about it, naturally. The club was getting gayer and gayer. They walked up on to the veranda, through a haze of romance, and tinkling glasses, and banter. A tall Persian was speaking to a slim lady in the slimmest of costumes. They heard him say—

"You're beautiful!" And they heard the lady respond, "You haven't said anything like that for ten years!"

And even Anne, despite her annoyance, laughed at the Persian's gasp—''My God, my wife!"

Inside various indignant boy friends fell upon Anne, demanding to know where she'd been, and with whom. They mauled her while they danced with her, and cut in on one another, and generally annoyed her. But as for Sam, he devoted himself ostentatiously to a succession of yellow haired; blue eyed babies. She wished him joy of them. Only she didn't at all, really. She hated them, and him, too.

Anne bought fifty shares of Ingot at  41 next day, and sold out at sixty-one, which was comfortably close to the top, representing a neat little profit of about a thousand dollars, which looked extremely well, as expressed in an evening gown, a fur coat, and some extremely luxurious garments not intended for the general public to see.

She ran into Sam once in a while during the rest of the waning summer, but not very often. She was off making visits, mostly, and Sam, it appeared, wasn't the sort of young man you met at North East and such places. And it wasn't very satisfactory when she did see him. He was scrupulously polite; he asked her to dance; he talked to her about the market, and continued to pay her the courtesy of assuming that she had brains. But he was annoyingly well behaved. She wouldn't have minded that if she hadn't known that it wasn't his invariable rule to treat girls that way.

Whether it was because she was, as she put it to herself, silly enough to be letting her mind dwell on Sam, or whether the new crop of boy friends was really pretty poor, Anne didn't know. But, though the episode that had soured her a year ago was already a faint and not too unpleasant memory, she simply couldn't get excited about any one.

And she knew it was time for her to be giving serious thought to the matter of getting married and settling down. Her Uncle John, who wasn't really her uncle at all, but just John Trenham, her real aunt's second husband, was a lamb, and he liked having her around.

Uncle John would leave her something in his will, she supposed, though, of course, the matter had never been mentioned, and he was a singularly hale and hearty old chap, anyway. Besides she had her own income from the trust fund that had been created out of her father's life insurance. Though that wasn't much, as incomes go these days, and she knew the stock market would turn on her, sooner or later, and bite her.

Peter Carter and various other young men, eligible and ineligible, were more than ready to attend to the problem of Anne's future. But they all left her cold, and she saw them, one by one, turn to other girls while she just carried on, making a point of getting up mornings, no matter what time she'd got in, to pour Uncle John's coffee for him, and listen to his comments on the news.

UNTIL, one morning, she sat at the table alone, looking out over the park, all white with snow, with no Uncle John opposite. He wasn't feeling well, his man said. After breakfast she went in to see him, and was alarmed to find him feverish and cross. Pneumonia makes short work of high colored, white haired gentlemen of sixty five, sometimes; it was so in Uncle John's case. The cousins, who weren't exactly her real cousins at all, were very nice and sympathetic, but none of them so much as suggested that if Uncle John hadn't neglected to make a will he would have made some provision for Anne. So Anne, all at once, had to shift for herself.

SHE found a tiny apartment in a good enough house, east of Lexington, and furnished it agreeably. Then she sat down and did sums. Try as she would, she couldn't fit her irreducible expenses into her income. You can't subtract thirty-two hundred dollars from twenty-six hundred and have a balance, no matter how good a mathematician you are.

"All right," said Anne to herself, "I've got this money in the bank, haven't I? And I always have made. money in the market, haven't I? That's how I'll make up the difference."

In theory that was quite sound. In practice it didn't work out so well.

She thought of getting something to do, of course, but that wasn't as easy as it looked. She had no particular talents, and didn't know how to capitalize her knowledge of clothes, which was considerable. All sorts of people were always making helpful suggestions, but they weren't practical, when she came to examine them.

She was feeling rather low one afternoon, about three months after she'd become a householder, when the telephone rang. She didn't recognize Sam's voice at first; he'd never called her up before.

"Hello!" he said. 'Been hearing things about you. Wouldn't like to give a chap a cup of tea, would you?"

"Oh, but I would!" she said.

So he came around, and approved of her rooms— and, with his customary reservations—of her. He actually drank her tea— most of the boy friends brought their own brand, in a flask.

"Sorry, Anne, and all that," he said. "Been abroad for the firm, or I'd have rallied round before. How're you making out?"

Anne usually answered that question with a defiant mendacity. But she didn't have to lie to Sam.

"Not— not awfully well," she said. see—"

She didn't mean to, exactly, but before she knew it she was telling him the whole story.

"I haven't done so well in the market, either," she confessed. "I get good tips and they go wrong. There's always some perfectly good reason, but that doesn't help me much!"

"Know what's wrong, don't you?" he said. 'Before it didn't matter. You were playing the market the way you played contract. If you won— fine! If you lost— oh, well, what of it? Now you've got to win. Used to play your own hunches, too,didn't you? And now— well, you take advice, don't you?"

"I suppose I do," said Anne. "But I took yours about Ingot."

"That was different. I don't play tips. I wait till I get some inside information. Happens about once a year. And even then it's no game for widows and orphans. I wouldn't pass anything like that on to you now on a bet."

"But I've got to do something, Sam! Ladies must eat!"

"Sure, but they don't have to pay the check, do they ?"

"For breakfast— yes. They do. To say nothing of the rent, and the telephone, and the maid, and the gas and the electric light, and—"

"Stop! You're breaking my heart! You aren't up to a job, I suppose?"

"I don't seem to be. I've tried— a little."

"Well— you know the answer, don't you? For better— for richer— till the courts do you part, with alimony! I don't like your looks much, but every man to his taste, and you're more or less in demand. Be your age, woman! Pick yourself out a good, reliable husband and do your stuff."

"It's so cold-blooded, Sam!"

"There's no law against your liking the chap, is there? I expect to be quite fond of my heiress, in my own way. She's going to have light hair— not bright yellow, you know, but sort of gold, with reddish streaks in it, and blue eyes, and a skin like a peach—"

"Yes," said Anne. "The kind you get at Agatha Deane's. There's a tip for you, Sam. When your're sizing her up, find out where she goes to have her face done. No charge."

"Good hunch," said Sam. "I hadn't thought of that. Makes a difference, in the long run, doesn't it? You recommend Agatha Deane for my sort of blonde, do you?"

"Yes. She'd be poisonous for me. I swear by Mary Cornwall."

"Yes? Well, seriously, though, that's your line, Anne. No use wasting time, either. Ever met Bill Judson?"

"No!"

"You'll like him. Let's see— how about Thursday night? Dinner and a show, and a bit of high class whoopee later among the dives? I'll get Beth Rogers to keep me company. Right?"

Anne tried to think of appropriate words. She couldn't. So she agreed.

SHE spent the time between then and Thursday evening thinking of ways to be unpleasant to Sam— and to Bill Judson. That young man innocent of evil though he was, was heading for trouble.

But the event shows the futility of wasting time in making plans. For no sooner did Bill Judson see Beth Rogers than all bets were off. He was an extremely nice young man, Anne thought. He came from Detroit, or Minneapolis, or some such place, and he was a fast worker, as men from out of town must be in New York. Anne exchanged about a dozen words with him all evening, and he danced with her, dutifully, once, when Sam, growing desperate, had gone off with Beth.

Sam came around a day or two later, looking sheepish.

"Well, hunches go wrong for the best of us!" he said. "You've got to hand it to Bill! He and Beth are engaged! What do you know about that?"

"Poor Sam!" said Anne. "Are you heart broken?"

"Oh, nothing like that!" said Sam, cheerfully. "I was looking her over, but that's all right. Lots of good fish in the sea. Don't you fret about me. I got a raise, I did. I can get along fine. No reason why I should worry about settling down for a year or two yet."

"Splendid," said Anne. "But there's me, of course—"

"Yes, I know," said Sam. "You leave it to me, though. I'm looking up some prospects. I'll have something to show you pretty soon." He did, too. And he showed more discrimination, after that, in selecting the second girl for the parties he threw in Anne's behalf. He had a pretty taste in eligible bachelors, Anne had to admit. One or two were distinctly nice, and more than one of them rose to the bait Sam dangled so temptingly before them. Anne could have married a seat on the Exchange, a controlling interest in an airplane factory, a distinctly promising group of cotton mills in North Carolina. But she wouldn't, perversely enough. Sam was distinctly out of patience with her after two or three months.

IT WAS Anne, herself, however, who found the most promising prospect of them all. She met Morgan Blair at a party Sam hadn't been asked to. She'd known Morgan for ages, but he'd been abroad for some years. He had just come home to attend to the settlement of the estate of some member of the family whose death had added nine or ten millions to his already considerable wealth.

She liked Morgan, with his English accent, and his Continental manner, and his rather bored attitude toward so much that New York took seriously. And there was no doubt at all about his feeling toward Anne.

She didn't see much of Sam for a while, or of any one else, for that matter. Morgan kept her too busy. He was quite marvelous when it came to showing a girl a good time.

Anne wasn't in love with Morgan at all, but she liked him enormously and he never bored her. The idea of marrying him didn't trouble her too much, either, when she let her mind dwell upon it, as she had to. Mrs. Morgan Blair would have everything. No doubt about that! A house in London, a place in Scotland, another in the Midlands, a villa near Cannes— to say nothing of the old Blair house in New York, and scattered domiciles elsewhere in America.

Then, one evening, when she was going out with Morgan, when she felt he was going to corner her with the proposal she'd been heading off for two weeks, he called up to say, wretchedly, that he simply had to break their date. Something he couldn't get out of had come up, at the last minute. She was rather glad, really; she wanted more time to think.

Sam, calling up five mintues later, caught her unprepared. She hadn't wanted to see lately, but she agreed to dine with him.

"Well!" he said, after he'd ordered dinner. "No stalling, Anne. I know all about it. What's the idea?"

"What do you mean?"

"This lad Blair. He's out, Anne. He won't do."

"Why not?"

"He won't. I know what I'm talking about, Anne. There are a few things a man can't get away with, and he's pulled about all of them. Oh, I suppose he may be all right by European standards, but you're not a European!"

"He's got ten times the money of any of the men you've wanted me to marry!"

"Money! Money's not everything. He's a worm. Haven't you heard about the Cowdin divorce? He ought to have married her and he didn't. That's just one thing."

"More fool she, if she counted on him!" Anne laughed— rather a hard laugh.

"Don't!" said Sam, sharply. And, for a while, said nothing more. They finished dinner.

"Want to go to a show?" asked Sam,

"No, thanks. I'm tired. I'd like to get to bed early for once."

HE TOOK her home, and, going in with her, took off his coat, resolutely.

"Anne, it won't do," he said.

"Oh, why not?" she said, crossly. "Do you think I expect any man to have a blameless past?"

"Maybe not, but you ought to want an even chance that he'll go straight in the future. And this bird won't— he isn't built that way."

"What's become of all your ideas about Continental marriages, Sam? I thought you said the French understood that sort of thing so much better?" ;

"Going to remember all the hooey I've ever spilled?" he said, gloomily. "All right, go ahead. It's coming to me."

She wished he didn't have that beastly ability. always to disarm her, no matter how completely in the right she might be.

"Look here, Anne," he said, when she was silent. "Are you in love with this chap? If you are— well, I'll shut up, and clear out, and wish you luck."

She looked at him—

"I—I— You— you haven't any right," she said.

"Anne— you're not— you'd tell me if you were! Oh, Anne, my dear, you can't marry him if you're not! You— you might better marry me—"

"You!" she said. She really was surprised. You may not believe it, but she was. '"But— but— I'm poorer than ever—"

"I make plenty, don't I? I mean— I can run to a place in the country, and a car, and a dump of some kind in town, winters. And—"

He looked at her, confused. And she looked at him. She was as shy and scared as a girl in her first season. ;

"But— Sam— I— you don't even like me! And— I— I went to Agatha Deane ages ago, and she wouldn't touch my hair—she absolutely refused—"

"Your hair? I should hope she wouldn't!" said Sam."Like you? No, I think you're awful! But I love you! I always have—"

"You— you said you liked blondes—"

"Blondes? Oh, sure, every man prefers blondes when he's a kid! Anne, Anne darling—"

It was, perhaps, all things considered, a little hard on Morgan Blair. But much Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Prescott cared!

______________

14: Lucifer

Achmed Abdullah

Alexander Nicholayevitch Romanoff, 1881-1945

Everybody's Magazine , Aug 1923

Alexander Nicholayevitch Romanoff

FOR years the three Pell Street merchants had traded with Ta Chen, the Peking millionaire, by correspondence, acting as his American brokers and gaining large sums in commissions punctually paid. Ta Chen, whose name was a household word wherever the yellow man did business at the expense and ignominy of the white man's beard, had casually mentioned former visits to America— to New York— in some of his letters. But they could not recall him; and this was strange, considering the clannishness of the Chinese abroad and their tight, intimate gossiping, considering, furthermore, that a man of his wealth could not have passed unnoticed through the shuffling, felt-slippered crowds. Nor, though they eagerly searched the back cells of their brains for a glint of remembrance, were they able to place him now, when they had gone to meet him at the Grand Central Station in answer to his telegram from San Francisco that he had arrived on a sudden business trip and was proceeding to New York.

He, on the other hand, recognized the older two of the three, called them by name, made rapid, sardonic comments, proving that he was familiar with their reputations and peculiarities.

"Ah, Yung Long!" He smiled. "It is years since I have seen you. Do you still braid ribbons into your cue to lengthen it? Do women's hearts still flutter when you pass through the mazes of Pell Street?" And to Nag Sen Yat :

"You have not changed the least bit, O brother very wise and very old! Tell me"— the typical wealthy Chinese who could afford to cause a loss of face to poorer men— "do you still cheat your belly to swell your money-bags?"

While Nag Sen Yat stammered for a rejoinder, Ta Chen looked questioningly at the third, the youngest.

"And you are—"

"I am Nag Cha Lee."

"Ah! Of the Nag clan?"

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"You were born after my time. Your father is—"

"Nag Hop Fat."

"Ah! The soothsayer. He is still alive? His soul has not yet jumped the Dragon Gate?"

"He is old and feeble, but still alive."

"The which is luck for the excellent Lord," came- Ta Chen's slurring comment. "For doubtless in the beyond your father would succeed in cheating the very Buddha. I knew your father well. Twice he told my fortune with the painted sticks— and twice he lied. Had he told my fortune again, he would have lied three times."

Nag Cha Lee was intensely Chinese in his filial veneration for his aged if disreputable father. A harsh reply bubbled to his lips. He changed it into a cough at the suggestion of his cousin Nag Sen Yat's bony thumb boring into his ribs. He was silent. So were the other two. They did not know what to say. To tell Ta Chen that they did not remember him would be a gross breach of manners, and they were his brokers, gaining largely by his shrewd generosity. They sucked in their breath, blushed slightly as they saw the expression on his face— amused, cynical, as if he had read their minds, had unraveled the coiling, nervous twists in their brains.

So they looked at each other from beneath lowered eyelids, bowed with hands clasped across chests and bade him welcome in courtly, stilted phrases.

"I loufou sing— may the star of happiness always illuminate your path!"

"Ten thousand years!"

"Ten thousand times ten thousand years!"

"And yet another year!" Suddenly, at least in external pomp of Mongol breeding, Ta Chen became as polite as the others.

Then he turned to the negro red-cap who carried his suitcases, with clipped East Side jargon which proved beyond a doubt that, sometime, somehow, he had indeed been a denizen of Chinatown's viscous, sluttish reek.

"Say— wottahell d'yeh mean slingin' my bags about as if they was iron? For two cents I'd bust yeh one on the bean— see?"

And to Yung Long, smiling:

"Ah! I have not forgotten my English."

All this very much to the surprise of the red-cap, who mumbled:

"Ah beg yo' pa'don, Captain! Ah didn't know as yo' was a white gen'l'man," to the surprise of several unclassified New Yorkers hurrying through the station to catch the eleven-o'-clock train for Albany, to the evergrowing surprise, finally, of Ta Chen's countrymen. Who was he, they wondered. Why could they not recall him? Why did the fact of their not being able to do so upset their equanimity?

Nag Sen Yat stared at Ta Chen. A fleeting glint of remembrance came to him. Where had he seen those opaque eyes, those thin lips, those heavy jowls? The halfremembrance passed. But on the spur of the moment he made up his mind to ask the other straight out.

"Forgive me," he began, "but-"

He had no time to finish the sentence. Ta Chen interrupted calmly, as if he had guessed what the query would be.

"You reserved rooms for me as I telegraphed?"

"Yes. At the guest-house Of the Hip Sing Tong."

"Thank you. Ah"— as they entered the taxi-cab— "it is good to be back in New York. What shall we do to-night?"

"We arranged a little private dinnerparty."

"Delightful!"

"At Nag Hong Fah's place—"

"The Great Shanghai Chop-Suey Palace? I remember it well. Who will be at the dinner?"

"Just you, and we three, and Tsing Yu- ch'ing."

"Who is he?"

"The editor of the Eminent Elevation, our local Chinese newspaper."

"A new venture— since my time. You invited the editor— ah— to gain face?" Ta Chen demanded brusquely.

"Yes," admitted Yung Long.

TSING YU-CH'ING had indeed been asked to the dinner so that he might report it in the next issue of his tiny weekly and thus help the three merchants to gain face, businessly as well as socially. Already Pell Street had heard about Ta Chen's arrival, had heard about the dinner. Already Pell Street envied. Yet that same night, knowing Pell Street's envy, the three were not happy. They were, somehow, afraid. Nor was there a reason for it. There was nothing in Ta Chen's words or manners to inspire uneasiness. On the contrary. He had been smilingly polite all evening. He had given them large orders over the sharks'-fins and birds'-nest soup, had promised them larger orders when Ling Yang, the waiter, had brought in the duck cooked sweet and pungent, the braised bamboo- sprouts, and an exquisite pale-blue Suen- tih Ming bowl filled with pickled star-fruit.

Now the dishes had been cleared away— all except the bottles of rice gin and the glasses. Ling Yang had arranged a low tabouret with a jar of treacly first-chop opium, needles, horn and ivory boxes, lamps, pipes and all the other meticulous paraphernalia for the smoking of the kindly, philosophic drug; and Tsing Yu-ch'ing, the editor, had toasted Ta Chen in charming, flowery language, comparing him, after the Pekingese manner, to dawn reddening the black wake of night, to a river jeweled with summer hues, and to purple leaves carpeting the forest for autumn's avatar.

Ta Chen sat smoking serenely. Gorged, he seemed, as much with food as with a gross, blotchy surfeit of prosperity. Sleepy, he seemed, and comfortable. But when he opened his eyes there was in their depths a strange expression. "Like the memory of ancient sin," Tsing Yu-ch'ing described it afterward; "proud, consciously unrepenting sin." And the three merchants sensed it, quailed under it, tried to reassure each other with slanting glances, with discreet coughs, with gliding, crooked smiles.

