PAST MASTERS 236

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

23 Sep 2025

Contents

1: Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom / Irvin S. Cobb

2: The Mysterious Occurrence in Piccadilly / Grant Allen

3: Preliminaries / Cornelia Atwood Comer

4: The Damned Thing / Ambrose Bierce

5: A Catspaw / Jack Rugby

6: Bread Upon The Waters / J. S. Fletcher

7: Almost Immortal / Austin Hall

8: The Failure / Harold Ward

9: Planned by the Stars / C. S. Montanye

10: The Cat / E. F. Benson

11: The Vampire / Sydney Horler

12: The Blue-Nosed Vampire / James Francis Dwyer

Two Reviews by Terry Walker:

13: The Colossus of Arcadia (E Phillips Oppenheim) 1938

14: Wreckers Must Breathe (Hammond Innes) 1940

15: Fear / Stephen French Whitman

16: Otto Dotso's Trouble / Anonymous

17: The Afterglow / Frank Reid

18: All Gold Cañon / Jack London

19: The Fads of David Dadd / John Arthur Barry

20: The Brink of a Future / Frank H. Sweet

21: The Birthday Pearl / John Arthur Barry

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1: Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom

Irvin S. Cobb

1876-1944

The Saturday Evening Post, 9 June 1917

MAJOR PUTNAM STONE is dead, but his soul goes marching on. Mainly it does its marching on at Midsylvania University. Every fall, down yonder, on the night of the day of the last game of the season, when the squad has broken training and many of the statutes touching on the peace and quiet of the community, there is a dinner. At the end of this dinner the captain of the team stands up at one end of the table and chants out: "Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom!"— just like that. Whereupon there are loud cheers. And then, at the far end of the table from him, the chairman of the athletic community stands up in his place and lifts his mug and says, in the midst of a little silence: "To the memory of Major Putnam Stone!" Then everybody rises and drinks; and there are no heel-taps.

This ceremony is never omitted. It is a tradition; and they go in rather strongly for traditions at Midsylvania, and always have since the days when there was not much else to Midsylvania except its traditions. The team may have won that afternoon, or it may have lost. The boys may be jubilating for the biggest victory of the whole year, or, over the trenches and the tankards, consoling themselves and one another for an honorable defeat at the hands of their classic rival, Vanderbeck. It makes no difference. Win or lose, they toast the shade and the name of Major Stone.

So there is no danger that the Major will be forgotten at the University, any more than there is danger of such a thing coming to pass in the Evening Press shop where the Major used to work. Most of the old hands who worked there with him once upon a time are gone elsewhere now. One or two or three are dead and the rest of us, with few exceptions, have scattered over the country. But among the men who are our successors on the staff the spirit of the old man walks, and there is a tale of him to be told to each beginner who comes on the paper. It is as much a part of the history of the city room as the great stories that Ike Webb, who was our star man, wrote back in those latter nineties; as much a part as the sayings and the doings of little Pinky Gilfoil, who passed out last year, serving with the American ambulance corps over in France.

The last time I was down that way I stopped over between trains and went around on Jefferson Street to look the old place over. It was late in the afternoon, after press time for the final edition, and the day force had all departed; but out of the press-room to greet me came limping old Henry, the black night watchman, who, according to belief, had been a fixture of the Evening Press since the corner stone of the building was laid.

"Yassuh," said Henry to me after this and that and the other thing had been discussed back and forth between us; "we still talks a mighty much about ole Majah. Dis yere new issue crop of young w'ite genelmens we got workin' 'round yere now'days gits a chanc't to hear tell about him frequent an' of'en. They's a picture of him hangin' upstairs in de big boss' room on de thud flo'. Big boss, he sets a heap of store by 'at air picture. An' they tells me 'at de mate to it is hangin' up in 'at air new structure w'ich they calls de Forbes Memorial, out at de Univussity."

If my recollection serves me aright I have once or twice before touched on sundry chapters in the life and works of the old Major, telling how, for him, nothing of real consequence happened in this world between the surrender of Lee at Appomattox and the day, nearly forty years later, when all his tidy property was wiped out in an unfortunate investment, and he moved out of his suite at the old Gault House and abandoned his armchair in a front window at the Shawnee Club, and, at the age of sixty-four and a salary of twelve dollars a week, took a job as cub reporter on the Evening Press; how because he would persist in gnawing at the rinds of old yesterdays instead of nosing into the things of the current day he was a most utter and complete failure at the job; how once through chance, purely, he uncovered the whoppingest scoop that a real reporter could crave for and then chucked it away again to save a woman who by the standards of all proper people wasn't worth saving in the first place; how by compassion of the owner of the paper and against the judgment of everybody else, he hung on all through the summer, a drag upon the organization and a clog on the ankle of City Editor Wilford Devore; how on the opening day of the famous Lyric Hall convention he finally rose to an emergency that was of his liking and with the persuasive aid of a brace of long-barrelled, ivory-handled cavalry revolvers stampeded the Stickney gang, when they tried by force to seize the party machinery, having first put that official bad man and deputy subheader of the opposition, Mink Satterlee, out of business, by love-tapping Mink upon his low and retreating forehead with the butt end of one of his shooting irons; and how then as a reward therefor, he was made war-editor of the sheet, thereafter fitting comfortably and snugly into a congenial berth especially devised and created for his occupancy. All this has elsewhere been told.

This present tale, which has to do in part with the Major and in part with the student body of Midsylvania, dates from sometime after the day when he became our war editor, and was writing those long and tiresome special articles of his, dealing favorably with Jackson's Campaign in the Valley, and unfavorably with Sherman's March to the Sea.

Midsylvania, those days, was a university with a long vista of historic associations behind it and a puny line of endowments to go forward on; so it went forward very slowly indeed. To get the most favorable perspective on Midsylvania you must needs look backward into a distinguished but moldy past, and consider the list of dead-and-gone warriors and statesmen and educators and clergymen who had been graduated in the class of '49 or the class of '54, or some other class. Chief among its physical glories were a beech tree, under which Daniel Boone was said to have camped overnight once; an ancient chapel building of red brick, with a row of fat composition pillars, like broken legs in plaster casts, stretching across its front to uphold its squatty portico; and in the center of the campus, a noseless statue of Henry Clay.

Sons of Old Families in the state attended it, principally, I suppose, because their fathers before them had attended it; sons of new families mostly went elsewhere for their education. With justice, you might speak of Midsylvania as being conservative, which was true; but when you said that, you said it all, and it let you out. There was nothing more to be said.

If poor shabby old Midsylvania lagged behind sundry of her sister schools in the matter of equipment, most certainly and most woefully did she lag behind them in the matter of athletics. In that regard, and perhaps other regards, she was an Old Ladies' Home. Eight governors of American commonwealths, six of them dead and two yet living, might be listed on the roster of her alumni— and were; but you sought in vain there for the name of a great pitcher or of a consistent winner of track events, or of a champion pole vaulter. If anybody mentioned Midsylvania in connection with college sports, it was to laugh. So there was a good deal of laughing one fall when, for the first time, she went in for football. The laughter continued, practically without abatement, through that season; but early the following season it died away altogether, to be succeeded by a wave of astonishment and of reluctantly conceded admiration, which ran from the Ohio River to the Gulf of Mexico, and from the Atlantic Seaboard to the Mississippi River. Other football teams began to respect Midsylvania's football team. They had to; she mauled it into their respective consciousness.

The worm had turned— and turned something besides the other cheek, at that; for in that second year she won her first game, which was her game with Exstein Normal. Now Exstein Normal came up proudly, like an army glorious with banners, and went down abruptly, like a scuttled ship: Score, thirty-one to nothing. Following on this, she beat Holy Mount's team of fiery Louisiana Creoles, with a red-headed demon of a New Orleans Irish boy for their captain; and, in succession, she took on and overcame Cherokee Tech., and Alabama State, and Bayless.

She held to a tie what was conceded to be the best team that Old Dominion had ever mustered; and Vanderbeck, the largest and, athletically considered, the strongest of them all, bested her only by the narrowest and closest of margins on Vanderbeck's own gridiron. It was one of the upsetting things that never can happen, but occasionally do, that Midsylvania should go straight through to Thanksgiving Day with a miraculous record of five victories, one tie and one defeat out of seven games played, and with not a man in the regular lineup seriously damaged. And yet not so miraculous either when you came to cast up causes to find results. Her men had steam and had speed and had strategy, which meant team-work; in fact, they had everything. Heaven alone knew where, within the space of one year they had got it, but they had it: that was the main point, the incontrovertible detail.

You know the old saying: Home folks are always the last ones to appreciate us. More or less I think this must have been true of us as regards our own University's football outfit. Undoubtedly a lot had been written and said in cities farther south about it, before the Evening Press and the other papers in town began fully to realize that Midsylvania was putting the town on the football map. But when we did realize it we gave her and her team front page space and sporting page space, and plenty of both. Before we had been content to bestow upon her a weekly column which one of the undergraduates turned in at space rates, and pretty poor space rates at that— departmental stuff, mostly dealing with faculty changes, and Greek letter society doings and campus gossip and such-like. Now though almost anything that anybody on the staff or off of it chose to grind out about the boys who wore the M on their sweater breasts found a warm welcome after it landed on the City Editor's desk. Local pride in local achievement had been roused and if anybody knows of anything stronger than local pride in a city of approximately a hundred and fifty thousand population, please tell me what it is. We covered the games that were played at home that year as fully as the limitations of a somewhat scanty staff permitted, and Ike Webb was detailed to travel with the squad when it played away from home. He sent back by telegraph, regardless of expense, stories on the games abroad, which were smeared all over the sheet under spread heads and signed as being "By Our Special Staff Correspondent." They were good stories— Ike was not addicted to writing bad ones, ever— and they made circulation.