Nag Cha Lee felt it more intensely than the other two. Ta Chen's remark of that morning about his father had rankled in his heart. During the evening he had drunk a great deal of heady rice gin. He had smoked six opium-pipes. He drank two more glasses of gin, smoked another pipe. He was slightly dizzy. He was sure— clearly sure— of only two things: his fear of Ta Chen and, resultant from this fear, his hate. It was the hate, not the fear, which suggested revenge. He poured himself another glass. Again, with shaking fingers, he reached for the opium-jar. He filled his pipe and smoked, inflating his lungs, letting out the pungent fumes in tiny, vaporous globules that sank to the floor and ran along the matting. And, as the poppy-ghosts drew swiftly about him on silver-gray wings, building round him a wall of dreamy, gossamer clouds, the fear disappeared temporarily. Reminded only the hate, the lust for revenge. He watched his opportunity.

It came shortly afterward.

Ta Chen had turned to Yung Long. He was holding forth on the worth of old age, by the same token ridiculing the claims of youth.

"Age is a fig tree, strong and tall and straight, bearing sweet fruit," he pronounced, "while youth"— with suave irony and a subtly derisive look at Nag Cha Lee— "the worth of youth in the reckoning of life is tinier than a rice-corn or a barleycorn or, a mustard-seed— or the pulp of a mustard- seed."

Yung Long smiled. He, too, looked at Nag Cha Lee. Often in the past had the latter scratched his thin-skinned Mongol prejudices by tactless, youthful boasting.

"You are right," he said.

He laughed. So did Nag Sen Yat. So did Tsing Yu-ch'ing.

And then Nag Cha Lee blurted out suddenly that, speaking of fig trees, once his father— "who does not always lie"— had told him a legend "which"— addressing Ta Chen direct— "might be of interest to you, O wise and older brother!"

"Ah?" the other inquired.

"Indeed. For one day the Buddha asked one of his disciples what was the secret of the fig-tree's worth, and the disciple saying that it was the fig, the Buddha replied, 'Bring me a fig.' 'Lo, my Lord,' came the disciple's answer, 'I have brought a fig!' 'Break it.' 'It is broken, my Lord.' 'What seest thou in it?' 'Lo, little seeds, my Lord!' 'Break one of the seeds.' 'It is broken, my Lord.' 'And what seest thou in it?' 'Nought my Lord, except a void.' And," Nag Cha Lee wound up, "out of this void rises the seed, out of the seed the fig, out of the fig the fig tree— the fig tree, belike, of old age, great age, wise age. Still— let us all have faith in the Buddha's blessed miracles. Perhaps— ah— perhaps in this void of the broken seed the All of old age finds indeed its final, precious essence."

THUS came the insult, deadly and unforgivable from the oblique Chinese angle— insult that, typically, implied more than it spoke. And silence dropped.

Yung Long drew from his sleeve a tiny fan exquisitely embroidered with butterflies and opened it slowly. Nag Sen Yat sat like a statue, his face expressionless, only the Adam's apple in his scrawny throat rising and falling and betraying the excitement that swept over him in waves. Tsing Yu-ch'ing watched eagerly, his keen, reportorial brain alive to every word and gesture and impression.

Nag Cha Lee himself, his words beyond recall, had suddenly become sober once more— sober and terribly afraid. He squirmed in his chair, thinking of credit and discounts and future business and Ta Chen's swollen money-bags; thinking, too, that he was hard-pressed for cash and that, in the last transaction with the Pekingese, he had paid the latter by a six months' note which was due and which, earlier in the evening, as a matter of course, he had asked Ta Chen to renew.

The latter leaned forward a little. "Younger brother," he said, "about that five-thousand-dollar note which you asked me to renew—"

And after a pause full of elusive suspicions and hesitations— a pause splintered by Nag Cha Lee's hysterical stammering that he didn't care, that he meant what he had said, that he would not apologize and eat dirt, even though it ruined him financially— Ta Chen continued very gently:

"I shall renew the note. I also asked you to sell for me three thousand bales of that easily placed Cantonese crape, didn't I? Very well. Make it four thousand bales."

The other's relief was sudden, ludicrous and complete.

"You mean it?" he asked, between laughing and crying.

"Yes."

"But— oh— why—"

"You are young and so, perhaps, you were a little envious of my wealth, my claim to respect, my regrettable habit of causing younger, poorer men to lose face— is that right? Come; confess, little brother."

"Yes."

"It is natural. During youth, envy and desire are like roses on a bush, to be plucked regardless of thorns. Youth is so careless. I like it. I admire its strength, its courage, its arrogant ruthlessness. I, too, once—" He interrupted himself. A slow flame eddied up in his eyes. His hand stabbed dramatically out of the poppy vapors and pointed like a pistol at Yung Long's chest. "You remember me?"

"I— oh—"

"I want the truth!"

"I do not remember you."

"And"— Ta Chen turned to Nag Sen Yat— "do you?"

"No, O wise and older brother!"

"Hayah!"

Ta Chen smiled a crooked, wintry smile. He rose, walked to the window, opened it, flung the shutters wide. Chinatown jumped into the focus, hiccoughing through the sooty dusk with luminous colored flame, crimson and green and sharp saffron, blaring shamelessly the symphony of its grimy bastard world. His hand took in at one sweep the whole Mongol and half-breed maze that teemed and cursed and sweated below— the rickety, secretive brick dwellings, the painted bird's-nest balconies, the furtive shops, the scarlet-smeared joss temple, the stealthy, enigmatic alleys, the little mission chapel, lonely here amidst the spicy, warm reeks of opium and sandalwood and grease and incense, like a drab, insistent stain upon Pell Street's tough, sneering yellow nakedness. His hand swept on. It pointed east, toward the Bowery, leering up with a mawkish, tawdry face, toward the elevated road, a block away, rushing like the surge of a far sea. West swept the hand, where Broadway leaped toward the Battery with pinchbeck stucco and the blatant, stridently, alive vitality of its shops and lofts.

"This," said Ta Chen, "was once my world— the world which, being young and poor, I envied— the world which, being strong and ruthless, I forced to disgorge."

HE CLOSED the window, stepped back into the room and stopped in front of Nag Sen Yat and Yung Long.

"You do not remember me?"

"No," replied Nag Sen Yat, though again clogged cells in his brain trembled with the effort to place those thin lips, those heavy jowls, those opaque, ironic eyes.

"I remember neither your face nor your name," agreed Yung Long.

"As to my name, I changed it— for reasons. Twenty-five years ago I was known as 'Wah Kee.' "

"Wah Kee?" puzzled Yung Long.

"An ordinary name," commented the newspaper editor, "like 'John Smith' among the coarse-haired barbarians."

"But they nicknamed me 'Yat-Pak- Man'— 'One Million'— because I boasted that I would earn a million before I died."

"Yat-Pak-Man—" The clogged cells in Nag Sen Yat's brain opened wider. Then full remembrance came with a rush, to be checked immediately by his incredulity. "Impossible!"

"Impossible!" echoed Yung Long. "Yat-Pak-Man is—"

"What?" asked Ta Chen.

"Dead."

"Murdered!" Yung Long chimed in.

"He is alive," came Ta Chen's flat, cozy accents, with just the brittle suspicion of a laugh. "He has made his million, and more millions, and"— dropping his voice to a minatory purr— "he gives you orders to buy and sell for him. You are in his debt, deeply in his debt, eh? And yet"— turning to Nag Cha Lee— "twenty-five years ago I used to envy these two— oh, yes! For they were already well-to-do, while I was poor. I envied them. I envied all Pell Street. But most did I envy Gin Ma-Fu—"

"The miser?" interrupted Nag Sen Yat.

"Yes. He was a worse miser even than you. A miser— and a hypocrite— like the cat which killed nine hundred mice and then went on pilgrimage."

"I remember," said Yung Long; "a miser, indeed— and a criminal. He did not even stop at murder to swell his moneybags."

"Whom did he murder?" asked Tsing Yu-ch'ing.

"He murdered Yat-Pak-Man."

"No!" Ta Chen smiled. "I repeat— I am alive. My soul has not yet jumped the Dragon Gate."

AND he told how, many years earlier, he had come to New York, a poor, ignorant coolie, working for a pittance, how, finally, he had become messenger for Soey Kwai, the wealthy private banker.

"Soey Kwai," he said, "was vary Americanized. He married a white woman. He named his son 'George Washington.' He made me dress in a blue uniform with brass buttons— just like the bank-messengers of the foreign devils. And he paid me fifteen dollars a month. Hayahl I could not save a cent, though I pinched my belly and shriveled my bones. And I wanted money— yat-pak-man — a million! I knew that dollars are golden pills that cure all ills. Give gold to the dog—and all the world will call him'mandarin dog.' Three thousand dollars, I used to say, was what I needed for a start. After that I would rely on my own brain and strength. But I could not save a cent, and Pell Street laughed at me—called me 'Yat-Pak-Man.' " Nag Sen Yat sighed reminiscently.

"Yes— yes— Yat-Pak-Man-"

He stared at the other, utterly fascinated, convinced now that he recognized him. Yat-Pak-Man, Soey Kwai's messenger, who had been Pell Street's butt with his eternal talk about the million that he was going to earn! Yat-Pak-Man, whom he had thought dead, murdered! And he wondered— feared—and his leathery, angular features became marked by an expression of almost ludicrous alarm. He looked at Yung Long as if for help. The latter, too, was frightened. His jaw felt swollen, out of joint. His hands opened and shut convulsively.

Nag Cha Lee, on the other hand, was no longer afraid but frankly curious.

"But," he asked, "as.bank-messenger you handled large sums. Didn't you feel tempted to-"

"To steal? No. To feel temptation you must feel that temptation is wrong. I did not. I had no scruples. My hand was against the world."

"Then why didn't you-"

"I feared the law. No other reason. But the desire in me grew stronger and stronger. Desire— envy— jealousy— hate— resolve! Like ghosts they were about me— all day, when I hurried through the streets, my black-leather bag filled with money and commercial paper, when I saw the rich Pell Street merchants in their houses and shops, and at night, when I lay in my little room above Soey Kwai's bank. Yes— desire and hate and envy— jealousy— resolve— and ruthlessness! Like ghosts! At first these ghosts—gray ghosts, crimson ghosts— had but the faintest spark of life, stirring me up so little that they left no more than a blurred, indistinct impression upon my soul. Again they would rise, look at me reproachfully, telling me to stop thinking and to act, act, act— to seize my chance by the throat. Then they would squat in the corner of my room and mock me and leer at me, call me a fool, a weakling, a coward. 'Yat-Pak-Man!' they would sneer. 'Yat-Pak-Man, you will never make your million unless you listen to us. ' And— hay ah !— I would go into the street, and the little ghosts would come along; they would stick to my hair, my clothes, my fingers, my tongue. I could feel them and smell them and taste them—and then, one day, they crystallized into a fact. I made up my mind-"

"To do what?"

"To rob and murder Gin Ma-Fu, the miser."

"No, no!" exclaimed Nag Cha Lee, horror- stricken.

"Yes, yes!" mocked Ya Chen. "Did I not tell you that I wanted money? Did I not tell you that I had made up my mind, and that my hand was against the world? It was thus the Buddha created me. Curse the Buddha, or bless him— as you wish. I, personally, hold not by the yellow Buddha. I hold by myself— to myself, for myself enough!" His voice rose clear and high and challenging. "Yes! I made up my mind to rob and murder Gin Ma-Fu."

Came a heavy pall of silence. Outside, in the pantry, Ling Yang, the waiter, had his ear glued to the keyhole. Inside, the four listeners carefully avoided looking at each other. Their faces were like carved masks. The smoke wreaths of tobacco and poppy drifted to the ceiling and hung down like an immense, transparent beehive. Through the shutters the Pell Street symphony leaked in with a thin wedge of sound.

A policeman whistled shrilly. A barrel- organ creaked a nostalgic Sicilian melody. The elevated rushed.

"Carefully I attended to every detail," continued Ta Chen, with slow deliberation. "Gin Ma-Fu lived all alone in a small house on Mott Street. He kept no servant. He cooked his own meals, swept the house himself. But he had one peculiarity: he hated the cold. So he, the miser, had had a large and expensive American furnace installed in his cellar, which, all through the winter, he kept at a red heat with his own hands."

"Yes; I remember," whispered Nag Sen Yat, then was silent, frightened at the sound of his own voice.

"It was part of my duty," went on Ta Chen, "to bring him every Monday morning three thousand dollars in cash, which he needed for small loans. I waited for a certain Monday morning when— ah, I was so careful!— I had other sums in my bag, a very large black bag, besides Gin Ma-Fu's three thousand. The night before— unusual luxury which I could ill afford— I went to the Place of Sweet Desire and Heavenly Entertainment to smoke a pipe and sip a cup of tea. There, in the presence of Gin Ma-Fu and several witnesses, I mentioned casually that I had to visit two or three people the next morning, that I would carry a considerable amount of cash, and that I hoped no gunman of the foreign barbarians would hold me up. Came Monday morning. It was very cold. I went to Gin Ma-Fu's house. On former visits I had noticed a heavy hammer which was always in a corner near the door. As soon as I entered I asked him for a glass of water. He turned. I picked up the hammer. I felled and killed him at one blow. Then, carefully, unhurriedly, I went to work. I locked both outside doors. I dragged the corpse into the cellar. The furnace was at full blast. And then— hayah! — there was myself— my strength—my ruthless resolve. There was a sharp knife; there was the furnace. And after a while there was no trace at all of Gin Ma-Fu except a heap of charred bones. Then I took off my blue uniform and burnt it in the furnace after tearing off a few ragged pieces and two or three brass buttons which I dropped here and there. I plucked a handful of hair from my cue and stuck it in the blood on the hammer. I hid hammer and knife behind a heap of coal. I opened my leather bag, took out the money and a change of clothes which I had brought with me, dressed, went up-stairs, opened the street door, watched my chance and slipped out. Three weeks later, traveling circuitously, I arrived in Seattle. Seven weeks later I was in China. I heard afterward how the police of the foreign barbarians discovered my charred bones, the ragged pieces of blue uniform, the brass buttons, the hammer with blood— his blood— and hair— my hair, how they reconstructed the crime— the miser murdering the bank-messenger because of the money which the latter carried in his bag. The miser, the assassin, was never found, although the police of three continents searched for him."

CAME again silence, dropping like a pall.

Only the sizzling of the opium-pipes, a smacking of pursed lips as Nag Cha Lee, prey to terrible excitement, scalded his throat with hot tea.

Yung Long looked at Nag Sen Yat. The latter looked back, slowly closing one heavy- lidded, opium-reddened eye. There was an exchange of wordless questions and answers. These two understood each other. As for Nag Cha Lee, the third, the youngest, they would talk to him afterward. But here was Ta Chen, the millionaire, their best client. Here was, furthermore, Tsing Yu- ch'ing, the newspaper man, keenly alive to every word and gesture. It was one thing to gossip— to gossip with other Chinese. That did not matter; it was a sealed book to the coarse-haired barbarians. ' But there was the Eminent Elevation which, though written in Chinese, was read— and understood— every week by certain foreigners at police headquarters.

Yung Long cleared his throat. He must be careful and circumspect, he thought, lest he should lose too much face.

"Life," he began sententiously, "is as uncertain as a Tatar's beard." He turned to Tsing Yu-ch'ing. "Little brother!" he called with a clear voice.

"Yes?"

"Ta Chen has delighted our worthless ears with the elegant and exquisite harmonies of his words."

"Indeed!" chimed in Nag Sen Yat sonorously, while Ta Chen watched, silent, an ironic smile curling his lips.

"Ta Chen," continued Yung Long, "has woven for our enjoyment a delicious fairytale, yet a fairy-tale which, belike, would miss its point if reprinted in the Eminent Elevation— chiefly considering that I own a controlling interest in this esteemed and valuable newspaper. You understand?"

"Quite," replied Tsing Yu-ch'ing.

"Very well. As for myself"— Yung Long turned to Ta Chen— "permit me to thank you. I enjoyed your fairy-tale—every word of it. It was worthy of the most delightful classic traditions of the black-haired race."

"Ah, yes!" agreed Nag Sen Yat. "Worthy of Han Yu and Ts'ui Hao and all the other poets of the glorious T'ang dynasty."

"But," came Ta Chen's purring query, "suppose the fairy-tale is true. Suppose I am really a murderer."

"Then," replied Yung Long shamelessly, "I would say that you are a very rich man. I would say, furthermore, that every man should clear away the snow from his own housetop."

"Yes, yes!" Nag Sen Yat smiled. "It is written in the Book of the Yellow Emperor that it is only the relative value which makes evil evil— and good good."

"And you," asked Ta Chen, addressing Nag Cha Lee; "what would you say?"

Nag Cha Lee did not look up.

"Who am I," he whispered, "the very little and worthless one, to bandy words with my wise and older brothers?"

Then laughter, sharp, crackling, pitiless, and Ta Chen made a derisive gesture with thumb and second finger.

"Ahee! Ahoo!" he cried. "It is true! Dollars are golden pills which cure all ills. Give gold to a dog— and all the world will call him 'mandarin dog'."

AND many weeks later, when Ta Chen had returned to China, while his three agents were coining a rich harvest through the orders which he had left behind, Tsing Yu-ch'ing, the editor, who was Harvard- bred and a good Baptist, discussed the happening with Ling Yang, the waiter, who had listened through the keyhole.

He made enigmatic allusion to Ta Chen's brain reminding him of moonbeams shining in silver unison on three cups of mottled jade, and emphasizing, not their own glittering falseness but the flaws in the latter.

To which Ling Yang, American-born, replied:

"Wottya givin' us— silver moonbeams and cups o' jade? I ain't got no idea if Ta Chen lied or spilled the truth. But, either way, he made them greedy three fatheads lose plenty face. That's all— see?"

"You think so?" Tsing Yu-ch'ing smiled.

"Sure!"

"He had no other reasons?"

"No."

"You are wrong."

"How come?"

"I myself," said the editor, "believe that Ta Chen told the truth. He told it for one of two reasons. For one, the crime weighed on his conscience. And, like many a murderer before him, he returned to the place of the crime. He decided to confess— to make a clean breast of it. He did so. But, being a shrewd man, he did it in such a way that it did not hurt him— ah— from a worldly angle. The other possibility—"

"Well?"

"Lucifer," said Tsing Yu-ch'ing laconically.

"Wottya mean?"

"Aren't you a Christian?"

"Yeh bet I am, bo! And a damn sight better one than you are— see?"

"Well then, don't you know who Lucifer was?"

"Sure! The— aw— fallen angel, eh?"

"Yes. The fallen angel who gloried in his wicked deed, who never repented. Ah! There was that expression in Ta Chen's eyes when he told about the murder, like the memory of ancient sin, proud, consciously unrepenting sin. Lucifer! And who knows if Lucifer was right or wrong— if Ta Chen was right or wrong? You see— at times I forget that I am a Christian, a Baptist, and then—"

"G'wan; ye're nutty!" cut in Ling Yang, the waiter.

________________

15: A Parish Scandal

Athol Forbes

Forbes Alexander Phillips, 1866-1917

The English Illustrated Magazine Sep 1899

Rev. Forbes Alexander Phillips

THE Squire of Burgh St. Oslif, in Norfolk, was a very wicked man, and a worthy successor of a long line of the same race, who had burnt, plundered, and pillaged in the good old-fashioned way that one reads of in story-books, and which must therefore of necessity be true.

Had you visited Burgh St. Oslif with a view of inquiring into the Squire's wickedness, and finding out the exact gravamen of the charge, you would have been greeted with a significant shake of the head, and a corresponding elevation of the eyebrows. This combination of gesture meant that its precise nature was too bad for words, especially the words of maiden ladies, who claimed to know all about him.

One bad fact stood out in bold relief, and it was one which modesty permitted them to speak of. It was this. Once, and once a year only, did this unregenerate man go to church, and that one occasion was Christmas Day. This was sufficient of itself to stamp him as unfit for Burgh St. Oslif society. No further evidence was necessary.

Now society in Burgh St. Oslif consisted chiefly of unmarried ladies. This was not their fault. What I mean is, apart from the labouring class, there were very few gentlemen; in fact, they could be reckoned up on the fingers of one hand. There was the vicar, of course, and there used to be a curate, but he did not stay long. He preached a sermon on the Ninth Commandment, and left immediately afterwards. Miss Sparrow said he was a dreadful man, and the proof of this was he once went to a hunt dinner. There was the doctor of the parish, and a retired naval officer, who fought like a churchwarden of the old school against anything and everything the vicar suggested. A new hymn to be leamt by the boys and girls forming the choir was treated as the thin edge of Popery; and when kneeling pads were introduced. Commander Allditch, R.N., immediately wrote to the Bishop, begging him to save the country from Ritualism, Romanism, and Rationalism, generally spoken of in Burgh St. Oslif society as the three R's. This, together with the scandal which had its incarnation in the Squire, were the stock topics of conversation.

In contrast to the small number of men was the extraordinarily large number of ladies, chiefly elderly spinsters. It was said a young and attractive member of the gentle sex could not live in the place, but would have been pecked to death at once by her older sisters. You see, it was a very peculiar parish. But it is only just to state that the aged female society, as the vicar improperly termed the more active ladies, did a large amount of good. They visited the poor and sick regularly, and it was, indeed, considered to be a valuable sinecure to be a poor person in that little town. The indigent poor were simply overwhelmed with gifts, and the sick were always killed by kindness and over-eating, so the doctor said. There would have been more poor, only there were no houses for them, and the wicked Squire would not build. But what could you expect from such a man?

There was great competition for a cottage when it did fall vacant, for the poor of neighbouring villages had heard of that land that flowed with soup and half-crowns.

One of the most prominent of the Burgh St. Oslif ladies was Miss Blayney, a daughter of a former vicar, and therefore holding an established position in all branches of church work. Next to the Squire's wife, she was the great lady of the place, for the vicar was still a bachelor. She doctored all the babies, showed all the newly married women how to cook and manage their houses, inquired carefully into the state of each person's soul, and generally knew everyone's affairs.

One summer it was arranged to take the Sunday-school children to the seaside, and it fell to Miss Blayney's lot to call upon the Squire for his subscription to this object. In spite of his wickedness, he was liberal and generous in his gifts to everything except certain missionary societies, but, of course, you can expect such objections from so bad a man. An under-current of gossip said that Miss Blayney in olden days had set her cap at the Squire. They had grown up together as children, and were very intimate still. Miss Blayney strongly denied this accusation, and avowed that she never thought of such a thing— that if the Squire had proposed, he would most certainly have been ordered out of the house by her dear papa, the late vicar. But it was noticed that she always called the Squire by his Christian name, and that she raised no objection to his calling her Annie.

Miss Blayney's bosom friend was Miss Lucas, daughter of the Rev. Charles Edward Lucas, rector of Snipe Magna, the adjoining village. The two ladies were about the same age, though the former looked much younger. Snipe Magna was an agricultural parish, pure and simple. There was no society, so Miss Lucas had come to Burgh St. Oslif, and was contented apparently to be patronised by the society she found there. People said she was pushing, and for ever hanging on to the skirts of those above her. Miss Blayney had done much for her friend, socially, but in her heart of hearts Miss Lucas was a veritable angitis in herba, and resented her friend's patronage, but she could not do without it. Thus it was that Miss Lucas was a great church worker in another parish, and became a member of the St. Oslif Ladies' Sewing Guild, generally known as the S.O.L.S.G.

One afternoon, it happened that Miss Lucas had to leave the S.O.L.S.G. rather earlier than usual, and in taking a nearer cut through the Priory grounds she came face to face with the wicked Squire.

"Good-day to you," he shouted, as soon as she was within hailing distance; "what is the latest scandal from Snipe Magna or Burgh St. Oslif?"

In an ordinary way, from a common man, she would have resented such impertinence ; but she always looked up to birth, and such a thing as snubbing the Squire to his face never entered her mind. She could only blush as he shook hands with her.

"Are you on your way to Snipe?" he inquired, switching the grass with his stick.

"Yes," answered Miss Lucas, with a lisp.

"Well, I am going in that direction. This is the nearest way," and he indicated with his stick an alteration in the route.

"So you are going to take the young brats to Yarmouth this year?"

Miss Lucas smiled ; she was pleased at the Squire being so nice.

"I had one of the ladies of the guild at me the other day for a subscription, but I refused to give her anything unless she kissed me," and he went on switching the grass.

"You must be joking, Squire," cried Miss Lucas, in amazement, but she did not know whether she was more pleased than shocked. An idea had struck her, and she whispered to herself the name Blayney, Annie Blayney: oh, what a degraded creature! The Squire laughed boisterously over it.

"Yes, Miss Lucas, one of your ladies," and he chuckled. "What do you say to that?"

"But did— did she really kiss you?" she asked shyly.

"Yes, indeed she did, but I must not tell you her name. I hope you will not mention what I have told you to anyone. She might hear of it, and refuse to kiss me any more, but I doubled the sum I gave her last year as a recompense," rattled on this wicked Squire of modern time.

"You surprise me," she gasped. " Is she really a member of the S.O.L.S.G.?" she asked, with deep concern on her face.

"She is a prominent member of it," he replied.

"Annie Blarney beyond a doubt," she whispered to herself. Here was news. Here was a chance. Secretly she was pleased. She had just to mention this in Burgh St. Oslif society, and— well, Annie Blayney was done for, sure enough.

"I am shocked," she said, as the Squire held out his hand to say good-bye; "shocked and pained."

"Now don't tell anyone," said the Squire in a serious tone.

"Certainly not; I would not dream of repeating it," she answered solemnly in her best Sunday-school voice. "But what would the vicar say if he knew?"

"Now, Miss Lucas, promise me again that you will keep my secret. I do not want to have a row with the vicar. It was, perhaps, wrong of me to tell you, perhaps wrong of me to kiss her, but I have known her so long."

"Oh, no; it wasn't wrong of you to tell me. Good-bye, you can trust me. It will remain locked up here," and she indicated a certain part of her blouse.

"Very well. Now remember, I trust you. If my wife heard—"

"But she never will," cried Miss Lucas in a tragic voice (she had once acted in amateur theatricals). " Good-bye."

Next morning, immediately after an early breakfast, Miss Lucas started off at a quick pace for Burgh St. Oslif, and without loss of time was at the pretty little cottage occupied by Miss Blayney. Her heart beat—like a drum it called her to the path of duty which was to expose this scandal as soon as possible. At least, that was the way she regarded the matter. She scarcely gave herself time to get over the ordinary courtesies of greeting, before she blurted out the question—

"Have you got the Squire's subscription for the school treat?"

"Oh, yes," answered her friend, and her assumed innocence of face staggered even Miss Lucas, "and he gave ten pounds this year instead of five pounds as in former years. This, with the few contributions we have, will cover everything, and there is no need to beg for more."

"Oh! will it?" snapped Miss Lucas, who was anxious to get out, now that she was convinced of her guilt, and tell her friends of Annie Blayney's duplicity and wickedness. She would, however, put one more question.

"Did you see the Squire the day before yesterday?"

"Yes," answered Miss Blayney. She coloured somewhat, as she rather resented Miss Lucas's tone, which as a rule was of a subdued and humble character.

"Umph!" muttered Miss Lucas.

"What did you remark?" asked her friend.

"Nothing. Only I must go now. Goodbye, dear," and she was gone.

In her hurry she was soon out of breath, and when she arrived at Miss Sparrow's, it was with difficulty that she could gasp out a request to see this lady. It was still early and the maid said her mistress wa> not down, but Miss Lucas hastily scribbled a few words on a piece of paper which she bade the maid take up at once to her mistress. In less than three minutes Mis> Sparrow appeared in curl - papers and dressing-gown. She was aghast at tht story' unfolded to her, and she called in her maid to undo and take out the curlpapers while she talked with her informer, of course taking care to mention no names in front of the servant. Certainly that morning Miss Sparrow made a hasty toilet, and together with Miss Lucas, she called in several ladies of the S.O.L.S.G.

They were astonished, but most of them confessed that personally they were not surprised.

Miss Lucas had in a night risen to the very pinnacle of power in Burgh St. Oslif. She accepted seven invitations that morning, and had to decline as many more.

"It was dreadful. If only her poor dear father could have known such a thing! It was enough to make the late lamented Parson Blayney rise from his grave!" So said Miss Ramshaw, but she smiled sweetly on the Squire that afternoon as he passed her in his high dog-cart and waved his whip.

For the culprit, no word was bad enough. Miss Sparrow said they ought to be thankful that a judgment had not fallen upon them before this for having such a creature in their midst. Miss Lucas thought that under the circumstances, they ought to refuse the Squire's ten pounds, and request the vicar to return it. This opened out another question. Was it not their duty to see the vicar? All agreed that it was.

The only drawback was unless they were ready with their proofs he would not believe them, for, strange to say, the reverend gentleman did not treat these ladies with the courtesy which they had a right to expect. And sometimes he said very unpleasant things about slander and gossip. So they agreed to let this part of the programme stand over. But Miss Lucas had worked herself up to the heroic spirit, and said, in spite of her promise to the Squire, if they felt it was for the good of the parish, she would willingly go with them to the vicar and tell him all. This declaration was received with murmurs ot approval, and someone was heard to say: "The dear child— so good of her."

The next night at a whist-party, Miss Ramshaw confided to Miss Sparrow that she had cut Miss Blayney that day publicly. That she had her family to consider, and that she was quite sure her mother's cousin, Lady Brown-Windsor, would approve of her action. It was also at the same party arranged that the S.O.L.S.G. should meet a day earlier, and that no notice should be sent to Miss Blayney.

Next day the patience of the ladies gave out, and a deputation, accompanied by Miss Lucas, called upon the vicar and laid the damning facts before him, with a few additions by way of embellishment to the story. Their spiritual pastor did not faint, cry out, or show any signs of emotion beyond a grunt, but then, what could you expect from such a man who went to Masonic banquets and hunted with the wicked Squire? He took down Miss Lucas's statement, impressed upon her the necessity of being strictly accurate, and then bowed them out, promising that he would see to the matter and write to Miss Sparrow. They were disappointed, but still, he might have behaved worse, as Miss Sparrow said.

The same evening, just as the Squire finished dinner, a note was handed to him, marked " Private and confidential." Opening it, he smiled as he read—

Dear Jary,—Can you call and see me to-morrow after breakfast, in order to settle a matter which is calculated to cause considerable mischief, unless it is at once promptly dealt with ?—Yours ever,

Edward Upjohn.

The Squire wrote back—

My dear Vicar,—You can expect me at ten o'clock to-morrow.—Ever yours, George Jary.

On the day after, Miss Sparrow received a letter from the vicar asking her to come to the vicarage that afternoon at four, and to bring as many members of the Guild as were able to come.

The excitement on receipt of this was indescribable.

A preliminary meeting was held at Miss Sparrow's house at 2.30 , at which the sentence about to be passed on Miss Blayney was discussed. All agreed that she must leave the parish before she contaminated others, and various methods were suggested of making her feel the enormity of her crime.

Before four o'clock each member of the S.O.L.S.G. occupied a chair in the large dining-room of the vicarage. When Miss Blayney entered the room, followed by the Squire and the vicar, the excitement was almost too much for them to bear without screaming out. It was noticed that while several if not all the ladies bowed to the wicked Squire, not one offered any greeting to Miss Blayney, save that of a rude stare. Miss Ramshaw whispered to Miss Sparrow that the culprit had evidently been crying.

There was a deep hush as the vicar cleared his throat, and said that he was waiting for Mrs. Jary, and that as soon as that lady appeared, he would invite the Squire to make his explanation. Miss Sparrow ventured to say in a hesitating voice that she hoped the Squire did not think that they were prompted by any personal animosity in regard to him.

"Certainly not, certainly not," said the Squire, and he laughed good-naturedly, but the vicar sat grim and silent. Presently the Squire's wife arrived, bowed sweetly to all, and sat down on the left side of the chairman.

The vicar cleared his voice again, and then read the statement as received from Miss Lucas and Miss Sparrow, amidst a silence that was oppressive. Those present only ventured to breathe when he had finished, except the Squire, who lounged about and looked at the ladies through his eye-glass.

The vicar sat down and called upon Mr. Jary for an explanation, and Mrs. Jary was seen to laugh.

"The statement is quite true," drawled the Squire (sensation), "with the exception of one trifling error, and that is the lady's name. It was not Miss Blayney that I kissed," continued the Squire; "in fact Miss Blayney this year did not ask me for the subscription at all. She came to the Priory to do so, I believe, and stayed to lunch; but I had to leave before lunch was over that day, and I left her with my wife. In the evening my wife told me the object of Miss Blayney's visit, and I confess I said if she would give me a kiss I would give ten pounds instead of five. I trust, Mr. Vicar, there was no particular harm—"

But the vicar was laughing— shaking, almost rolling with laughter.

"As you see, I did kiss a prominent member of—" But the rest of the speech was drowned in the uproar that followed.

Miss Sparrow nodded her head in a succession of quick jerks. The rest of the Guild seemed undecided; a few looked towards Miss Lucas, who sat as if she were frozen. Two ladies grew hysterical. One called out one thing, and another something else.

"Stay!" thundered the vicar as a movement was made towards the door. "I have an apology here for some of you to sign ; and when you have signed it, it is to be framed and hung up in a place I shall name in the village." Meekly they signed as they were called up. "Sign, or give the name of a solicitor who will accept service on your behalf."

This was all the consolation they got from their pastor and, as he proved on this occasion, their master.

THE VICAR and the Squire had to manage the school treat themselves, but there have been no more scandals in the village of Burgh St. Oslif. In fact, it is now a model parish; and Miss Lucas, after a holiday abroad, returned to devote the whole of her energies to Church work in her own village.

Squire Jary complains that the vicar does not give him sufficient credit for the amount of real missionary work effected by him among the ladies of his congregation; and then he laughs uproariously, and he is never tired of telling the joke to his hunting friends.

_________________

16: The Sting of Victory

Paul Vernier

fl 1919

Saucy Stories, May 1919

"AH," sighed McManner, sadly, "she has the hair and eyes of Nellie McNalligan, and she eats like Nellie used to eat."

For an active detective he was growing very stout, and he glanced sorrowfully from his own grapefruit salad and lemon ice, allowed by his diet, to the succulent steak and mushrooms of the black-eyed brunette across the way.

I suspected that a story was lurking in the offing. McManner had enjoyed the show that night and had heartily indorsed the judgment and valor of the indefatigable hero, who, like himself, was a detective.

"Yes," said McManner, "that girl reminds me of Nellie McNalligan, and that reminds me that the victor doesn't always get the spoils."

"Now that fellow in the show to-night," said McManner, knitting his brows, "got some reward for his work, and right there he differed from me when I courted Nellie McNalligan.

"You see," he began, as he lit a long, black cigar, "there was a fairly good counterfeit nickel being floated down in Lawrence County, and we had traced the source down to Greenvale.

"The force was pretty busy those days, and so the Chief sent me out on the job all on my lone. It was the first time I had been given a free hand in a case of any importance, and I worked like a Trojan.

"In a week or so, working day and night— like a kid does— I had the case narrowed down to a restaurant building on Main Street, with offices on the sec- ond floor and apartments above.

"I recognized the restaurant proprietor at the first glance, without entering his place. He was a Greek, Popiklos by name, and I knew that he would remember me if he saw me, for we used to see each other every day when I lived in Altoona and he ran a place there.

"Well, rather than put another fellow on the job, I decided to adopt a good disguise and carry the thing through myself. I was thinner in those days than I am now, and I made myself up to look like one of these Spanish or French dukes, you know— goatee, mustache, black hair, olive complexion — see?

"As John McManner I simply vanished from that town, reappearing as Pierre Gaspin, interested in starting a restaurant.

"My first week's work had made me pretty sure that the Greek was the ring- leader of the gang. Three others of his fellow countrymen had been assisting in passing the bad nickel, but investigation of the rooms in their boarding houses disclosed nothing. They seemed to have no room to set up any machinery in private, while Popiklos, the Greek, on the other hand, had two stories and the basement of the restaurant building in which to work.

"But the very first night I stepped inside that restaurant I almost forgot all about my case. Nellie McNalligan herself brought my ham and eggs that night, and if there ever was a pretty Irish girl it was Nellie. Black hair, saucy blue eyes, and a dimple in her cheek when she laughed— that was Nellie. I liked Nellie— and Nellie seemed to like me— from the very first.

"From that night on I took all my meals at the Popiklos Restaurant, and late each night I would drop in for a lunch and then see Nellie home. I didn't like to let Nellie know that I was a detective right away. Some way, I felt it might frighten her, and then she might think me a poor proposition to tie up to— a detective having to lead a fairly roving life, you know.

"So I just dawdled along for a couple of weeks, reporting progress back to the Chief in my weekly statements— and real "progress" I was making, too— and finally, one night I put the question squarely up to Nellie and she said she would be mine.

"I was the happiest man in Greenvale that night, but after I got back to my room I pulled myself up short and said, 'Look here, old man, you've been letting this case hang fire while you courted this girl. Get busy now and do something on the job!'

"So I apprised Nellie of the nature of my occupation, which she took quite calmly, and began to question her in real earnest, and from points I got out of her I decided the little mint was in the basement. The proprietor, Popiklos, spent a lot of time down there with his visitors, and while they pretended they were drinking, the party never were really intoxicated.

"I made arrangements to change my room to one across the street, which only meant carrying my suitcase a couple blocks, and Nellie agreed to put three catsup bottles in a row in the front window whenever the Greek went out and conditions were favorable for me to examine the basement.

"The very first afternoon after I had changed my lodging place, what does

Nellie do but come to the window and give me the signal, and over I went to the restaurant.

"Nellie was the only waitress on the job at the time, and the cooks being spooning with some policemen, she guided me down into the basement with no one the wiser.

"I didn't have to look long to find the coining apparatus. 'Way back in the rear, under some storeboxes, there she was, fine as anything. I tell you I felt a glow of pride. I had found my prey! The quarry was in my hands !

"I was as tickled as a kid detective naturally would be over pulling off a stunt like that. In the pride of victory I jerked off my wig, mustache and goatee, and says I, 'Nellie, you see before you John McManner, some day the world's greatest detective,' just like that.

"Nellie threw up her hands, like this, and 'Oh, My Gawd!' she cries, with a gasp, she was that surprised and dumfounded at the change I had made. 'This is the last of Pierre Gaspin,' says I, 'and tonight I'll be back as myself, John McManner, and pull a single-handed pinch that will make the natives open their eyes.' And out I went, to be gone before the Greek got back and suspected something.

"About nine o'clock that night, when I saw Popiklos was in his restaurant, I shoved a couple of loaded Colts into my pockets and a brace of handcuffs and walks into Popiklos' place big as life, with the town constable for an aide.