There is no telling how many letters from subscribers came to the chief commending him for his journalistic enterprise. He ran a good many of them. The paper rode with the team on the crest of the popularity wave. Trust Devore for that. He had a sense for news-values which compensated and more than compensated for certain temperamental shortcomings as exhibited inside the plant.

One day in the tail end of November the old Major came stumping down the stairs from his sanctum— anyhow, he always called it his sanctum— upon the top floor in a little partitioned-off space adjoining the chief's office, where he had a desk of his own and where he did his work. He had a wad of copy paper in his hand. In dress and in manner he was the same old Major that he had been in the flush times two years back, when he used to come in daily, ostensibly to get some exchanges but really to sit and sit, and bore everybody who would listen with tiresome long accounts of things that happened between 1861 and 1865— not the shabby forlorn figure he became that first summer after he got his twelve-dollar-a-week job— but his former self, recreated all over again. His full-breasted shirt of fine linen jutted out above the unbuttoned top of his low waistcoat in pleaty, white billows and his loose black sailor's tie made a big clump at his throat where the ends of his Lord Byron collar came together. His cuffs almost covered his hands and his longish white hair was like silk floss lying on his coat collar behind. That little white goatee of his jutted out under his lower lip like a tab of carded wool. Altogether he was the Major of yore, rejoicing sartorially in his present state of comparative prosperity. The boys around the shop always said that if the Major had only ten dollars and fifty cents in the world he would spend five dollars of it for his club dues and five of it on his wardrobe and give the remaining fifty cents to some beggar. I guess he would have, too.

He came downstairs this day and walked up to Devore, and laid down his sheaf of pages at Devore's elbow. "A special contribution, sir," he said very ceremoniously.

Devore ran through the first page, which was covered with pencil marks— the Major always wrote his stuff out in long hand— and glanced up, a little bit astonished.

"Kind of out of your usual line, isn't it, Major Stone?" he asked.

"In a measure, sir— yes," stated the old man; and he rocked on his high heels as though he might be nervous regarding the reception his contribution would have in this quarter. "Under the circumstances I feel justified in a departure from the material I customarily indite. But if you feel—"

"Oh, that's all right!" said Devore, divining what the Major meant to say before the Major finished saying it. "There's always room for good stuff."

He laid the first sheet aside and shuffled through the sheets under it, picking out lines and appraising the full purport of the manuscript, as any skilled craftsman of a newspaper copy desk can do in half the length of time an outsider would be needing to make out the sense of it.

"About young Morehead, eh? I didn't know you knew him, Major?"

"Personally I do not. But, in his lifetime, I knew his gallant father well; in fact, intimately. For some months we served together on the staff of General Leonidas Polk. Accordingly I felt qualified by my personal acquaintance with his family to treat of the subject as I have treated it."

"Oh, I see!" Devore gave an involuntary smile quick burial in the palm of his cupped hand. "And so you've caught the fever too?"

"Fever, sir? What fever?"

"I mean you've got yourself all worked up about football, the same as everybody else in town?"

"Not at all, sir. Of the game of football I know little or nothing. In my college days we concerned ourselves in our sportive hours with very different pursuits and recreations."

The Major, as we knew from hearing him tell about it a hundred times, had left the University of Virginia in his second year to enlist in the army. And we knew his views on the subject of sports. If a young person of the masculine gender could waltz with the ladies, and ride a horse well enough to follow the hounds without falling off at the jumps, and with a shotgun could kill half the birds he fired at— these, from the Major's standpoint, were accomplishments enough for any Southern gentleman, now that the use of dueling pistols had died out. We had heard him say so, often.

"Football, considered as a game, does not interest me," he went on now. "I have never seen it played. But on account of Mr. James Payne Morehead, Junior, I am interested. Being of the strain of blood that he is, I am constrained to believe he will acquit himself in a manner worthy of his ancestry, wheresoever he may be placed. In the article you have there before you I have said as much."

"So I notice," said Devore, keeping most of the irony out of his tone. "Thank you, Major— we'll stick the yarn in tomorrow." And then, as the old man started out: "By the way, Major Stone, if you've never seen a game you might enjoy seeing the one next Saturday— against Sangamon. It'll be your last chance this season. I'll save you out a press ticket— if you don't mind sitting in the newspaper box with the boys that I'll have out there covering the story?"

"I am obliged to you, sir," said Major Stone. "I shall be pleased to avail myself of the courtesy, and nothing could afford me more pleasure than to have the company of my youthful compatriots in the field of journalistic endeavor on that occasion."

He talked like that. Talking, he made you think of the way some people write in their letters, not of the way anybody else on earth spoke in ordinary conversation.

Out he went then, all reared back and Devore read the copy through, chuckling to himself. It wasn't a malicious chuckle, though. Devore was not likely to forget what the Major did for him that day eighteen months before at the Lyric Hall convention when Bad Mink Satterlee tried to cave in Devore's skull with a set of brass knuckles and doubtlessly would have carried the undertaking through successfully if Major Stone hadn't been so swiftly deft with the ivory butt of one of his pair of cavalry pistols, nor to forget how nasty he, as City Editor, had been before that, during all the months of the Major's apprenticeship as a sixty-four-year-old cub reporter.

"Just like the old codger!" he said, tapping the manuscript with his hand affectionately. "Starts out to write about the kid; gives the kid a couple of paragraphs; and then uses up twenty pages more telling what great men the kid's father and grandfather were. Here, you fellows, just listen a minute to this."

He read a few sentences aloud.

"Get the angle, don't you? Major figures that any spunk and any sense the Morehead boy's got is a heritage from his revered ancestors, and that he'll just naturally have to make good because he had 'em for his ancestors. Well, at that, the Maje is probably right, without realizing it. I'm thinking Captain James Payne Morehead, Junior, and his bunch of little fair-haired playmates are going to need something more than they've got now when they go up against that bunch of huskies from Sangamon next Saturday. How about it, eh?" We knew about it, or at least we thought we knew about it, as surely as anyone may know in advance of the accomplished event. There was a note of foreboding in the answers we made to our immediate superior there in the city room. One of the boys summed it up: "'Pride goeth before a fall,'" he said; "and biting off more than you can chaw is bad on the front teeth— provided the Midsylvania eleven have any front teeth left after the Sangamon eleven get through toying with their bright young faces on Saturday afternoon." Which, differently expressed, perhaps, was the common sentiment. A chill of dread was descending upon the community at large; in fact, had been descending like a dark, dank blanket for upward of a week now. During the first few hours after the announcement came out that the team of Sangamon College, making their post-season tour, would swing downward across Messrs. Mason and Dixon's justly celebrated survey marks for the express purpose of playing against Midsylvania, there had been a flare-up of jubilation that was statewide.

It was no small honor for victorious Midsylvania that her football eleven should be the chosen eleven below the Line to meet these all-conquering gladiators from above it. So everybody agreed, at the outset. But on second thought, which so often is the better thought of the two, the opportunity seemed, after all, not so glorious. A hero may go down leading a forlorn hope— may die holding a last ditch— and posterity possibly will applaud him; but we may safely figure that he does not greatly enjoy himself while thus engaged; nor can his friends and well-wishers, looking on, be so very happy, either, over the dire and distressful outcome of the sacrificial deed. The nearer came the day of the game and the more people read about the strength of the invaders, the more dismal loomed the prospect for the defenders.

To begin with, Sangamon was one of the biggest fresh-water colleges on the continent, and one of the richest. Sangamon had six times as many students enrolled as Midsylvania, which meant, of course, six times the bulk of raw material from which to pick and choose for her team. Sangamon had a professional coach, paid trainers and paid rubbers; and Sangamon had a fat fund to support her in her athletic endeavors.

Midsylvania, it is almost needless to state, had none of these. Sangamon had gone through the fall, mopping up ambitious contenders, east and west, due north, north by east, and north by west. Sangamon had two players— not one, but actually two— that the experts of the New York dailies had nominated for the All-American— her fullback, Vretson, known affectionately and familiarly as the Terrible Swede; and her star end, Fay, who, in full football panoply of spiked shoes and padded knickers, had, on test, done a hundred yards in twelve seconds flat. It isn't so very often that the astigmatic Eastern sharps can see across the Appalachians when they come to make up the roster of nominees for the seasonal hall of football fame. This year, though, they had looked as far inland as Sangamon. At the peril of a severe eyestrain they had to, because Sangamon simply would not be denied.

This was what Midsylvania must go up against this coming Saturday afternoon. Wherefore the apprehension of disaster was that thick you could slice it with a knife.