"Popiklos stared when he saw me: he knew me right away. 'Hello, Mc- Manner,' he cries, 'how are you, and what will you have?' Nellie was standing right there to see me pull the final act.

" 'I'm sorry, Popiklos,' says I, shoving the two Colts into his face, 'but I'll have you! You're wanted for counterfeiting!'

"He threw up his hands without any hesitation. 'But,' says he, 'you're all wrong, McManner; you've got the wrong man.'

" 'We'll see about that,' says I, and turns him over, handcuffed, to the proud town constable. Well, I got a couple young fellows that were in the restaurant to go along as witnesses, and went down cellar to get the molds and stuff.

"By George, they weren't there! We looked and we looked, and spent nearly three hours going over the basement, the restaurant and the third floor of that building, but not a solitary thing could we find. Then we searched all the offices on the second floor, and finally went around and looked up the lodging-places of the other three Greeks. Everything was as innocent as a new- born babe.

"It was about half-past three by that time, and I felt like a fool. I dragged myself back to the restaurant, where the sleepy constable was still holding Popiklos, and let him release the Greek. What else could I do? I thanked the stars Nellie wasn't there to see the climax.

" 'Very well, Johnny, my boy,' says I, when I got back to my room, 'you've lost the case, but you've got the finest wife in Lawrence County by it. We'll just take the bride-to-be down to Washington and make a clean breast of it to the chief.'

"So next morning I hunted up Nellie, bright and early, and 'Nellie,' says I, 'sweetheart, we'll just run over to Washington tonight and get the knot tied. It looks as though it were all over here on this case. Something went wrong.'

" 'If you mean it's all over for you,' says she, 'you guessed right, for I'll have nothing to do with men that run around with false faces breaking an holiest girl's heart with their sham good looks, and then try to take the bread out of her mouth by having her employer hung for his patriotism.'

" 'Patriotism,' says I, 'the man's a counterfeiter, Nellie.'

" 'He is not,' said Nellie. 'He told me he was making medals for our soldiers in the Spanish War, and I'd sooner believe him than a false villain like yourself.'

McManner sighed deeply, and looked again at the brunette on the other side of the cafe.

"What became of Nellie?" I asked.

"She married Popiklos," said McManner, sadly.

______________________

17: Passion Fruit

H. De Vere Stacpoole

1863-1951

Everybodys Magazine, Aug 1924

H. De Vere Stacpoole

MILES and miles of coral reef, foam-dashed, and flown about by gulls— beyond the reef the hills and highlands of Paradise engraved on a sky of azure; a tall white lighthouse like a ghost in the smoky blue of the sea.

That is New Caledonia as you see it coming up from Sydney or Brisbane, and the lighthouse marks the entry to the harbor of Noumea.

For long years France exported to this Paradise all the evil passions of man done up in the form of convicts; and though the exportation has stopped, though the only prisoners now are those left over from the old régime and the Jibérés who may not return to France, the passions remain.

Some of the descendants of the old deportees are good citizens, some are not. Monsieur Roche, who kept and maybe still keeps a restaurant in the Rue Marengo, which opens off Coconut Square, was quite open with me on this point. His father, so he told me, had been exported unjustly. He had been a clock-maker and had made the clockwork that worked a bomb that blew up a deputy, or something of that sort— it was all a matter of politics; his father would not have hurt a fly in the ordinary way of life, whereas Chauvin, the keeper of an opposition restaurant round the corner, his father had been an assassin. “Yes, monsieur, a brigand, and ’tis easy to see how the blood has come out in the son.”

Monsieur Roche knew everything about everybody in Noumea.

He told me some strange stories and one of the strangest had to do with a woman; one of the strangest-looking women I have ever seen.

A half-breed of extraordinary but faded beauty, gay as a wasp in yellow and black striped foulard, but with something about her that would have repelled the mind, even if her beauty had been as fresh as the dew on the tamarisk blossoms.

She was mad.

As she passed the café door where we were talking she glanced at Monsieur Roche. laughed and went on.

“That is Marianne Ribot,” said the old fellow, craning his neck to look after her, “daughter of Jacques Ribot, who came here a great many years ago, served his sentence and settled down, marrying a Malay woman. He sold tobacco in the Rue Austerlitz; he had two daughters by the woman: Marianne, whom you have seen, and Cerise. Twins and like as two cherries. They were beauties. There is a curious thing about races, if you have ever noticed it, monsieur. To a Frenchman or an Englishman two, shall we say, Japanese women will look pretty much alike; but if there exists a real likeness between two eastern women, even though it is not very strong to their fellows, a Westerner will be unable to distinguish between them; he will be unable to distinguish the little differences that count so much. It was so with the Ribot girls. Would Monsieur like to hear their story?”

This is the story in my own words.

SOME fifteen years ago the Hawk, a seven hundred ton brig, came into the harbor of Noumea with a general cargo from Brisbane; the second officer was a young fellow named Carstairs, an exceedingly good-looking individual with a taking manner and a way with him where women were concerned.

Monsieur Roche, who was a philosopher, or at least a restaurant keeper who had always kept his eyes open, gave it as his opinion that it were better for a man to be born ugly than very good-looking, and a boor than a fascinator; better for himself and for others. However that may be, Carstairs, on account of his superficial qualities, made many friends among the town people, and the cargo of the Hawk, being French government stores and discharged by convict labor, he had plenty of time on his hands. He did no harm; he neither drank nor gambled, and his main amusements seem to have been fishing, excursions into the country, dining at cheap restaurants and drinking grenadines with fat Frenchmen on Coconut Square of an evening while the convict band discoursed sweet music beneath the flame trees.

Then one day, wanting a packet of cigarettes, he turned into the Maison Ribot.

Ribot had died the year before and the two girls carried on the shop. They were excellent business women, despite their youth and beauty, and they sold other things besides cigarettes: colored syrups, pipes, tobacco pouches, postage stamps, books and native baskets made of palm leaves. Their only help was an old woman, Marie Rimbaut, who lived like a licossa in the darkness of the back premises, helping at times in the shop.

The woman was of that terrible type whose central nervous system would seem to be compounded of the end organs of observatory nerves and little more. She was a spy serving no master but Inquisitiveness, a creature with one interest, the doings of others and more especially of the Ribot sisters; a recording instrument; what she did not see she heard, what she did not hear she guessed. If a ferret were trained for the purpose there is not a village where it would not dig you out at least one specimen of this tribe more or less perfect. Marie Rimbaut was perfect; she saw and recorded the whole of the Ribot story without putting out a hand to warn the protagonists, content to watch till the first snip of the scissors of Atropos.

Carstairs turned into the little shop to buy his cigarettes, found Marianne behind the counter and remained half an hour.

It was a case of love at first sight. The old woman in the back part of the shop saw and heard everything. Cerise was lying down or attending to household matters, for the two girls took it in turn to attend at the counter. It was the time of the day when customers are few, so there was little interruption and the young people had. it all to themselves; but the listener heard nothing that might not have been said in the presence of a crowd. Toward the end of it Cerise appeared; she did not come forward but stood in the half-darkness amid the boxes and hanging baskets, watching and listening. From where she stood Carstairs was plainly visible with the light full upon him and Marianne in profile, her face upturned, laughing, and lit with a new interest.

CERISE did not notice the old woman seated knitting in the half-dark, or noticed her only as she might have noticed the hanging baskets and piles of cardboard boxes; she seemed fascinated by what she saw, and stood, her lips apart, smiling at the animation of her sister and her evident interest in the handsome stranger. Marianne was flirting!

Marianne of all people in the world! For, of the sisters, Marianne was the staid one.

“I will see you again,” said Carstairs, taking his leave.

“When you please,” replied Marianne, and off he went, while in came a soldier from the garrison for tobacco.

When he was gone Cerise came forward; it was her hour for taking on duty. There was a ledge behind the counter which was used as a seat when business was slack; and taking her seat on the ledge, Cerise produced from her pocket a small piece of embroidery work. She did not notice a yellow packet of cigarettes on the counter; her mind was engaged otherwise. Then suddenly she rose. A customer had entered; it was Carstairs.

Carstairs returned for his cigarettes, which he had paid for but forgotten to take away. Fancying that he was still talking to Marianne, he explained, laughing; she handed him the cigarettes, their fingers touched and then, suddenly, the laughter still on his lips, he kissed her. Kissed her full on the lips like an adept and yet like a light-hearted boy. A woman returns a kiss by taking it. The butterfly something in her soul had suddenly fluttered up; without thought, in the fraction of a second, she had consented— not resisted— and there you are. He went out with his cigarettes, with a laugh that seemed part of the whole light business, and Cerise, taking her seat again on. the ledge, rested her hands in her lap. No one had seen. There was only Mother Rimbaut and she was half blind and bound up in her knitting; besides, even if she had possessed the eyes of a hawk, she was not in the proper line of vision; then, too, she was deaf— what did it matter?

The shop was empty, Carstairs was gone, but the kiss....

It was her first kiss and it clung, and a warmth that was warmer than her southern blood stole from it through her veins and to her heart. It was as though he had kissed her heart.

A burly prison warden in white with a huge revolver at his hip came in for tobacco, and she found herself thinking, “Good heavens, that thing is a man!” She was contrasting him with Carstairs. She had talked of men, talked of marriage, talked of love with Marianne or her girl friends just as she had talked of the price of salt fish or Norfolk Island strawberries or the latest fashion from Paris as exhibited by the garrison officers’ wives; but she had talked without knowing, almost without thinking. Her butterfly mind had flitted above these vast subjects as a butterfly flits sentient yet unthinking above a field of corn. It had suddenly come to rest— that which a moment before had been all wings suddenly becoming all eyes; come to rest swaying on the wind that moved the corn-stalk, astonished by the vision that had come so close, seeing everything but the poppies that nature so carefully hides amid the corn.

As she sat, her hands folded and her eyes fixed on the shop door as though she were wondering what else might come through it, the silence of the shop was broken by a faint clicking sound, the clicking of the old woman’s needles as she worked, forever busy like a spider in the dark; and now through the mind of the girl, as she sat with her eyes on the door, came half harlequin, half demon, stealing and hirpling, limping and laughing and turning somersaults, the strangest thought.

He didn’t kiss you, he kissed Marianne.

He had mistaken her for Marianne; the warmth about her heart belonged to Marianne; the new outlook which had come to her was Marianne’s.

In a moment he had managed to put the spell on her, made of himself so to speak a window through which she saw a new world; and the window was Marianne’s, and the new world— by rights, if there are any rights in a matter of that sort.

She laughed as she thought over this matter. The thing was not yet serious with her; the handsome man whom she had admired while he talked to her sister, the man who had kissed her in mistake for her sister, was still a figure at a distance; he had not made himself yet a part of her life. That was to come.

IT CAME with the rapidity which marks the processes of life and death in the warm lands, those terrible pays chauds where a woman is old at twenty-five, a passion full blown in an hour, a corpse corrupt in a day.

Every day Carstairs made his call at the shop. Being in love, he smoked many cigarettes; he called at the same hour and Marianne was there to receive him.

But there were two watchers now. After the fashion of his kind he did not push matters, knowing by instinct exactly the sort of girl he had to deal with. No one could have been more respectful than Carstairs, and at the end of a week when he told Marianne of his love for her he proposed marriage. Though a mate of a ship he had money of his own, not much but enough for him to engage in some business in the island; they would get married when he had made all his arrangements.

She consented but meanwhile, as the engagement was of such a nebulous nature and until the matter was absolutely fixed, she refused his invitations to walk with him of an evening when the band was playing in the square or along those country roads when the moonlight casts the shadows of the palms and makes fairyland of the groves.

Cerise heard it all.

Never in her life before had she spied on any one, or possessed a secret unshared by Marianne; her passion for Carstairs, which had developed pari passu with the progress of Marianne’s love affair, had changed her nature as it had changed her outlook on life.

She hungered for him, and to feel his lips again on hers she would have parted with her soul.

Something of Ribot, her convict father, was perhaps awakened in her just as something of the same parent was perhaps dormant in the demure Marianne, and meanwhile Carstairs, a straight man in everything but ‘love, in which he was a villain, saw the day of the Hawk’s sailing approach and Marianne as far off as ever.

He had no money to start a business in New Caledonia; he had no intention of marrying; he had lied throughout and all he had got for his trouble was disappointment, dalliance and the feeling that he had been cheated. For, to a man of his type, love is a game against love where any sort of bluff is permissible and woman is a counter to be played for, cashed and forgotten.

But in Marianne he had come on a woman who refused to be a counter though her passion for him was as real as the passion of Cerise. He might as well have tried to play with the statue of Joan of Arc which stands in front of Noumea’s Cathedral.

Marianne was hopeless, so he thought, till the afternoon of the day before the Hawk’s departure, when coming along the Rue Austerlitz he met an old woman who put a little note in his hand.

“Do not come to the shop today, but meet me this evening— sunset— on the road of the palms.” That was all.

Carstairs with the note in his pocket went on his way to complete his preparations and half an hour before sunset he started for the road of the palms through an evening sultry and perfumed with cassia and the flowers of the gardens by the way.

NEXT day he did not come to the shop, nor the next. He had told Marianne the name of his ship because in a small port like Noumea to have told a lie might have meant being found out; but he had also told her that it would not leave for some months as it would have to wait for repairs. In the meantime money for which he had cabled to England would arrive and they could get married and the ship get another second mate. So sure was Marianne in her faith that it was not till the third day of his absence that she made inquiries and found the Hawk gone. Mother Rimbaut sent down among the people of the quayside and obtained details. Carstairs had sailed with the Hawk; no accident had happened to him; he was not sick; he had left no debts behind him and no enemies.

Marianne found herself face to face with an utterly inexplicable problem. Why had this man left her suddenly and without a word of good-by?

Cerise was facing the same problem but in her case she could say nothing and open her mind to no one, not even Mother Rimbaut— who yet knew everything.

Then Marianne remembered what he had said about the ship being under repair, and making inquiries through the old woman she discovered that the Hawk had never been in dock, that there had been nothing wrong with her, and that Carstairs was a liar.

The revelation was complete and sudden as the unveiling of a statue, the unmasking of a battery, the view of a landscape by a lightning flash; but it did not tell her why this man had fooled her, simply because she could not yet understand the man.

She was innocent enough to ask herself, “Why did he say he loved me, why did he ask me to marry him, and why, all that time, was he telling me lies?” She could not understand that all that time he was making plans to betray her, plans foiled by her own common sense in refusing his offers of amusement, evenings in the public square, walks beneath the palm trees and remaining firm behind her counter in the commonplace atmosphere of the tobacco shop.

So things went on for two months or more, her anger against Carstairs deepening and spreading like fire in tinder. Then one day came a new revelation.

One day returning from the market she found Cerise gone.

She had left behind her a letter confessing everything. Her love for Carstairs, the fact that he had betrayed her, and the fact that she had betrayed Marianne— by making an appointment with him to meet him on the road of the palms that fatal evening before he left. Marianne remembered how late it was that night before Cerise returned, saying she had been with friends; and she had believed the story because Cerise never lied.

The letter went on to say much more: how he had kissed her by mistake on that first day of their meeting; how she had grown to love him and fight against her passion for the sake of Marianne; and how, just for one kiss more, she had asked him to meet her in the name of Marianne, knowing that in the dark, in the moonlight, he would not know the difference between them; how he took advantage of the blindness of love to betray her— “as he would have betrayed you,” said the letter, which went on to say that all was over and that poor Cerise would be seen no more.

Next day people knew that Cerise Ribot had vanished; the shop was open again and Marianne behind her counter. She would say nothing but that her sister had gone out and had not come back. Search was made without result; bad characters were arrested and interrogated; the wind blew the palms and the foam dashed the coral; time passed, but poor Cerise never returned.

Of all the people in Noumea outside the Maison Ribot, Monsieur Roche alone knew the facts of the matter.

Mother Rimbaut had told him and Roche, though a true man of the world, an innkeeper and the son of a convict, was shocked at the tragedy and that Carstairs, a customer whom he had liked, should have been the villain of the piece. "Perhaps some day he will come back,” said Roche.

THE Hawk on leaving New Caledonia called at Sydney, and before reaching Sydney and tying up at Circular Wharf. Carstairs had almost forgotten the incident at Noumea. A storm they had encountered three days out had helped in the obliteration, and with the soil of New South Wales under his feet the affair would have seemed to him remote as a love affair in Jupiter. From Sydney the ship went to San Francisco and from San Francisco to Honolulu, at least toward Honolulu, for she was wrecked on that voyage and of all her company only Carstairs and half a dozen others were saved and taken to Chile, where great luck waited for him. One of the saved passengers, a woman very wealthy and with vast interests in the Islands, fell in love with him and married him and died a month after the marriage, leaving him a rich man, but tied. Wealth is not all jam. Poor and working his way through life, Carstairs had been a happy man; that is to say, a man with perfect health, no worries and without a conscience. Wealth had suddenly developed a host of worries for him.

If you wish for revenge on any man, don’t cut his throat, leave him a huge fortune and thus bar him, possibly from the kingdom of heaven, probably from the kingdom of rest. Carstairs on reviewing his possessions found all sorts of things that were wrong. Shares that had depreciated in value and were likely to depreciate more, a lawsuit in the egg over some lands in California, a suit to upset the will, which was frantically absurd, yet irritating; interests everywhere that had to be looked after and papers in legions that had to be signed, including American income-tax papers, the most appalling documents ever devised by the wit of man for man’s distraction.

Much will love more; at all events it is ever anxious to keep itself intact, and Carstairs, who had been indifferent to money when he had none, became fretful now over the loss of a few dollars and sleepless over some depreciation that would not have kept an ordinary business man awake. And yet he was free-handed in spending on his own pleasures, though the instinct to protect his fortune from the hands of others developed and forced itself and dominated him with whip and spur. He felt that every man was trying to rob him— as in fact was the case— and not trusting the agent of some property in Queensland he went there to look into things himself. New Caledonia lay on the road to Queensland and on the way back his ship, a schooner belonging to a trading company in which he had an interest, touched at Noumea— because he ordered her to do so. The sight of New Caledonia recalled again the most beautiful girl he had ever seen; recollection of that last evening added fuel to the desire to meet her once again; and there would be no trouble to worry about. Cerise had shown him enough of her real nature on that parting over two years and six months ago to tell him that.

Was she married? Maybe. Was she single? Who could tell? But well he knew that, whether she were married or single, she was his. Why not, if she were still as beautiful as ever, why not keep her as his— her, whom the sharks had eaten over thirty long months ago.

There are women who persist in the memory like perfumes or tunes, and the sweet perfume of Cerise breathed in one ecstatic hour had never quite vanished; the sight of the foam line of New Caledonia, the hills and the ghost-white lighthouse brought it back, revived it. It was almost as though she stood on the deck beside him; and at the cost of three thousand dollars the wheel of the schooner spun, the main boom lashed out to starboard. Altering her course, the ship steered due east for the break.

SHE came into the harbor with a flooding tide and a failing wind, a tremendous sunset lighting the wharves and the town from which faint on the flowerand harborscented air came the sound of the band playing in the public square.

Everything looked just the same, from the town and its fortifications to the trees topped by the spires of the cathedral.

But Carstairs found himself forgotten. No one would have recognized in the well dressed man wearing a Panama the mate of the Hawk, and he saw nobody that he recognized. The very hotel where he put up was new-built. Having booked his room, he left the place before dining, crossed Coconut Square and entered the Rue Austerlitz.