THEY PLAYED the game out at Morehead Downs, where every year the Derby was run. Neither the baseball park nor the rutty common at the back of the University campus, where the Varsity scrubs and regulars did their stint at practice, could begin to hold the number that was due to attend this game, decent weather being vouchsafed. So Morehead Downs it was, with the lines blocked out in the turf on the inner side of the white fence that bounded the track, a little way up the home stretch, so that the judges' stand should not cut off the view of any considerable number of the spectators sitting across in the grand stand.

For the newspaper fellows they rigged up elbowroom accommodations of bench and table against the base of the judges' kiosk. There we sat— Ike Webb and the Major and Gil Boyd, who was our sporting editor, and myself, all in a row— and there we had been sitting for nearly an hour before the time for starting. Ike Webb was to do the introduction and Gil Boyd the running account of the game, play by play. My job was to keep tab of incidents and local-color stuff generally. But the old Major was there as a spectator merely.

He certainly saw a sight. In that town we always measured multitudes by our Derby Day figures; yet even Derby Days did not often turn out a bigger crowd than the crowd that swarmed to the Downs that bright gusty December afternoon. The governor came down from the capital and most of the statehouse force came with him. There were excursions by rail in from out in the state, all of them mighty well patronized.

As for the local attendance— well, so far as compiling a directory of the able-bodied adult white population and a fair sprinkling of the black was concerned, the enumerators could have simplified and expedited their task considerably by going up and down the aisles and jotting down the names as they went. They could have made a fairly complete census of our prominent families without straying beyond the confines of the reserved-seat section at the front, or fashionable, side of the grand stand. And if a single society girl in town was absent it was because her parents or her guardian kept her at home under lock and key.

Before two o'clock, the slanting floor beneath the high-peaked red roof of the structure made you think of a big hanging garden, what with the faces and the figures of all those thousands packed in together, row after row of them, with the finery of the women standing out from the massed background in brighter patches of color, and the little red pennons that the venders had peddled in the audience all dancing and swaying, like the petals of wind-blown flowers. That spectacle alone, viewed from our vantage place over across the race course, was worth the price of admission to anybody.

Carrying the simile a bit farther, you might have likened two sections of space in the stand to hothouses where noise was being brought into bloom, by both artificial and natural means. One of these forcing beds of sound was where Midsylvania grouped herself— faculty and students and old graduates. The other, a smaller area, held the visitors from Sangamon, two hundred strong and more, who had come down three hundred miles by special train, to root for the challengers, bringing with them a brass band and their own glee club— or a good part of it, anyhow— and their own cheer leader.

This cheer leader, being the first of a now common species ever seen in our parts, succeeded in holding the public eye mighty closely, as he stood, bareheaded and long-haired, down below on the track, with his gaudy blue-and-gold sweater on, and his big megaphone in his hand, jerking his arms and his body back and forth as he directed his chorus above in its organised cheering and its well-drilled singing of college songs.

Compared with this output, Midsylvania's cheering arose in larger volume, which was to be expected, seeing that Midsylvania so greatly excelled in numbers present, and had behind its delegations the favor of the onlookers almost to a unit'; but, even so, it seemed to lack the force and fervor of those vocal volleys arising from the ranks of the enemy. Each time Sangamon let off a yell it was platoon firing, steady and rapid and brisk; and literally it crackled on the air. When this had died away, and Midsylvania had answered back, the result somehow put you in mind of a boy whistling to keep up his courage while passing a cemetery after dark.

It is hard to express the difference in words, but, had you been there that day, you would have caught it in a jiffy. One group was certain of victory impending and expressed its certainty; the other was doubtful and betrayed it. In the intervals between the whooping and the singing Sangamon's imported band would play snatches of some rousing air, or else Midsylvania's band would play; between the two of them pumping up the pulse beats of all and sundry.

I was struck by one thing— the Major maintained calm and dignity through all the preliminary excitement. In the moment of the first really big outburst, which was when the Varsity's students and former students marched in behind their band, out of the tail of my eye I caught the Major with a pencil, checking off the names of the home squad on his copy of the official programme. Knowing the old fellow as I did, I guessed he was figuring up to see how many of the players were members of Old Families. Nearly all of them were, for that matter. He even held himself in when, at two-fifteen or thereabouts, first one of the teams and then the other trotted out from under opposite ends of the grand stand and crossed the track to the field to warm up.

He asked me to point out young Morehead to him; and when I did he nodded as if in affirmation of a previous decision of his own. On my own initiative I pointed out some of the other stars to him too.

In advance we knew Sangamon was going to have the advantage of beef on her side; but I do not think anybody realized just how great the advantage was until we saw the two teams on the same ground and had opportunity to compare and appraise them, man for man. Then we saw, with an added sinking of the spirit— at least I knew my spirit sank at the inequality of the comparison— that her front line outweighed ours by pounds upon pounds of brawn.