Ribot’s shop stood just as of old, the name over the front and the baskets swinging in the doorway.

He went in, and there behind the counter stood Marianne Ribot just as she had stood on the day when first he saw her.

“Monsieur,” said old Roche, “there is no doubt in my mind that she had been expecting him. Some instinct had told her that he would come back; maybe she had willed it— who knows?— but the fact remained that she had a cane knife on a ledge behind the counter. And as he came up to her with a bold smile on his lips and his hand outstretched, she turned as if to pick up some trifle and, turning again, drove the knife into his throat.

“When the police arrived she refused to speak, Monsieur Carstairs was taken to the hospital and she was taken to prison, where a magistrate visited her; but she would only say, ‘I have done what I have done’— nothing more.

“Mother Rimbaut was examined and she told the magistrate Carstairs had been to the shop years ago and had carried on a flirtation with Marianne; but she said nothing about Cerise— she had never said anything about that matter to any one but me. Months passed and the wounded man lay in hospital half in and half out of death’s door. He had plenty of time to think of his sins and there is no doubt but that he repented of them, for he made a full confession, saying he had wronged her and that he deserved what she had done to him.

“At the trial she would say neither yes nor no. Nothing but ‘I have done what I have done.’ She seemed indifferent to everything and after six months’ imprisonment she went back to her shop just as you see her today, not mad, yet not sane. As for Carstairs, he left the island and we have heard no more of him.

“But to me the interest of the whole business lies in the question: did she stab that man to revenge Cerise or herself? And also in the thought that Monsieur Carstairs, who was responsible for the death of Cerise, had, to his own knowledge, never even seen the girl. He had heard Marianne speak of her sister, but as they were never in the shop together he did not know of the extraordinary likeness.

“To this day, if he is alive, Monsieur Carstairs does not know that he is responsible for a woman’s death. He will not know till the judgment comes; and that is a thought to give one pause, for does any man know his full account or the consequences of his sins?”

Later that day, toward evening, finding myself in the Rue Austerlitz I went into the Maison Ribot out of curiosity and to buy a packet of cigarettes. Marianne was behind the counter looking just the same as when I had seen her passing Roche’s restaurant, but sane enough in her business methods and making not a centime’s mistake in the change. As she handed me my cigarettes with the indifference of an automatic figure and with scarcely a glance, the commonplace things of that little shop seemed of more tragic importance than the girl, and the commonplace sounds; the voices of the passers-by in the street, the laughter of a child, the click of knitting needles from the gloom behind the piled baskets, a sound microscopic and intermittent as the ticking of a death-watch beetle or the crawling of a snail on the pane.

_______________

18: Films and Flapjacks

or From Pancakes to Pictures

Sam Hellman

1885-1950

Redbook, Feb 1931

Sam Hellman

Sam Hellman was a Hollywood screenwriter from the beginning of the "talkies" until the late 1940s. Wrote scripts for such classic movies as "My Darling Clementine", "Shine on Harvest Moon", and "The Three Musketeers".

IT'S NATURAL enough to meet Phil Speed in Los Angeles. Nowadays, the burg's a crossroad of the world— the Café de la Paix of the Pacific— and you're likely to run into anybody there from Aunt Hester's daughter Dimple, to the Armenian rug-peddler you kidded with in Cannes. When the wind's in the right direction you may even encounter a native Californian.

"Cut yourself a piece of climate," says I, "and make yourself at home. A bit overdue, aren't you?"

"Overdue?" repeats Phil. "How do you mean?"

"Well," I returns, "gravy's been flowing under the bridges around here for quite some time now—"

"I know," interrupts Speed, "but I wanted it to get thicker and richer before I dunked my bread in. After all, I have my art to consider, and, as you may have observed, I like mine the hard way. Ad astra per aspera."

"Who?" I inquires.

"That's Latin," explains Speed, "and, rendered freely, signifies 'sinking 'em from the rough.' Pulling piastres out of the picture game's been much too elementary a trick to interest an adept."

"Oh, yeah?" I comes back. "Better set yourself up to another think, feller. Hollywood may have been a big-hearted Larry when the pictures were playing with their toes, but it's a one-way pocket now, lined with fish-hooks. The talkies have acquired a distinct Scotch burr."

"That's fine," says Phil. "The tighter the shell, the juicier the oyster. I shall do well with my openers."

"I hope so," I shrugs, "but you'd be surprised at the number of wise boys from the East waiting down at the freight-sheds for a passage out... What'd you do with the pug you were handling in Chicago?"

"Cut him loose," replied Phil. "My technique's of too certain a weight and fineness for the fight game. I've been in Kansas since I saw you last."

"Doing what?" I asks. "Developing a scheme for making Italian sunsets out of cornstalks and hominy grits?"

"Not exactly," says the slicker. "I was interesting the jay-hawkers in a collapsible silo. When not in use it could be taken apart and used as a miniature golf-course, a sounding-board for symphony concerts or a container for dipping sheep."

"Not enough," I asserts, sarcastic. "It should also have been convertible into a silk dressing-gown or a high-school graduation talk. How'd it click with the Kansans?"

"Great," returns Speed. "There was a crying need for collapsible silos out there just to make it unanimous; everything else was collapsing. But tell me about Los Angeles. Nice place?"

"Lovely," I assures him. "Around a million and a half people and all of 'em selling picture postcards and ice-cream cones. Kind of reminds me of that town in Utopia where everybody made a nice living taking in each other's wash."

"Looks like a real he-burg to me," remarks Phil.

"It is— down beneath," says I; "but the newcomer gets the impression that it's one big boardwalk with the merry-go-round at the Hollywood end."

"That's where you'll find me," offers Speed, "getting a ring with each revolution."

"Got a contract?" I inquires.

"A contract!" exclaims Phil. "A contract for what? To ride on a merry-go-round?"

"You'll need it," says I, "to ride on this one. I didn't come out here in a covered wagon or with the early Iowans, but I've been in these parts long enough to learn something of the works. Hollywood's a pay-off if you're sent for. If you're not, you're about as welcome as a polecat at a picnic."

"I've never been invited anywhere yet," observes Speed, "but seldom do I fail to find a seat at the first table and my choice of the chicken."

"It'll be different here," I tells him. "To begin with, it takes months to crash anybody—"

"Behave!" snorts Phil. "Who do you think I am— a policy-peddler or the instalment-man? When I want to see a guy I send for him."

"Sure," says I. "And when you want Judge Hughes or Queen Mary you just whistle. My boy, it's much easier for a rich man to pass through the eye of a camel than it is to meet a movie mogul."

"Not," declares Speed, "for a lad with a message."

"What's the message?" I asks.

"I don't know yet," replies Phil, "but when it's framed, it'll be the master key to every door in Hollywood."

"Doubtless," says I, "but look out you don't get your foot crushed... Just what is your game here? Figuring on a screen career?"

"Nope," he answers. "Not that I can't act. I once played a deep silence off-stage in a high-school show and panicked the patrons. Think I'd photograph well?"

"Yeah," I returns, "but they'd probably need Grandeur film for your close-ups."

"That," declares Speed, "has all the earmarks and the footprints of something not so nice, but I'll pass it by for the nonce; reserving my rejoinder. I don't know yet what angle of the industry I'm going to adorn. I may make a picture on my own or—"

"Using what," I interrupts, "for prime commercial paper?"

"I've plenty of jack," volunteers Phil, "and I've even got a Jill in mind 'who'd roll 'em out in the aisles."

"Mary Pickford," I inquires, "or the Garbo?"

"Neither," comes back Speed. "Trixie Malone."

"Never heard of her," says I, "but that doesn't mean a thing. They're born and they die around here faster than margin traders. What's she got?"

"I'm glad you brought that up," returns Phil. "Trixie's got everything and when I say everything I don't mean something. The frill has a figure you'd parade the troops for, a pan that's an eye-treatment, a smile you could pasture bees in and a voice that'd coo crocuses out of the ground in midwinter." "Is this one gal you're describing," I asks, "or three or four dreams you had lately? I'll bet she has flat feet."

"Feet?" repeats Speed dreamily. "She has no feet. They're petals undulating lazily before a spring zephyr."

"Too bad," says I, "she isn't convertible into a silo. What'd Trixie ever do in the pictures?"

"Nothing," he answers. "I met her on the rattler coming here. It seems she won a beauty contest—"

"No!" I gasps. "If there's anything Hollywood's been waiting and longing for it's a winner in a beauty contest. Trixie'll sure be a treat here. Can she do imitations of Elsie Janis and Fannie Brice?"

"Can the comedy!" growls Phil. "This gal's good in spite of the beauty contest. Until the pictures get her, they're camping out."

"Yeah," says I, "and when they get you, you'll be camping out! You must've mislaid some of your marbles to think of producing a picture, without knowing a thing about the business, for a skirt who's never been screened before. You going to write the play too?"

"It's not beyond me," admits Speed. "All you need's the angle— and that's the triangle. However, you've got me wrong. I didn't say I was going to produce a picture; I said I might. My main interest now is to put Trixie over in a big and buxom way."

"I see," says I. "Did you sign on as her manager?"

"Yep," returns Phil. "I'll give the Class A concerns around here a shot at her services, but if they don't want her, I want her."

"You kicked in on the cluck?" I asks.

"Don't be a sap in sunny Cal.," comes back Speed. "She may be somebody's sweetheart, but she's just an investment to me."

A couple of nights later Phil invites me over to put on the nose-bag with him and the girl friend and I hops to the chance for a peek at the paragon. She comes up to her advance billing, with the exception of Speed's poetic substitution of petals for pedals. Trixie's a washable blonde with eyes as big as manhole covers, and a looker no matter who's winning in the Chinese revolution.

"This is the first time," says I gallantly, "that I've caught Speed in a truth. He said you were a knockout, and you are."

"Thank my father," trills Miss Malone, "and my mother."

"I will," I assures her, "the very next time I drop off at Sioux Falls— or is it Pawhuska?"

"You've got your tanks twisted," says Trixie. "Ever hear of Cicero, Illinois?"

"Sure," I returns. "On a quiet night you can hear it in Harlem. Don't tell me you're from Cicero!"

"All right, then," she shrugs. "I won't, but you'll probably find it out for yourself when you read about me in the gazettes."

"O. K.," says I, "but that's no place to coo crocuses out of the ground."

"Huh?" mumbles Trixie.

"Never mind," I goes on hurriedly. "Tell me about yourself. What gave you the idea of going in for the gabbies?"

"Well," replies La Malone, "one of the home-town rags was holding a catch-as-catch-can for the best eyeful in the burg. The editor pipes me in the restaurant where I'm dealing 'em off the arm, and shakes me down for a snap. When the votes are all in and counted, I'm the Number One girl and win a trip to California."

"Did a screen test go with the contest?" I asks.

"Nope," says she. "I'm on my own— but the Big Boy here's going to arrange for the carpets and the canopies in front of the studios."

"Leave it to me, girlie," chimes in Speed, "and you'll have an alabaster pool for every day in the week and one in onyx for Sunday."

"Done anything yet?" I asks bluntly.

"I made some valuable contacts today," replies Phil.

"I didn't sell any goods today, either," says I.

"There's no hurry," remarks Miss Malone. "I'm having pretty fun just looking around. Last night I went to the opening of a shoe-shining stand. They had searchlights playing on it from all directions and a guy in front broadcasting the name of everybody who came along for a polish."

"That's nothing, kid," says I. "In this town they have a celebration at the opening of a can of sardines."

"How different in Chicago!" observes Trixie. "Here they say it with searchlights; there, with sawed-off shotguns."

I spends an hour or more braiding haywire with the Malone doll. She's a fast-thinking, slick-on-the-come-back baby, as many eating-house alumnae are, with a surprisingly nice voice for a wren who's trained it on "ham-and-egg" hollers to the kitchen. Along about eleven bells she airs us for the hay and Phil walks to the hotel with me.

"Not that I care," says he, "but what's the answer?"

"A quick trick," I replies, "but you'd better dumb her up some before oozing her into the studios. She's likely to understand what the director is saying the first time he says it and he'll think she's high-hatting him."

"Do they really like their Doras dumb?" inquires Speed.

"Yep," I tells him, "and you can't blame 'em, either. A bright gal on the set might argue, for example, that it's silly for a woman to change from a day dress to an evening gown while her child's dying in the next room—"

"Isn't it?" interjects Phil.

"Maybe," says I, "but in the movies the clothes must go on, regardless, and no director wants to debate the matter with the cast. He's got troubles enough battling with the supervisor, the producer, the sales manager and Moe Finkelbo, who runs the Rialto in Sorghum, South Dakota. Not to change the subject much, what are those valuable contacts you made today?"

"Well," returns Speed, I met up with a bozo at the Elks who's like that with Davis of Pinnacle Pictures."

"You should have tried the Moose," says I, sarcastic. "There's a guy there who's like those with Davis. I'm surprised," I goes on, "at a big shot like you chiseling into the parlor through the pantry. What are you— a policy-peddler or the—"

"Forget it," snaps Phil. "I'm just getting a line on whom to send for. I want the lads who can say 'yes' and not 'I guess.'"

"Listen," I yelps. "How long are you going to keep up this stuffed-shirt act with me? The great-I-am attitude'll get you nothing in Hollywood. They sic dogs on dukes around here. You've only one chance of getting a tumble for your girl friend."

"What's that?" he asks.

"Register her with the extra office," I replies, "and she may get on as a condensed milkmaid in a dairy shot."

"Trixie tote a spear!" exclaims Speed.

"Even that," says I, "is an advance on toting a tray. Do you expect her to start as all the wives in 'The Merry Wives of Windsor?"

"When I hitch my wagon," declares Phil, "it's to a star. Trixie's a looker like nobody's business—"

"Sure she is," I cuts in impatiently, "but lookers like nobody's business are thicker in this part of the pampas than phone numbers. Unless you get the attention of the big boys—"

"Now," interjects Speed, with enthusiasm, "you're bowling 'em right down my alley. I just got a great idea. Remember the opening of the shoe-shining joint Trixie was telling us about?"

"What about it?" I inquires suspiciously.

"How would it be," says Phil, "to give the gal that kind of a send-off— plenty of searchlights and soft music and maybe a storm of ticker-tape—"

"Not ticker-tape," I corrects gently. cutting-room floor."

"Film'd be better," agrees Speed. "Get the slant— 'Introducing Miss Malone, America's Eyeful.' We'd have newspaper ads, throwaways and the rest. Would that tip the boys that Trixie's in town?"

"Doubtless," says I dryly, "but you'd get more publicity if you had her cut her throat on Jesse Lasky's doorstep— or better yet,  on the doorstep of each of the Warner Brothers... Where do you think you are? That brand of bally- hoo's so common out here they use it for washrags."

By this time we've reached the hotel and I'm about to part from Phil when a tall, stoop-shouldered hombre drifts from the flophouse and slips me the how-are-you. It’s Terry Travis, a writer of sorts that I used to split a speak-easy with occasionally back East.

"Pictures?" I asks, after introducing Speed.

“That’s what brought me here," returns Terry, “but so far I've gotten nothing but the frames."

“Too bad," says I sympathetically, “but a smart baby like you should have known better than to migrate to this Mecca on spec."

on the doorstep of each of the Warner Brothers... . Where do you think you are? That brand of bally- hoo's so common out here they use it for washrags."

By this time we've reached the hotel and I'm about to part from Phil when a tall, stoop-shouldered hombre drifts from the flophouse and slips me the how-are-you. It’s Terry Travis, a writer of sorts that I used to split a speak-easy with occasionally back East.

"Pictures?" I asks, after introducing Speed.

“That’s what brought me here," returns Terry, “but so far I've gotten nothing but the frames."

“Too bad," says I sympathetically, “but a smart baby like you should have known better than to migrate to this Mecca on spec."

“Spec, your thick neck!” snorts Travis. “I came out here under the sweetest contract you ever saw— in fact, it was so sweet it was sickening."

“Meaning what?" I inquires.

“Meaning,” says Terry, “that I drew prominent pay every week for six months without doing enough work to raise a sweat on a sparrow.”

“Is that something to sob yourself to sleep over?” horns in Phil.

“Yes, it is," declares the writer. “When I hire out to shell peas, I expect to be given some peas to shell. For six months I didn't even see the laddie who put me on the payroll. All I got when I begged for an assignment was the Mexican mañana. As far as the office was concerned, I might just as well have in southeastern Beloochistan breaking mustangs. Not a single word did I write.”

“I note,” says I, “that you’re crying in the past tense. Are you through at Pinnacle Pictures?”

“And went,” returns Travis. “Last week I knocked over three stenographers, five private secretaries and four yes-men and just crashed in on the big boss, all set for a burn-up. ‘Mr. Davis,’ says I, ‘my contract expires tomorrow and I want—’ ‘I know,’ says he. ‘We like your work here so much that we're renewing it at an increase.’ ‘You are like hell!’ says I. ‘I’m going somewhere where they'll let me empty the wastebaskets, anyhow.’ ”

“The pictures are like that," I remarks. “One half doesn't know what the other half’s doing, and the other half’s doing nothing. You beating it back to the effete?”

“Not right away," returns Terry. “I’ve a yarn buzzing in my bean that'll make the greatest scenario ever seen on celluloid. I aim to peddle the piece to some independent who’s got more vision than valuables. It’s about a hash- slinger in a greasy spoon—”

“Come on in,” interrupts Speed, taking Travis by the arm, “and tell me the story. We might be able to do business."

“You a producer?" asks Terry.

“If properly approached,” says Phil, and leads him into the hotel.

From where I sit Travis’ plot's not so hot. It's a sort of Nellie the Beautiful Dishwasher affair with rags being worn as royal raiment for virtue's sake, the usual battles to prevent something worse than death, taxes and an inflamed duodenum and the eventual triumph of clean living and right thinking, if any.

"Isn't it good?" inquires Travis at the fade-out.

“It always has been," I replies. “The last time I saw the picture the gal worked in a tuna-fish factory."

“Just what I want," says Speed. “It fits Trixie like a snake's skin." he makes an appointment with Terry for the next day to talk turkey.

“So you're going to see Paris," I remarks to Phil, after the writer takes it on the lam.

"Yep," says Phil. "I'm a movie magnate now and watch me wow ‘em with Terry's picture."

“You ought to," I agrees. “There never was a more perfect combination— a producer who doesn't know a Klieg light from a kleagle, a hack-scribbler who's never written a scenario in his life and a leading lady who's never been photographed anywhere except in a shooting-gallery. All you need now is a director who got his experience directing traffic and a camera-man who forgets to put film in the camera."

"Anybody can make cottage cheese out of cream," says Phil. artist can make it out of ax-handles."

For the next week or so Speed's busier than a fighting cock with fleas, hunting up a studio, sound trucks and the rest of the impedimenta that distinguishes a movie plant from a hay-and-feed store. That taken care of, he starts beating the brush for a director and finally lands a lad named Foster Small, who's filmed everything from the original Deluge to “The Levys and the O'Learys on a Gunboat.” With Small's help, Phil gets together a cast of eight people to support Trixie. There's only one thesp in the group I ever heard of— Llewellyn Doakes, a leading man who's played with the best of 'em.

“How much is he punishing you for?” I asks Speed.

“A thousand berries a day," he replies. “That’s a lot of money,” I observes, “even if you say it fast over the telephone. How long you using him?"

“One day,” says he.

“One day!” I exclaims. “What are you having him do— an adagio dance in the waffle-window scene?”

“He’s going to be practically in every scene in the picture,” returns Phil. “Doakes is fixing it so that all of his sequences’ll be shot in one stretch. Later on we distribute ‘em where they'll do the most good."

“A quickie, eh?" I remarks. “How many sets you figuring on?”

“That makes no difference,” says Speed, who’s apparently been soaking himself in cinema craft. ‘“Doakes is mostly in close-ups. After all, the big scene where Trixie battles for her virtue on the Eiffel Tower—"

“That’s a novel twist, at any rate,” I horns in appreciatively. “All the battles for virtue I've ever seen were conducted in bachelors' apartments. I've been hoping that some genius would come along and pull one off in an ice-house or a dog-hospital."

"Later on," confides Phil, "she does have a tussle in Doakes' rooms."

"What a life!" says I. "Battling for your virtue at night and running your feet off in a restaurant by day! What's Trixie doing with herself these days— standing in front of dairy lunches watching 'em throw flapjacks for a loss?"

"She's studying," comes back Speed, "and getting herself poured into habiliments."

"That oughtn't to take long," I observes, "unless you're going to have her wait on tables in French evening gowns and ermine wraps. Talking about French— how does the Eiffel Tower get into this opus of yours?"

"That's a new idea of Terry's," explains Phil. "It works in like this— a lot of the girls at the restaurant are sent down to a liner in dock to work at the banquet. After it's over, Trixie falls asleep and the next thing she knows she's out on the Big Drink. The heavy happens to be on the boat. The gal borrows dough from him and that's how all her troubles start. It's all pretty logical, isn't it?"

"Very," says I, "but, if you must have the Eiffel Tower, wouldn't it be even more logical to have the heavy who's nuts and celery about Trixie buy it from the French Government, bring it over here and present it to her for a bangle to hang on her bracelet?"

"That'd be all right," agrees Speed, with a grin, "but there's nothing in the script about her having a bracelet."

"That does complicate matters," says I. "When do you start shooting?"

"Next week," he returns. "Come on down and look us over, but don't wear those squeaky shoes."

The following Tuesday I puts on my sneakers and beats it down to the studio which I gets into only after giving the bird at the gate the Masonic password, the Rosicrucian handclasp, the distress- call of the Junior Order of American Mechanics and a fragment of my mind.

The stage is laid out in a lunchroom set— counter, pie-case, coffee-urn, a few tables and the rest of the trappings of a third-rate trough.

NOTHING is going on at the moment but the shifting of lights, so I stumbles over cables looking for a familiar face.

Off in a corner I finally pipes Trixie Malone. She looks swell in her make-up, but sullen.

"What's eating you, sister?" I asks.

"That fat-head over there," she snaps, indicating a bozo in puttees and a megaphone. "He thinks he knows more about waiting in a restaurant than I do. Five years, man and boy, I've done the trick; and the sap's had me walk in fifteen times with a tray and he ain't satisfied yet. I'd like to bend a chair over his brow."

"There, there," says I soothingly. "All directors are like that. I heard of one once who spent two days and eight thousand feet of film getting a feller to light a match just so. They finally used the very first shot that was taken. A good director's known by his wastage."

"This one," declares Speed's girl friend, "is going to be known as the one bumped off by Trixie Malone if he doesn't quit riding me. All I'm supposed to do is come out of the kitchen over there and walk to this table balancing a consignment of fodder. How many ways are there of doing that?"

"I don't know," I returns. "The only trays I know anything about are the ones I catch when drawing to a king-high straight. Here comes the section-boss now."

"We'll try it again, Miss Malone," says the director. "Please follow instructions this time. A real waitress doesn't—"

"You telling me!" blazes Trixie. "I was a real waitress before—"

"Perhaps," cuts in Small calmly, "but it isn't a waitress we're trying to depict —"

"No?" exclaims Miss Malone. "What is it then— a herd of elephants stampeding down State Street?"

"We're trying to picture," explains the director, "the public's conception of a waitress in a place like this. Very few French doctors wear beards nowadays, but if you showed a French doctor on the screen without one the audience'd die on him. Get the idea?"

"Pick up the marbles," says Trixie wearily. "You win." And she steps off the set to prepare for her entrance.

IN a few minutes everything's jake with the lights and Miss Malone walks on, palming a tray and swaying at the hips like a hooch dancer. The whole business takes only a couple of seconds.

"That's much better," declares Small.

"It may be better," says Trixie, "but if you ever see a regular waitress with a wiggle like that let me know and I'll mail you a hand-knitted steam-shovel."

I sticks around the studio for quite a while watching Miss Malone do her bag of tricks, but it doesn't strike me that much is accomplished. When the acting is all right the lights are wrong and when they're both O. K. the sound apparatus gets the stutters.

Trixie's no Duse, of course, but she seems efficient enough. Over the play- backs her voice listens good. The gal's all in, though, when the director calls it a day.

"What a chore!" she murmurs, "I could wait single-handed on a national convention of longshoremen and not be half as tired."

"Your public," says I, "will show its appreciation."

"Yes, they will," scoffs Trixie. "I'll bet they won't even leave a dime under the plate."

Speed not being about, I offers to walk to the hotel with her. It's only a few squares from the studio. The wren's too weary for words and we ambles along in silence.

We've covered a block or so when Miss Malone comes to a sudden stop. In a restaurant window a gal's somersaulting wheats on an electric range and Trixie gazes on the work with a kind of fascination.

"Not so good," she decides, at length. "She doesn't put enough wrist into it. Boy, you should see me perform! I used to stand 'em up for blocks back in dear old Cicero."

"You'd do that," I assures her, "if you were shoeing horses or buying a subway ticket. But your flapjack days are done."

"Probably," says Trixie, with the suggestion of a sigh, "but it's a grand job."

"Hardly thrilling," I hazards.

"You'd be surprised," comes back Miss Malone, "at the kick you get snagging a 'flap' just as it's about to get away from you."

It's ten minutes before she tears herself away from the window. I leaves her at her inn and taxis to mine where I've a date to feed with Speed. He's there when I arrive, and I tells him of my visit to the studio.

"How'd things seem to be going?" he asks.

"All right to these lay eyes," I returns, "but Small's got a little-onion-hard-to-peel in Trixie. There was some difference of opinion between 'em as how waitresses do their waitressing."

"I know," says Phil, "they were at it this morning, but everything'll work out K.O. I saw some of Monday's rushes and the gal stands out like a mountain peak in a prairie. And them voice!"

"Where were you this afternoon?" I asks.

"Hunting up a lad to write me a theme song," replies Speed.

"Theme song!" I exclaims. "How you going to fit a song into that pic?"

"I don't know," admits Phil, "but you've got to have one. A picture's practically naked these days without music. Folks wouldn't think it was a sound picture without singing."

"I heard a good title the other day," I remarks, "that you might use—'It's Better to Have Halitosis than to Have No Breath at All.' "

"You're just a big help," says Speed. "Got any more tasty ideas like that one?"

"I got another idea," I comes back, "but you might not find it so palatable, either. When I was a kid, a gang of us built a raft in the basement. When it was finished we found we couldn't get it out. It was three times broader and longer than the door—"

"I'll bite," interrupts Phil. "What's the connection?"

"How," I asks, "are you going to get your picture out after it's finished? Have you arranged for distribution?"

"Everything's set," declares Speed. "I broke in on Davis at Pinnacle Pictures to- day and he as much as promised a release on the basis of the story. He was all het up about it— wanted to know the name of the author—"

"Did you tell him?" I inquires.

"Yeah," returns Phil. "And the old boy says: 'I wish we could get a writer like that on our staff!' "

FOR a quickie "Royal Raiment," as the piece is tentatively titled, makes but slow progress.

This Small is the sort of director who photographs a doorknob eighty-six times before he gets the kind of doorknob he wants and he runs Trixie and her royal raiment ragged with his rehearsals and his repetitions. By the end of the first week the gal's almost in a state of collapse.

"A few more days of this," says she, "and an X will mark the grease-spot where I used to be. I once thought they were batty paying picture stars five grand a week. They're not batty— they're a lot of nickel-nursers !"

"Aren't you having any fun?" I asks.

"In your velveteen beret!" comes back Miss Malone. "About the only fun I have is watching the girl down the street taking flapjacks for a ride. Do you know, her work's getting better."

"What's she doing now?" I inquires. "Following through and hesitating for a second at the top of her swing?"

"In a way," says Trixie, "l guess I'm responsible. I dropped in there a couple of days ago and showed her a trick or two—"

"You!" I gasps. "You, the next toast of Hollywood, in a—"

"Toast, your toes!" she shoots back. "I'm just a hard-working sap and when I say hard, I don't mean difficult."

BUT she is difficult. From what I see for myself and hear from Speed, there's constant friction between her and the director, practically all of it over restaurant technique. Small generally has his way but he's so weak from struggling by the end of a shift that he's a sucker for any germ that features run-down physiques.

"Imagine that flat," she complains to Phil one night when I'm around, "telling me how to park a set-up! I was laying out knives and forks—"

"Sure, sure," cuts in Speed placatingly, "but you didn't get Small's angle. He wanted you to do it wrong on purpose to suggest that you were nervous and absent-minded. Remember you'd just seen your boy friend with the other gal—"

"Hoosh!" says Trixie. "I could be nervous and absent-minded and hanging by my toes from a red-hot church steeple, and still not put a knife in front of a fork."

"Remember the French doctors and their beards," I chimes in.

"Listen, honey," pleads Phil. "I'm particularly anxious for things to run right at the studio the next couple of days. We're shooting the Doakes sequences tomorrow and we want to clean up with him quick. You might have to work a twenty-hour stretch, but the work'll be easy after that."

"Sure," scoffs Trixie. "All that'll be left'll be about five reels of the picture with me at the rat-hole every second. Don't they have doubles in these parts to—"

"They only use 'em in dangerous spots," explains Speed.

"If that's the case," says Miss Malone, "you'd better have a double ready for Foster Small. He's in one."

I drifts down to the shop with Phil the next day to see the great Doakes do his stuff. Believe me, these free-lancers earn their pesetas in the quickies. The whole studio's a clutter of sets and suggestions of sets and Doakes is no sooner shot in one than he's hustled to another.

The battle of the century— Virtue vs. What Have You— turns out to be a darb. Out in Cicero the gals apparently are taught not only to dodge machine-guns but also to nail the machine-gunner. Trixie turns loose one wallop in the course of the proceedings that flattens into Doakes' jaw and sends him kicking. He staggers to his feet in a rage.

"Where do you think you are?" he howls. "In a bar-room?"

"Go lay an egg!" says Miss Malone.

"Cut!" yelps the director. "The best shot in the picture and you spoil it with talk! We'll never get another as good."

"Sure we will," chirps Trixie. "Stage the fight all over again and I'll hit even harder."

But not for Doakes. He's had enough of this scene. It's finally decided to cut the concluding repartee between the leading man and Miss Malone out of the sound-track and let that particular bit of action end with the dropping of Doakes.

There's bad blood between the two for the rest of the shift, but they manage to get through the succeeding action well enough. By six o'clock Doakes is all washed up and went, except for some possible re-takes. Trixie, however, still has a couple of hours' work to do before the sets are demolished and new ones rigged up for the next day's shooting.

"My gosh!" she wails. "And I used to kick when a guy ordered a second cut of pie at my quitting-time!" But she still has energy enough to stop for a peek at the flapjack girl. It seems to perk her up.

"When do you expect to be finished?" I asks Speed.

"It'll take about a month to get the picture in the can," says he.

"Not so quickie," says I.

THAT night I have to leave town; it's a week before I'm back in Los Angeles. The first chance I gets, I calls Speed at the studio, but I can't raise anybody so I decides to walk there. As I reaches the restaurant a block from the plant, I finds a crowd gathered in front and l edges in to see what it's all about.

There, flashing her million-dollar smile and tossing wheats with an enthusiasm she'd never shown in the studio, is Trixie! She tosses me a grin and I pushes into the eats joint to get the lowdown. The place's jammed, but not far from where Miss Malone's doing adagios with dough I spots Phil and makes a bee-line for the table.

"What's this?" I asks. "A publicity gag?"

"Nope," he returns. "Trixie's working here regular."

"Working here?" I mumbles.

"Yeah," says Speed. "The other girl quit and Trixie couldn't grab the job fast enough. She never was steamed up about pictures. I'm here too."

"How do you mean, here?" I inquires.

"I knew Trixie'd stir up a land-office business," replies Phil, "so I just bought the place."

"You did what?" I yaps.

"Bought the place," he repeats. "I'm a restaurateur now, and knocking the cash-register cold."

There's nothing strange in Speed changing grafts without notice, but this sudden switch seems to call for an explanation.

"How about the picture?" I asks. "That hasn't been finished already, has it?"

"Not yet," answers Speed. "Pinnacle's taken it over and are remaking it with Joyce Kincaid. Davis gave me all I sunk and five grand to boot. How about a cup of Java and a stack of wheats? Trixie's will melt in your mouth. —Oh, Trixie!"

"Coming up!" says she.

_______________

19: The Necklace of Rubies

Lee Holt

Leila Holt Lomax Wethey, 1865-1933

The Cavalier 11 Oct 1913

"SHAMEFUL!" ejaculated Catherine II, and she flung down her cards.

"Your majesty!" and Ivanivitch Zkarkoff, with whom she was playing, half rose from his seat.

"Pshaw, man," she continued; "the devil take these cards! This is the third time you have repique."

"I shall indeed count my luck accursed," said Zkarkoff diplomatically, " if it brings a frown on the fairest face in the world."

"Vadi Boga— no compliments, I pray you!" cried Catherine, but her deep, gray eyes dwelt approvingly on her reigning favorite.

Tall, with a slight stoop, the prince was dressed, as usual, very quietly in plum-colored velvet, on his breast a rose given him by the empress that morning as a love-token.

The great queen was at this time verging on forty. A large woman, with fair skin and hair, and something masculine in the contour of her face and jaw and in the way she held her head.

Her long, brocaded pelisse, bordered with sable, fell to her feet, almost concealing the white silk dress beneath it.

At a discreet distance stood her maids of honor, while close to her chair, out of a basket lined with crimson satin, peeped the wizened head of a small monkey.

She was passionately attached to this animal, and it never left her presence night or day.

The room was large and the walls entirely covered with pictures, chiefly of the Flemish school, all hung without frames and with little regard to effect.

In places even where the canvases did not exactly fit they had been cut by some vandal hand to the desired measurements. In a conspicuous position hung a large painting of the siege of Otchakoff.

The artist had depicted a scene of carnage and blood so horrible as to cause a shudder to any but the iron-nerved Catherine.

A few mahogany chairs inlaid with mother-of-pearl stood about the room, and on a small stand a golden scent bottle perfumed the air with the fragrance of rare, Eastern flowers.

"My code is at length completed," said the empress as Zkarkoff shuffled the cards for a fresh game. "I have ordered the parchment taken to your rooms. I desire your opinion."

"Tell me," replied Zkarkoff, "must I judge your majesty's work as a faithful subject or as a courtier?"

"As the former," said Catherine quickly, "From whom should I hear the truth if not from Zkarkoff?"

"It shall receive my devoted attention," said the prince, and dealt the cards.

"I trust Kurichkin pleased your majesty this morning," he continued; "the dog is indeed happy to approach so perfect a form."

"He has but just left," said the queen carelessly as she counted her points. "He appears to know his work. My surtout is to be made of that wondrous green silk Mohilof Panin sent me last week."

Zkarkoff glanced up quickly at the empress, who appeared unconscious of his scrutiny; though a coquette to her finger-tips, she was well able to divine his feelings.

"Since when have the gifts of Mohilof Panin been preferred to mine?"

The empress tittered: "I feel I have been unjust to Panin. Only this morning he sent me the most magnificent necklace of rubies."

Very dark grew Zkarkoff's face, and the nose, whose peculiarity had made him famous, quivered perceptibly.

"So," he thundered, "the Count Panin dares to send presents! It is well I am told! I entreat your gracious permission to withdraw and attend to this matter."

He rose in pretended annoyance.

"Stay, Zkarkoff!" commanded Catherine, in evident enjoyment of her favorite's anger. She had no feeling for Panin, and was deeply in love with Zkarkoff. "It is my pleasure that you see and admire this beautiful gift."

She turned to one of the two maids in attendance. "Nathalie Lydowska, fetch hither the necklace sent me by the Count Panin this morning."

While the girl was away on her errand Zkarkoff, ever watchful, noticed a certain embarrassment in the manner of her companion, Alexandrina Petya. She was standing quite still, but her expression was strained and anxious.

Her history was familiar to him. Early left an orphan, she had been brought up by the Prince Drovsa and his wife, and was said to be in love, against the empress's wishes, with Paul Kourazine, one of the most head-strong and wildest youths about court.

As he turned the cards on the table Zkarkoff pondered vaguely on the cause of that uneasiness, for in his scheme of life he judged the smallest incidents of account.

The little monkey played round Catherine, receiving soft strokes and sharp pats by turns while she hummed:

"Mi Ka, Mi Ka,

Yeschcho. Yeshco Naddai.

Mi Ka, Mi Ka.

Vashi siatels too— Irka!" *

__________

* Rain, rain, Go away.

Come again another day.

Your excellency— Irka!

Here she bowed mockingly to the ape.

There was a sound of hurrying footsteps, and in rushed the girl, Lydowska:

"Highness! Gracious majesty! The necklace has gone! It is not to be found!"

She cast herself down and beat the floor with her hands.

There was a change in Catherine's face. The gray eyes grew cold and hard, and the corners of her mouth drew together with a sinister expres- sion.

"The necklace has gone! So! In whose charge was it?"

"In that of Moushka," faltered the terrified girl, "and she swears she placed it in the Siberian lapis lazuli cabinet. No one has entered the room."

"Except Kurichkin," interrupted Alexandrina eagerly, her lovely face and neck flushing a deep red. "Your majesty will remember he, and he only, entered beside ourselves and others of the household."

"The girl speaks truth," said Catherine, and she stamped her foot.

A guard presented himself, bowing low, his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Arrest Kurichkin, the tailor, and bring him here without an instant delay! Should you catch him before he reaches his home, so much the better. Go!"

The guard vanished.

"A trifling matter," remarked Catherine, " but it must be looked into thoroughly."

She took a pinch of the famous snuff made from tobacco grown in her own grounds at Tsarkoe Selo, and said: "Another pique!"

The game began again. Refreshment was brought in— some favorite cakes of the empress. They were made of a paste of rye flour into which skimmed milk and cheese had been placed, the whole cooked in hot water.

These delicacies had hardly made their appearance with sopie sweet sirup when a loud clamor and shouting was heard outside the window.

"Long live one little mother who gives us bread, food, and glory. Down with the Jews! Long live Catherina!"

The empress's face broke into smiles of self satisfaction. "My good people, how they adore me! I will show myself and it will brighten the day for them." With a heavy step she walked to the window.

Outside in the street, whence the shouts had proceeded, was assembled a crowd of excited people, conspicuous among whom were the vivid red uniforms of some palace guards, as they forced their way like a wedge through the struggling mass.

"It is the Jew tailor," said Zkarkoff quietly, his eyes on Alexandrina. "They will tear him in pieces."

"They shall have that pleasure later," coldly remarked Catherine, "should he prove guilty.