In another regard as well, and a more essential regard, too, she showed superiority. For these champions from the upper Corn Belt had what plainly their opponents always before during the season had likewise had, but now lacked: they had an enormous conceit of themselves, a mountainous and a monumental belief in their ability to take this game away from the rival team.

They had brought it with them— this assurance— and they had fed it stall-fat beforehand; and now, with the easy and splendid insolence of lusty, pampered youth, they exhibited it openly before all these hostile eyes upon the enemy's soil. It showed in them individually and as a unit. Almost as visibly as though words of defiance had been stencilled upon their tight-laced jerkins fore and aft, they flaunted forth their confidence in themselves, somehow expressing it in their rippling leg muscles and in their broad backs and in their hunched shoulders as they bunched up into formidable close formation, and in everything they did and said in the few minutes of practice intervening before they should be at grips with their opponents.

They accepted the handclaps from the onlookers— a tribute of hospitality this was, extended by people to whom hospitality for the stranger was as sacred as their religion and as sincere as their politics— with an air which betokened, most evidently, that presently they meant to repay those who greeted them for the greeting, by achieving one of Sangamon's customary victories in Sangamon's customary workmanlike fashion. Among them Vretson, the much-advertised, loomed a greater giant above lesser giants, justifying by bulk alone his title of the Terrible Swede.

As for Midsylvania's players, upon the other hand, it seemed to me, as I watched them, that they, in turn, watched the young Gogs and Magogs who were to grapple with them in a half-fearsome, half-furtive fashion. I marked that they flinched nervously, like débutantes, before the volleys of friendly applause from the crowd. It occurred to me that their thoughts must be studded with big black question marks; whereas we all could understand that no suggestion of doubtfulness punctuated the anticipations of the opposing eleven touching on the possibilities of the next two hours.

The feeling of foreboding spread like a cold contagion from the field to the press stand, affecting the newspaper men; and, becoming generally epidemic, it reached the spectators. That earlier lustiness was almost altogether lacking from the outbreak signaling the beginning of play. In the salvo there was nothing heartening. It appeared rather to be pitched in the tone of sympathetic consolation for a predestined and an impending catastrophe; and even the bark and roar of Midsylvania's yell, as all Midsylvania gave it,' seemed to have almost a hollow daunted sound to it. Where we sat we could sense this abatement of spirit with particular plainness; in fact, I rather think Major Stone was the only person there who did not sense it in its full effect and its full import.

I am not going to spend overmuch space in describing the first half of that game; this was in the days when games were divided into halves, and not quartered up into periods. Anyhow, I have forgotten a good many of the details. The principal points are what stick out in my memory. I remember that on the toss of the coin Sangamon won and kicked off. It was Vretson— no less— who drove his talented punting toe into the pigskin.

There was a sound as though someone had smote a taut bladder with a slapstick, and the ball soared upward and away, shrinking from the size of a watermelon to the size of a gourd, and from a gourd to a goose egg; and then it came whirling downward again, growing bigger as it dropped. Woolwine, our quarter, caught it and took a flying start off his shoe hobs. Fay and the other Sangamon end, whose name I have forgotten, were after him like a pair of coursing beagles after a doubling hare; and together they nailed him before he had gone twenty yards, and down he went, with Fay on top of him and What'shisname on top of Fay. When they dug the three of them out of their heap little Woolwine still had the ball under him.

As the teams lined up, boring their heads forward to a common center, billy-goat fashion, and Morehead, who was playing end, called out the signals, "Six— eight— twenty-eight— thirty-one"— or some such combination of figures— we caught the quaver in his voice. Ike Webb, sitting next to me, gave a little groan and laid down his pencil, and put his pessimistic face in his sheltering hands.

"Listen to that tremolo note, will you?" he lamented from between his fingers. "Licked, by golly, before they start! They won't play to win, because they're scared to death already. They'll play to keep from being licked by too big a score, and that means they won't have a chance. Just you fellows watch and see if I'm not right. Ah-h! There she goes!"

We watched all right; and we saw that our boys meant to try to carry the ball through for gains. There was not a chance of that, though. They butted their heads against a stone wall until they fairly addled the football instincts in their brains. In two attempts they did not advance the ball six feet; so they tried kicking it. Young Railey punted well into Sangamon territory and now Sangamon had the ball. She lost it on a fumble, but got it back a minute or two later on a fumble slip by the other side. In their respective shortcomings as regards fumbling it was even-Stephen between the teams; but Ike Webb couldn't view the thing in any such optimistic light. He had turned into a merciless critic of the Varsity outfit.