"My snuff, girl."

Alexandrina hurried forward with the mosaic box, but her hand trem- bled and she awkwardly let it fall! It flew open and the snuff scattered in all directions.

"Fool! dolt! idiot!" cried the queen furiously, and she gave the girl a sounding smack on the cheek. "Am I to be crossed at every turn to-day?"

The guards had now succeeded in getting their prisoner to the door of the palace, and then inside free from the yelling crowd. In a few moments a forlorn object was brought to the empress.

Caught in a moment of highest hope, to which the royal command had raised him, his downfall was the more cruel.

He knew the pitiless injustice he was likely to meet with, and despair was in every curve of his drooping figure. His nose had been broken in the scuffle, a most painful wound, and his face was covered with blood.

"Has he been searched?" demanded the empress.

"Gracious majesty, yes! We have found nothing."

The wretched Jew burst forth into supplications and prayers for mercy.

"The man is innocent," said Zkarkoff briefly.

Catherine turned on him sharply:

"I cannot recall having asked your advice, Ivanivitch Zkarkoff. The man innocent; then who is guilty, forsooth; but I understand your motive! You do not wish me to recover my necklace, and would prefer that the thief get away."

"It is true; I am innocent, gracious little mother!" screamed the Jew, his dark eyes shifting from face to face. "They found nothing on me," and he stretched, out his shaking arms imploringly.

"You wrong me," said the prince in an undertone, "and to prove it I stake my Romanoff estates that the necklace shall be in your hands before noon to-morrow."

"Good!" cried Catherine. "You speak with great assurance! Let us see how you redeem your promise. But I take my own way.

"The knout each day till he speaks," she continued, turning to the guards.

A shriek of despair burst from the wretched tailor, and his face was ashen as the soldiers dragged him away.

"Truth is a hard juice to extract," said the queen as she sat down to her cakes; "but pain is a good press. Under the lashes of the knout a lost article is quickly found."

Zkarkoff bowed and took his leave.

The monkey climbed on to the empress's chair, pawing at her arm and giving odd, shrill, little cries while she rapidly swallowed large mouthfuls of the cheese cakes, occasionally glancing at the painted horrors of the siege before her.

ii

THE PALACE of the Zkarkoffs was a huge mass of gray stone with a semi- circular facade, and had been built by Ivanivitch's grandfather during the reign of Mikail, last of the Romanoffs.

The principal rooms were thrown open occasionally for some ball or ban- quet, when the fancy took Zkarkoff, but he reserved for his private use one small wing.

lnto these apartments no one was admitted except his three attendants, known as "the Zkarkoff trinity," while a guard from his own sotnia of Cossacks did duty at the palace night and day.

Ten o'clock had struck that evening when the prince arrived at the small side entrance and, after giving directions to the servant, passed up-stairs to his study.

This was a simple room, plainly paneled to the ceiling and austere in its severity. Rumor, however, had it that this apparent simplicity was but a mask concealing much that was curious and interesting to those who knew its secrets.

There were two doors, one facing the center-table, at which the prince now seated himself, and another behind him. Zkarkoff took up the bundle of papers bearing the imperial seal and began deciphering that mixture of ignorance and talent, which the empress designated as her code.

Passages had been freely borrowed from Montesquieu's "Esprit des Lois," which Catherine in true autocratic spirit had calmly appropriated without acknowledgment. He was still engaged in the perusal when eleven o'clock struck from a clock on the wall.

Hardly had the last vibration died away before a knock came at the door, which opened to admit the tall, thick- ly veiled figure of a woman. Zkar- koff rose.

"I am indeed honored, Alexandria Petya."

The girl started and dropped her veil.

"Prince Zkarkoff," she exclaimed, "there surely must be some mistake ! They have brought me to the wrong house."

"Not at all," said Zkarkoff, and he smiled. "I have been expecting you. You will pardon that slight ruse of a note, and will not, I trust, begrudge me an hour."

He spoke soothingly, and yet his words seemed to terrify the girl. Her eyes sought the room as if searching a way of escape.

"Prince, I beseech you, do not keep me. The empress! I shall be lost."

"Calm yourself," said Zkarkoff, and he moved a chair forward. "Rest assured if you give me your confidence the empress shall never know of your presence here to-night. I pray you be seated."

The girl obeyed. Her face was ghastly pale, and her dark eyes were red-rimmed with weeping. Zkarkoff looked at her narrowly, and taking up a paper-knife played with it idly as he spoke.

"I have long wished to see more of you. You are very beautiful, countess."

Alexandrina started.

"Nay, fear not ! I desire not to make love to you. I know your affection is already given to Paul Kourazine, and I share a woman's love with no man."

"You know," muttered Alexandrina.

"Surely! Did you think that love can be so easily disguised? You have a telltale face, countess! Those blushes reveal much. Only last Tuesday when you and Count Kourazine were having such a pleasant chat in the garden—"

The girl sprang up.

"When?" she stammered. "How did you know?"

"Again, dear countess, you credit every one with being dense. It is a great mistake to underrate the abilities of our fellow creatures. Even I, stupid as I am, have observed the course of true love flowing not altogether smoothly. The count is fond of play— is he not? And that causes you anxious moments. Very natural— very natural indeed!"

The girl moved uneasily in her chair.

"May I beg your excellency to tell me what you wish of me? Every moment I remain here adds to my peril."

"Have I not said that if you place yourself in my hands unreservedly you need fear nothing? Perhaps I brought about this personal interview in order to assure myself of your feelings with regard to Kourazine— whether you wish to marry him? A word in the empress's ear might marvelously smooth the path before you. But—" Alexandria stood up and clasped her hands.

"Oh, if you would ! If you would!"

"You really care for this youth?" inquired Zkarkoff banteringly.

"More than myself," she whispered.

Zkarkoff got up, paced the room, then stopped suddenly in front of the girl.

"Why did you steal the necklace?" he suddenly demanded in a voice of thunder.

Alexandrina screamed. She sprang up, holding to the table with one hand.

"I — I — I! What mean you? "

"Speak! " thundered Zkarkoff. "You gave Kourazine that necklace. Is he in debt?"

"I did not ! Indeed I did not!" said the girl, trembling. "Paul has not the necklace. I swear it on this cross!"

She touched with her lips a small cross which hung by a slender chain round her neck.

"Where is it, then?" came the sharp and stern tones.

White as a sheet, Alexandrina replied in a voice hardly audible:

"I do not know."

"You defy me? Do not force me to take other means— less pleasant."

Zkarkoff's narrow eyes were fixed on the girl. His words took effect like the lash of a whip. She raised her head, and, facing him with courage, cried :

"You wrong me, prince. I have nothing to conceal. You have trapped me here for some reason, but I am innocent— innocent as the poor tailor now in prison."

Her eyes flashed and her beautiful face glowed with indignation.

The prince struck a small gong which stood on the table at his side. The door opened and a short man dressed in red, with the wide face and slanting eyes of a Mongol, entered. Zkarkoff nodded without speaking and the man withdrew.

Presently came the tramp of feet, and there entered a young man with a handsome, dissipated face, closely guarded by two soldiers.

"Paul!"

The girl had crossed the room and thrown her arms about the prisoner's neck. They clung together for a moment. Then Zkarkoff's voice, cold and cutting, said,

"Very interesting, but this is hardly the moment for embracing. Countess, kindly resume your seat. Guards, remove your prisoner," and he waved to the door behind him.

The lovers exchanged glances of de- spair and the door closed with a loud snap.

Zkarkoff turned to the girl.

"Alexandrina Petya," he said, "I would willingly spare you pain— I regard women as companions for our hours of ease, for relaxation from the strain of public affairs, to be handled gently; but in this case I have no choice. I ask you, and I pray you answer: Where is the necklace?"

The countess did not raise her head.

" I do not know," she said very low. " I have told you."

Zkarkoff struck the floor with his heel. Suddenly there reached them in the room a groan that was half a sigh.

Alexandrina trembled. " What was that? " she faltered.

"They are trying to find if Koura- zine knows the answer to the same question I have put to you."

"They are torturing him!" she said with white lips.

"Probably." Zkarkoff's tone was dry.

"But he knows nothing— nothing."

"But you do!"

"Fiend!" cried the girl. "You would torture him to make me speak! God in Heaven! Can He let such monsters exist? "

Zkarkoff sat in his chair, still playing with the paper-knife.

"What are they doing to him?"

"The thumbscrew, I imagine, is a very insidious little persuader."

A scream, agonized and piercing, rang through the room. It was echoed by the wretched girl.

"Paul, Paul!" she screamed.

There was no answer. Her wild eyes met those of Zkarkoff's, hard and mocking.

"They say women are tender of heart," he remarked. "In your case it would not appear so."

He stamped again upon the floor, and in reply apparently there came another scream, and yet another more despairing.

The girl rushed to the door and beat on it with her fists.

"You will find my doors are made of strong material, countess," remarked her tormentor calmly.

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the hard, gasping sobs of the woman as she crouched on her knees at the door. The chorus of some drunken roisterers outside in the street came in by the open window.

Its careless gaiety struck a discordant note with the tense atmosphere within.

"I am waiting, countess, for your answer," said Zkarkoff quietly.

"I have none," returned the girl; but she clasped her hands together tightly, and they trembled.

A low murmur arose from the inner room— a moan of awful agony, which broke into a shriek of pain. It was as if the utmost limit of endurance had been reached.

The girl sprang up, rushed to Zharkoff, and, seizing his arm, cried :

"Stop it— stop it! Do you hear me? They will kill him! Merciful Heaven! I will tell you everything! "

"With pleasure!" Zkarkoff rose and went to the door, which he struck twice.

Then he smilingly approached the countess.

"I am ready, Alexandrina Petya, to hear you."

Alexandrina was changed from the beauty of Catherine's court. Her face was the color of ashes, and her eyes sunk and red.

She began to speak in short, hurried sentences.

"The count and I are secretly married; we have one child."

"I know," said the prince ; "you are speaking the truth. Continue."

"We have no money!" gasped Alexandrina; "my husband has had losses, and the woman who has my child is hard and wants much to keep my secret. And the boy is so beautiful and—"

"The necklace?" reminded Zkar- koff's voice gently.

" I will tell you. This morning the empress after admiring it placed it on the table, and I thought— I thought—"

"That you would like to have it," said the quiet voice.

"Yes! I was wicked enough to wish for it to buy food and protection for my child. I snatched it up and hid it in my bodice. But it was big and heavy and the corners showed, so I pulled it out and put it behind the pillow on the divan, meaning to return and take it later. But when I came back it was gone. My husband knew nothing. He is guiltless. On the head of my child I swear that I speak truth!"

"Yes!" said the prince; "the truth has been hard to extract, but we have it now. But what has become of the necklace?"

Zkarkoff's face was clouded. His reputation was at stake, and he was absolutely without a clue. So certain had he been of this girl it had not occurred to him to suspect any one else.

A metal clang sounded outside, a signal that a message had come from the empress.

A small negro, clad in yellow and gold, rushed in, and he threw himself at Zkarkoff's feet.

" A letter?" inquired the prince. The boy rose, and, drawing a note wrapped in lilac silk from his vest, gave, it to Zkarkoff, who read hurriedly :

Beloved! Thy prophecy has come true! The necklace has been found in Irka's' (the monkey's basket.) Was this a jest of thine? I will scold thee for it to-morrow. Thy tailor is released. 'Twould have been in truth a 'pity to kill him before he had finished my surtout, which promises well. Thine ever,

Catarina.

" Humph ! " cried Zkarkoff. " For- tune must have thrown her shadow on me to-day. Countess," he continued, to the woman waiting in anxious suspense, " the necklace has been found, and you are free. Your husband will take you home. The marriage must be publicly announced. I will speak to the empress. My promise is given, and the count's affairs will be put in order. I have shown you I can be determined; let me also show you that Zkarkoff can be generous."

___________________

20: Desert Gesture

Anthony M. Rud

1893-1942

Blue Book, Aug 1930

Anthony Melville Rud

MOJAVE paid no seeming heed to the curious glances and half smiles vouchsafed him on his eastward train journey to Denver. His desert-seared countenance could not unbuckle a blush, no matter how hard the inside of him tried to produce that symptom of embarrassment. Yet when he left the train, he dragged a neat pack— his only luggage— back of him down the aisle of the Pullman, instead of strapping it across his capable shoulders.

Out in the steamy air of the train-shed, cool as yet with early morning, he looked about him calmly before going ahead. His eyes, which some Denverites would have called the color of London smoke— or others likened to a break in the steel of a prospector's drill— took in the scene without a hint of fluster. He never before had glimpsed a red-cap, but now he saw them busy with. the luggage of the other passengers. He watched a coin change hands. He understood. He spoke to one, holding up a silver dollar as if to flip it into the air from his thumb knuckle.

"Show me where to cache this for a while, an' then the way to a hotel," he commanded. "Can you catch?"

"I sho' can, boss!" exclaimed the surprised negro; and did. Then he lifted the pack, revising mightily his first-look opinion of the desert man.

Mojave Corlaes had passed through Denver once before, as a youth of fourteen— eighteen years before. That time he had sported cut-down and patched bib overalls, and had been barefooted, for the time had been summer. Now he wore a scuffed buckskin vest, a faded pink shirt which originally had been red, scuffed brown corduroys, run-over brogans which once had been tan, and a carefully brushed black felt, greenish around the band.

But there were other differences. These began to appear when the desk clerk at the outdated Rexford Hotel regarded this baggageless customer with a dubious air. "Cash in advance?" he questioned.

"All right, son," said Mojave, nodding. He brought out a roll of bills— a concession to portability he had made, on advice of the shrewd lawyer he had left back in Arizona— and dropped a sizeable one on the counter, then signed his name in a big, firm hand, on the register, while he waited for change. "No, I ain't goin' up. Mebbe there'll be some packages come; send 'em up, will you?"

"Of course. Certainly, sir! Anything more I can do to help out? The management always—"

"Knows its onions plumb from seeds to sets," the prospector finished for him. "Yeah, I reckon." The hint of a smile crept into the fine network of wrinkles about the smoky eyes. "It's all right, sonny. I know I look tough. This ain't my town, though. I got some business that wont keep. First off an' right now I got to go to the Miners' and Traders' National Bank. Whereabouts might I find it?"

The clerk's eyes swept upward to the yellowed face of an eight-day clock. "It doesn't open until nine— nearly two hours yet. But it's—" He came out from behind the counter and led the way to a big bay window overlooking the sidewalk, giving minute directions. "If you want to deposit valuables in the meantime, however, the management provides—"

"That?" queried Mojave, jerking a thumb toward a small, black-lacquered safe which reposed in the back wall above the level of the counter. He grinned, lifting the bottom flaps of his vest. Exposed then was the black wood butt of a special .38 revolver— with drop and balance gauged by some unknown genius, to the .45 frame— "the best shootin'-iron the world ever saw!"

FROM the hotel-man then, after a brief grin for a safe any miner could drill out of a wall and walk away with in ten minutes, Mojave secured two other ad- dresses, and the directions for getting to both places. He went first to the restaurant address. And there he found a big place in the very heart of the business district of Denver. But it was dark, locked. Outside, at a window fronting the street, there was a tempting display of pastry and other delectables. Also a menu card, "Flapjacks à la Mojave—40c." Above the two-page printed item was a placard:

THE BLUE HERON

Luncheon, Tea and Dinner

Stella Burdett Proprietor

"Doesn't open till about eleven-thirty," vouchsafed a Denver policeman who had halted to look at this strange person— a desert rat trying to get into a tea-room at quarter after seven in the morning!

"Thanks!" grinned Mojave. "I get up too early for this town— jest got in on the train from Arizona. They tell me guns is barred here, unless you get a permit. Now, I got a gun on me, but I shore need a permit. I'm carryin' a certified check— mebbe it's good, too— for a whole lot of money. D'you s'pose I could get a permit right quick?" He fished down in his pocket and brought forth the two ten-dollar gold-pieces, which with some smaller currency had been given him in change by the hotel clerk. Mojave passed them over to the officer, who took them deftly, and grinned.

"You look honest, feller," he said, suppressing part of a chuckle. "Tell the truth, we ain't lookin' for guns— much. I'll fix you up. You ain't gunnin' for nobody?"

"Not me," smiled Mojave. "I'm just aimin' to pertect something I'm carryin'— ontil yore blamed Miners' and Traders' National opens!"

"Well, I'll get you a three-day permit. Is that long enough?"

"Officer," said Mojave, "if I'm in this man's town three whole days, it'll be because I'm a corpse, havin' shot myself from plumb disgust!"

He winked as he said it. And as the policeman was nearing fifty, he knew Mojave's kind. With a clear conscience a few minutes later, he went back to the station-house, slipped a new ten-dollar gold-piece to the sergeant, and then mailed the permit to the hotel address the prospector gave.

Mojave, his steps slowing, started for the bank where he would find out the first of his troubles— find out if he had been bilked. The lawyer had said no.

But it was not yet time, he remembered. He plunged into a white-front restaurant, and there consumed a large orange, then another, then three orders of buckwheat cakes with syrup. And coffee. For breakfast dessert he had a third whole orange, not peeled. He ate that orange in his hands, scraping it in sugar. He had not even guessed how starved he had been for fruit like this. Nine years on the arid Mojave!

"I AIM to open a checkin' account, an' a savin's account, too." The prospector stood in the marble-walled, vaultlike room of the big bank. He was up before the polished brass grille of the receiving teller's window, inwardly a little awed at the magnificence, but showing none of that awe in his rough-hewn countenance.

"Certainly, sir. Step this way." The teller came out of his cage, and opened a door leading to a booth in which stood chairs and a glass-topped desk.

The prospector found himself writing on little cards. He inscribed his own name thrice, then looked up. "This checking account is for me," he said. "But the other ain't. It's all right if I write another name?"

"Certainly. The other person will have to drop in some time and leave specimen signatures— or send them in a letter, if he isn't in town."

Mojave nodded. He had a little difficulty about writing that name; but did so finally, in spite of a hard ring which seemed to have formed in his throat for the purpose of choking him. Then he reached down, brought up his rawhided roll of bills, and slowly peeled off ten of the largest. "That's for the savings," he said.

Behind his glasses the teller's eyes twitched ever so little at sight of the bills— and then widened as he read the name of the person who was to get this money.

But he was not a talkative sort. When the prospector drew from a wallet a folded yellow slip of paper and endorsed it, placing it atop the cards bearing his own signature, the teller looked at it closely, examining the certification.

"If that's all right— they told me it was—" began Mojave after a moment. To him checks were a new departure; and what differentiated a certified check from one of the ordinary sort was a mystery still.

When he walked out of the bank fifteen minutes later, however, Mojave Corlaes had a thorough working knowledge of a checking account. The bank teller had exerted himself in behalf of a new, and what looked like a startlingly profitable account.

MORE than two hours to kill. The striped pole of a barber-shop caught Mojave's eyes. He descended to the basement shop. There keen steel, liquid soap, and perfumed lotions were applied lavishly. Mojave grinned at the dude who grinned back at him from the looking- glass when he got up; and then frowned when he attempted to put on his battered felt hat—with this new style of haircut it came down over his ears.

Half an hour till twelve. The hat bothered him. He saw a sign: "Bensen and Williams, Outfitters to Men." He went in rather hesitantly, intending to buy a new hat— cream color preferred. He succeeded in making that purchase; but when he emerged from the store at ten minutes of one o'clock, that broad- brimmed hat was the only article of apparel which hinted that he was not of the city, quite conversant with its newest modes.

But though he felt queer— rather light and floppy— in his new attire, a brisk walk of three blocks brought back some of his assurance. No one paid him any attention now; he observed that. He stopped and bought a cigar; it was ten cents now instead of five, he noted. Prices had gone up to beat the band during the past nine years!

EVEN now he did not head straight for the tea-room. The show-window of a jewelry store drew his eye. He stopped in front of it, gazing fascinatedly at the gems and silver spread upon the purple velvet. "Gosh!" he breathed softly. "What would a woman like, d'you s'pose?"

Finding no answer to his question, he obeyed a sudden impulse, and entered. The store was almost deserted at, this hour; an urbane clerk appeared before him on the instant.

"What's the finest single piece of jewelry you got in the shop?" Mojave asked abruptly.

"The finest— eh?" The clerk paused, tapping his finger ends slowly together. His eyes searched the features and dress of this strange customer. The glance noted little details— the coppery tan of skin, the awkwardly tied bow tie, the slight discrepancy in the fit of a Norfolk jacket across a pair of shoulders widened by years of pick, drill and single-jack. "Just what sort of jewel were you seeking? A diamond, perhaps?"

"Nemmind the kind just now. I'm jest askin' one question. What is the best yuh got—an' how much is it?"

"W-why, I— I suppose you mean the Whitehall pearls. They are perfectly matched— sixty-four of them—" A slight stutter had attacked the salesman. His right foot moved an inch nearer the burglar alarm below the counter.

"How much?"

"Why— er— thirty-five thousand dollars is the price."

"And will you take a certified check on that there bank across the street?" Mojave jerked a thumb toward the granite pillars of the Miners' and Traders' National.

"Why, certainly. Surely—"

"All right. I'll be back, pronto."

With that, Mojave turned on his heel and crossed the street between the taxi-cabs. Twelve minutes later he re-entered the store, found his man, and shoved across the counter a blue stamped and mystically initialed check for thirty-five thousand dollars. "Jest give a paper statin' I got that much account here," he requested.

"But— don't you want to see the pearls? To take them— or have them delivered somewhere? I thought—"

"Mister," said Mojave quietly, "thinkin' ain't yore long suit today, I reckon. It ain't any trouble to you if I don't take yore goods for two-three days, is it?" A flash from the deep, smoky eyes put an edge to the demand. "I jest want a receipt for a sorta deposit, so's I or somebody else with the paper kin come in an' buy— up to thirty-five thousand."

The matter was adjusted then. Mojave would have to send a written order, if some one beside himself came in to make the purchase. Otherwise it was all splendid, lovely, perfectly delightful; they were duly grateful for his patronage. The clerk had regained his savoir faire to a certain degree. Nevertheless he mopped tiny beads of perspiration from his forehead with a monogrammed silk handkerchief, when the plate-glass door swung closed behind the customer. There had been a large and suspicious bulge over the right hip of that desperate-looking visitor!

NEARING the "Blue Heron, Mojave slowed. Somehow his knees felt weak, and the palms of his calloused hands had grown clammy. "Mebbe she don't want to see me—" he muttered thickly below his breath. This man, whose lean one hundred and ninety pounds of bone and muscle showed three bullet scars and a puckered knife slash received in separate, deadly combats, found his eyes focusing vaguely, his steps faltering, at the thought of entering— a tea-room!

But there was a fierce ache deep within him, and that drove him on. He entered, ascended eight steps, gave his hat to a blonde-haired girl in a bright blue uniform— good Lord, pants, she wore!— and walked slowly into a rather dim room, lighted only by small rose lamps on what seemed a thousand tiny tables. Men and women. A subdued hum of conversation. Up there somewhere out of sight, the weird nasal whine of an oboe, accompanied by. strings and muted brass.

A waitress took charge of him. She wore a blue dress, thank goodness! She led him to one side, where a deep seat ran all the way around the wall. Deftly she lifted away the small table, then replaced it as he sat down. A menu card was handed to him. A bus boy presented him with ice water, a basket of bread, two thin and icy pieces of butter, and an array of silver utensils sufficient for many complete courses.

Mojave's misery increased. For the moment he was tongue-tied, and he could not read the menu for a swimming of his vision. After a few moments, during which time he stole furtive glances the length and breadth of the restaurant— no, Stella wasn't there; of course she wouldn't be— the smiling waitress returned.

"And yours, sir?" she questioned, pencil on pad.

Mojave looked up, and was reassured. "Sister," he said, for he suddenly trusted the look of pert decency about her, "I'm jest off the desert, where I been nine years. I reckon I'll start in slow. Jest bring me somep'n light— an' a lot of coffee. I leave it to you."

She laughed, dimples appearing in her cheeks. "I'll treat you right, pardner!" she responded. "Are you real hungry?"

"Not for food. I can eat— but I came here for another reason. Is Stella— Miss Burdett— anywheres about? I— I'm aimin' to see her."

"I don't know; I'll see." She tripped away.

Five minutes later a somewhat older, rather stern-faced woman came from the offices in back, and was guided to Mojave's table. She looked at him with a piercing scrutiny. "Miss Burdett does not come here usually until five or six of an afternoon. Is there anything I can do for you?" she questioned. "I am the manager of the Blue Heron."

"Why— no— ma'am— that is, unless you kin tell me where I'll find Ste— Miss Burdett. I—"

"That really is hard to say," the woman responded with distant courtesy.' 'Miss Burdett owns four restaurants— the Pink Poodle, the Cock and Bull, the Spotted Fawn, and this one. She may be at any one— or at her city office in the Wallack Building. She—"

Of a sudden Greta Myers, the manager, broke off. She suddenly had connected up— or thought she had— a vague familiarity in the features of this stranger, with something else. She looked again, more intently. She leaned forward over the table.

"Tell me, do you know Miss Burdett well?" she demanded.

"I— used to," fumbled Mojave. He did not like those black eyes which bored into him. What was the matter with the woman, anyway?

"Then wait here a minute." Miss Myers strode away, threading the maze of tables, patrons and servitors with an ease and grace not seemingly compatible with her curveless figure.

Back in, the office— the office Stella Burdett had used as headquarters when she first launched into large-scale restaurant operation— the angular, stern-looking Miss Myers stared up at a framed picture just above the glass-topped desk. The picture did not belong to Miss Myers; a duplicate of this photograph— a glossy print copyrighted by a large photo agency— hung above the office-desk five places in the city of Denver. The photo showed a desert prospector cinching a pack on a patient burro— or so the caption on the picture alleged. Actually that burro, once the property of Mojave Corlaes, had been well termed "sweated dynamite done up in orneriness."

Miss Myers stared. She shook her head, and her thin lips dragged downward. It was the same man, no doubt of it! With a grimace of acknowledged neglect, she looked at the withered tip of Spanish dagger blossoms which slanted behind. She was supposed to renew this every day or two, but it just had slipped her mind. Miss Myers was unromantic—on the surface at least.

One finger touched a buzzer. "Send out for a tip of Spanish dagger right away. Go to Halleck's. If they haven't got it, bring six of their best American beauties. Hurry!" she directed. Then she lifted the receiver of her telephone, calling her employer.

Four minutes later, as Mojave was chewing disconsolately at the fragment of a bread-stick, the forbidding-looking Miss Myers came down the aisle and stopped. She leaned over. "Miss Burdett will be here to see you in fifteen minutes— or less!" she snapped, looking quite as though she would bite off the head of poor Mojave for far less than the price of a bread-stick.

Then she left. She had been fully determined to tell him about the photograph in the office. But at the last minute habit had been too strong. Miss Myers stalked away, a flush coming up to burn the sallow of her cheeks. Damn men! Damn herself! Stella Burdett had known what she was doing, after all. What a man he looked to be!

Food was nothing. It had stuck in his throat for fifteen minutes, twenty. The tall man could not sit still. He carved deep and savage dents in the tablecloth with a dull silver knife. He choked over canapes Lucullus, which tasted faintly of fish— though he liked fish, ordinarily.

There had been a drink served. It was yellow-greenish, in a small glass. And it had some funny-looking thing sunk to the bottom. Mojave knew it was liquor, by the smell; but he was sizing up a dry Martini cocktail for the first time in his life. And this, too, was the first olive in his narrow gustatory career.

Now he reached out, nearly crushing the fragile glass, raised it to his lips, and gulped. Tingly and queer— not bad. The small green prune— ugh! He pretended to cough— leaned over, spat it out.

"Damn such stuff!" he muttered, wiping his mouth with the tiny napkin. He looked up— and there was Stella. She was holding out a hand to him, silently.

NINE years! It does much to the soul of a man who is alone in the desert— and likewise to a woman who waits for him. Mojave was a fool in some city ways, and some woman's ways. Slowly, an inch at a time, his own two hands came up. But he no more than clasped her hand the briefest of instants.

He saw now that she was not the girl with a pick, old Burdett's daughter, whom he then had loved—that half-wild, snappy- tongued young girl in rags whom he had loved...

Here was a more slender, more perfectly formed woman, impeccably groomed. Where had been a scrawny neck, a flat chest like that of a boy— oh, God! She wore a droopy hat that became her; a light gray, filmy summer dress, V-necked. Mojave, with the last of his supposed courage oozing out through his heels into the floor like a vagrant electric current, knew that across the table from him now stood one of the most beautiful women in the world. Her features had become more fine. Her eyes were dreamy— had lost their antagonism, somehow, She had rounded out— and at the same time had seemed to grow more tall and slender.

Stella said not a word. Her hand, and the message in her eyes, she thought enough. As most women do, she undervalued the love of the man, and overvalued his knowledge of women. Tears had sprung to the eyes of Mojave— and he was as hard-boiled a specimen as the desert had produced for many a year.

"I reckon— I'm sayin' hello— an'— good-by," he stated painfully. With clearness he saw now how utterly idiotic his notion had been— thinking Stella would still be the bright, alive, but well-nigh uncultured girl she had been nine years before.

"Oh, no, you're not, my friend," denied Stella, a smiling mask coming up quickly before her eyes. "After nine years— well, I demand at least three or four days! Isn't that my due, even if you don't care about me much any more?"

"Oh, Lord, yes! Stella—"

"Please don't tell me you have forgotten it! I— well, Mr. Prospector, have you got the stake you promised— the ten thousand dollars? You always were a stubborn cuss."

Stella spoke lightly, yet she waited. If the man had come back to her like a coyote with his tail between his legs, she believed she would send him packing— even though she had waited for him nine long years. Not that she needed capital. Her restaurants could be sold any day for big money. But the man had left her when she first loved him, swearing that he would wring ten thousand out of old Mojave. He had been stubborn as a mule. She had derided his belief. Now he was back— after saying he never would look at her again until he had made this stake. Stubborn. She had written him ten or a dozen letters, telling him she had more than the stake he named— once or twice actually pleading with him to come back.....

Silence. Some of the letters had come back, after weary months.

Mojave never had received a single one of those missives. He had possessed no headquarters, no postal address, until quite recently.

"I— made it," he answered, fingers searching for the brown-covered bank- book, then coming away in haste. He could see for himself that this was no present for a woman like Stella had become.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" There was no doubt of her sincerity and delight. She came and sat beside him on the bench. "You really did find another Yellow Aster? Tell me about it!"

"No, not gold. Tungsten. A lot of it. You know, since the war— it's gone up. Twelve dollars a pound, now, and still going up—"

Mojave's lips moved. Haltingly, dryly he told a fractional part of that magic romance of the desert. Out there in the arid wastes he had come upon a mountain of heavy ore— ore which assayed tungstic acid sixty per cent to the unit. They were piping water out forty miles— because tungsten somehow tempered steel, and steel now was needed in vast quantities.

Stella knew nothing of tungsten. Twelve dollars a pound did not sound to her like treasure, daughter of a gold prospector as she was. Inwardly she supposed that Mojave's search had netted him little more than that determined stake— a sum so pitifully small now in these days of rapidly advancing prices.

But she smiled, cajoled him, played the part of brilliant hostess— little suspecting that through each succeeding minute the man's heart sank lower in his boots. In turn she told how a few thousand dollars, inherited from an uncle of hers, had established her in business. She did not say how enormous that business had become almost overnight; how the name of Stella Burdett, with her new and enormously popular style of restaurant, had come to be a front-page newspaper commonplace in this city of quick action.

For Mojave, however, the money meant nothing. He was glad for her— and sorry for himself that he had not found her on the verge of starvation! It was the woman herself. At thirty, and almost without a vestige of formal education, she had made herself, outwardly at least, a thorough aristocrat. If there were signs pointing otherwise, Mojave could not see them.

The man ate no more. He finally drew out the little bankbook, keeping a broad thumb over the name on the page, and exhibited the entry— $10,000. "Jest so's yuh wouldn't think I was lyin', Stella," he said huskily. He was conscious that his hand— his peerless gun-hand!— was trembling like that of an old man afflicted with the palsy.

"You don't imagine I wouldn't take your word, Bill?" she asked softly. He had never been Mojave to her. "But your luncheon— don't let me—"

"I couldn't eat bacon an' beans! Not even them any more!" he said positively.

"That's your superlative, still?" she laughed, noting from the corner of her eye the untouched breast of "Stubbleduck" (Chinese pheasant) au Chardelaine, on his plate.

"Stella, I— well— you see— hell, I want to do something. I made more'n that stake I showed you. I want to— I want to give yuh a present— jest somep'n to remember me by. You know—"

He was floundering desperately now, and his eyes avoided hers. Inwardly sensitive for all his poker face and steel-corded muscles, he was in abject misery; only a determination as hard as his own mountain of tungsten drove him on. Stella was as high above him as the bright blue star of evening; yet—

Somehow he made her understand. Her hazel eyes had clouded a little with a look of pain, delight, amazement. She was used to reading men. His trouble was not that he had ceased to love her, but that he loved her too greatly! Too greatly that is, for even a modicum of common sense; it is doubtful that any woman ever has thought herself loved too much.

And suddenly her vivacity, every shred of her pose of hostess— nearly real with her now— departed. She was not even smiling. Oddly quiet, she went along the aisle, seeing none of the men, hearing none of the greetings from her customers—

WITH Mojave she descended to the street. He seemed to have a definite goal farther up the street. He had. It was the jewelry store with the purple velvet draped show-windows. They entered. And with almost suspicious celerity a clerk separated himself from an undecided customer back at the wrist-watch counter, and made for them. It was the same clerk.

He came— and made a sign with his right hand. The store detective sauntered out, and down toward the entrance.

Mojave noticed none of this. He nodded abruptly to the salesman, tossing him a small, wadded paper, the receipt. "Stella," he said. "I'd 'a' got yuh somep'n, only I know yuh'd rather pick it out. Anything this shop's got. Mister, among other things, show her those pearls." The last was addressed to the man behind the counter, on whose countenance had appeared the slightest trace of a knowing smile.

Stella looked at him. "Do you mean," she asked in a queer tone, "that you want to give me whatever— I— I want in this whole store?"

"Yeah. It's already paid for. All yuh got to do is pick it out." Mojave was staring out at the cold, gray majesty of the bank pillars across the street. He could not bear to look at her any more.

The woman's eyes flicked at the sales-person inquiringly. "I shall bring the Whitehall pearls immediately," he said.

"Don't bother," said Stella. She drew Mojave a little away. "Bill," she said with a queer rush of breath, "instead of one big present, would— would you let me pick three smaller, but not so expensive ones?"

"A hundred, if yuh want 'em," said Mojave. "Honey—" Only that last word was not articulated. Somehow his throat was strangulated.

Stella had turned back. She went swiftly along the counter, tap-tapping a little finger signet on the glass. Before the superb display of ring sets she stopped. "Size seven and a quarter. That one!" she whispered, pointing to a one-carat square-cut diamond solitaire deep set in platinum, resting beside a chased platinum band ring.

She looked back; Mojave had not moved. Head erect and shoulders squared, he was faced away— a million miles away. Though Stella could not guess, the man was gazing through the blue-black veil of desert darkness toward a sinking evening star— the blue planet Venus. Not to touch a star—

So Stella fitted the ring, and found the size perfect. She took the box with it and its fellow. She went to Mojave. "Were all fixed," she said, touching his arm. "I have two of my three presents— and you have some change coming, big man!"

"Leave it there, till you want somep'n else. It's yores," answered Mojave quietly. "I've owed you more'n you ever will know. Stella. Life from now on ain't wuth a damn; but it has been— out under the desert stars! I've—" But there speech deserted him.

"Come on out," bade Stella Burdett. She distinctly did not like this; and she would put an end to it if she could. God, what dumb creatures men were!

"You didn't even ask me what I selected for my two-out-of-three presents," she reminded him, when they were on the side-walk.

"It don't matter, Stella,' he said. "I hope you'll be wearin' 'em, to remember me by. I— I jest ain't good enough for you, girl. I know it."

"Bill," she said softly, a smile— and years of longing— in her eyes, "if I ever wear these to 'remember you by,' I surely won't have a chance to forget— will I?" And she snapped open the box, holding up to his gaze a diamond engagement solitaire— and a thin chased band of platinum.

Mojave's lips moved, though no sound came from them at first. '"They's a God in heaven. They's a God—" were the words he framed soundlessly.

"You haven't asked me what was the third present I wanted," she said, pretending to pout, though the rejoicing in her eyes would not be quelled.

"Oh, Lord, my sweet, tell me quick! I—"

She smiled at him. And in her eyes was the delight and understanding that for her had been kept the best of all men. "It's something I've had— but never given, Bill. A kiss! With you here, all the rest of this—" she gestured at the busy street and the people who looked at them inquisitively— "is the last mountain range in the Mojave!" She came a step closer and lifted her arms, to place them about his neck.

With a cry that was no word, Mojave flung his arms about her and pressed his lips on hers.

THAT afternoon late, Elbert Pettingill, of the branch jewelry store of Dayson, Moore, Incorporated, brought a paper to the store manager. "That was our crazy man!" he said.

In a preferred position was a tale of how one William (Mojave) Corlaes, the desert rat, had sold his group of claims on a tungsten mountain, to a British-American syndicate, for the sum of six hundred and forty thousand dollars.

End

Table of Contents

1: Murder in Morocco / Frederick C. Painton

2: How I Heard My Own Will Read / M. E. Braddon

3: The Strange Case of Thomas Blakewitch / Wm. E. Lanham

4: Radium Nemesis / Carey Moran

5: A Female Crusoe / Captain R. F. Coffin

6: McKeevers Dinosaur / George L. Knapp

7: Fresh Paint / John Clemons

8: The Poppa-Guy and the Flapper / George B. Jenkins, Jr.

9: The Fur-Lined Overcoat / Will A. Page

10: Dead Man's Hand / Henry A. Hering

11: The Crew of the Flying Dutchman / Henry A. Hering

12: Vanderdecken's Message Home / Anonymous

13: Time to Unmask / William Almon Wolff

14: Lucifer / Achmed Abdullah

15: A Parish Scandal / Athol Forbes

16: The Sting of Victory / Paul Vernier

17: Passion Fruit / H. De Vere Stacpoole

18: Films and Flapjacks / Sam Hellman

19: The Necklace of Rubies / Lee Holt

20: Desert Gesture / Anthony M. Rud