"Aha!" he muttered dolorously as a scrimmaging tangle of forms disentangled and showed that Sangamon, by a smart bit of strategy, had gained three yards. "What did I tell you not five minutes back? Those boys lost their hearts before they even began, and now they're due to lose their heads too."

It really looked as though Ike Webb was qualifying for clairvoyant honors, for promptly Midsylvania's defense became more and more inefficient, more and more uncertain. Sangamon had a smart field commander, and he took leeway of the advantage. He set his men to the job of jamming through; and jam through they did. It took time, though, because Midsylvania, of course, offered a measure of resistance. To me, however, it appeared to be the mechanical resistance of bodies in action rather than anything guided by a spiritual determination— if you get what I mean. It took a good deal of time; but after a while, by dint of shoving ahead with all her tonnage against Midsylvania's slighter and lighter displacement, the visitors forced the ball along to Midsylvania's thirty-yard line.

At this point, Sangamon suddenly changed her tactics. Collop, her captain, made a gesture with his arms and the Blue tackles dropped back a little. From the center of the massed wedge of shapes a signal was barked out. So swiftly that the spectacle made you think of a pyramid of pool balls scattering over a pool table when the cue ball hits it hard on the nose, the visiting players shifted positions.

For ten seconds we lost sight of the ball altogether. When we saw it again it was cuddling in Vretson's vast, outspread paws. Who had passed it, or how it got there after being passed, I never knew. Magically it had materialized in his grasp in the same way that a prestidigitator's china egg is produced from a country jake's whiskers. He tucked it into the bight of his left arm and, with his mighty right arm swinging behind him as a rudder and before him as a flail, he tore down the field, going away out to the right.

He was fast for his size— wonderfully fast, and besides, he had perfect interference to help him along. His mates, skirmishing out on his flank, threw back and bowled over the men who bored in to tackle him. In his flight he himself accounted for at least two Varsity players who sprang round the wings of his protecting line, hoping to intercept the big sprinter. One he dodged, the other he flung aside; and then he kept on and on until after a run of thirty-five yards, he flung himself through the air; and, with Cabell, of Midsylvania, clutching at the wideness between his shoulder blades, he dropped flat across Midsylvania's goal line. A groan went up from the grand stand.

There wasn't a sound from any quarter, though, as Vretson squared off to kick for a goal; but whoops of relief arose when the ball, after soaring high and straight, veered off under pressure of a puff of air and, instead of passing over the bar, struck one of the goal posts with a mellow smack and dropped back. So the score, by the rules of those times, stood four to naught.

Nearly everybody there, I guess, figured that Sangamon would promptly buttress her lead by at least four additional points, and very possibly more; but she didn't. True, she played all round and all over and all through Midsylvania during the remaining portion of the first half, but she did not score again. This was due not so much to the rebuttal fight the defenders offered, for now their playing sagged more woefully weak than ever, but to small misplays and slip-ups and seeming overconfidence on the part of Sangamon.

It may have been they were cocksure of their power to score again when they chose. Maybe they were a trifle tired. Maybe they were satisfied to postpone the slaughter-house work until toward the end of the game and make a spectacular, overwhelming finish of it. Anyhow, it struck us, in the press stand, that the reason behind their failure to push their advantage still farther, during the next ten minutes or so, was rather because of their own disinclination than because of any strategy or strength Midsylvania's plainly despondent eleven presented against them.

Along here I became aware, subconsciously at first, and then in a minute or so with a fuller sense of realization, that Major Stone had waked up. I felt him wriggling on the bench, joggling me in the side with his elbow; and when I looked at him his face was an indignant pink and his little white goatee was bristling like a thistle pod.

He was saying something to himself, and by listening, I caught from his muttered words the purport of the change that had come into the old man's emotions, which change, as I speedily divined, was exactly what might have been expected of him. He did not have the attitude of the average spectator over in the grand stand, for his bump of local pride was not being bruised, as theirs was, by this exhibition. Nor had he grasped and assimilated the feelings of those two groups of youngsters whose cleated feet ripped up the turf in front of him.

It did not lie within his capabilities to share their youthful and, therefore, profound conviction that all which was desirable in life, here or hereafter, centered on the results of this struggle; and that the youth who failed now to acquit himself to the greater glory of his comrades and his class and his college— and, most of all, himself— would droop an abased and shameful head through all the years to come. For, as I may have remarked before, Major Stone was not a bright person, but rather a stupid one; and his viewpoint on most subjects had not altered materially since Appomattox.

That was it— it had not altered since Appomattox; and because it had not he was viewing the present event as a struggle between North and South— as a conflict into which Civil War causes and Civil War effects directly entered. Possibly you cannot understand that. But you could if you had known Major Stone and men like him, most of whom are now dead and gone. His face turned from a hot pink to a dull brick-dust red, and he gnawed at his moustache.

"It is monstrous!" I heard him say. "It is incredible! Southern sons of Southern sires, every damned one of them! And because the odds are against them they have weakened! I myself can see that they are weakening every minute. Why, the thing's incredible— that's what it is! Incredible!"

Just then the whistle blew, and the teams, which had been in a mix-up, unsnarled themselves. The Sangamon eleven came off the field; some of them were briskly trotting to prove their fitness, and some were swaggering a little as their band hit up the tune of Marching Through Georgia to play them into their quarters under the stand. But the Varsity eleven passed out of sight with shoulders that drooped and with no spring in their gaits.

Back at the tail end of their line went little Morehead, wiping his damp eyes with the dirty sleeve of his jersey. Morehead was no young Saint Laurence, to expire smilingly on a gridiron. He was not of the stuff that martyrs are made of; he was a creature, part man and part boy, and the man part of him made him furious with self-reproach, but the boy in him made him cry. I take it, some of the spectators felt almost like crying too; certainly their cheering sounded so.

One of the Red tackles— Rodney— had been disabled just before the breakaway, and I ran over to Midsylvania's quarters to find out for the paper whether he was injured to the degree of being definitely incapacitated for further participation in the game. In what, during race meets, was a refreshment establishment, under the grand stand, I obtruded upon a veritable grand lodge of sorrow.

Gadsden, the coach, who had played with the team the year before, which was his graduating year, was out in the center of the floor making a brave pretense at being hopeful; but I do not think anybody present suffered himself to be deceived thereby. His pleas to the team to buck up and to brace up, and to go back in and fight for every point, lacked sincerity. He appeared to be haranguing them because that was the ordained thing for him to do, and not because he expected to infuse into them any part of his make-believe optimism. Lying on their backs upon blankets, with limbs relaxed, some of his hearers turned dejected faces upward. Others, sitting upright or squatted on their knees, kept their abashed heads on their breasts, staring down steadfastly at nothing at all.

Morehead was sulking by himself in a corner, winking his eyelids and wrinkling his face up to hold back the tears of his mortification. He blamed himself, I take it, for what was the fault of all. Cabell was a tousled heap, against a wall. He was flexing a bruised wrist, as though that small hurt was just now the most important thing in the world to him. Even the darky rubbers and the darky water carrier showed their sensations by their dejected faces. There was enough of downcastness in that room to supply half a dozen funerals with all the gloom they might require; the whole place exhaled the essence of a resentful depression that was as plainly to be sniffed up into the nostrils as the smells of alcohol and arnica and liniment which burdened the air and gave the accompaniment of a drug-store smell to the picture.

As I halted at the door on my way out of this melancholy spot to the scarcely less melancholy atmosphere of the open, having learned that Rodney was not really injured, somebody bumped into me, jostling me to one side; and, to my astonishment, I saw that the impetuous intruder was Major Stone. I had not known until then that he had followed me here, and I did not know now what errand could have brought him along. But he did not keep me wondering long; in fact, he did not keep me wondering at all. He burst in on them with a great "Woof!" of indignation.

Before scarcely anyone there had realized that a newcomer, arriving unheralded and all unexpected, was in their midst, he stood in the middle of the littered floor, glaring about him and snorting loudly. His first words, too, were calculated not only to startle them but deeply to profane the semi-privacy of their grief and their humiliation.

"Young gentlemen," he fairly shouted, "I am ashamed of you! And I have come here to tell you so, and to tell you why I am ashamed."

By sight, even, he was probably a stranger to most of those who, with one accord, now stared at the little, old-fashioned figure of this invader. They straightened up. There was a rustle and a creaking of their harnessed and padded bodies. Perhaps surprise held them dumb; or perhaps they were in a humor to take a scolding, even from an outsider, feeling that they deserved it. At any rate, only one of them spoke. I think it was the voice of Gadsden, the coach, that answered back.

"Who the devil are you?" he asked. "And who the devil let you in here, anyhow?"

"You may not know me," snapped the Major; "but I know you." He wheeled on his heels, aiming a jabbing forefinger at this man and that. "And I know you— and I know you— and I know you— and you, and you, too, young sir, over there in the corner. What is more, I knew your fathers before you."

"Well, what of it?"

"What of it? This much of it: Your fathers before you were gallant Southern gentlemen— the bearers of honored names; names revered in this state and in the Southern armies. That is what your fathers were. And what have you, their sons, proved yourselves to be this day? Cravens— that is the word. Cravens! Out of all the South you were chosen to represent your native land against these Northerners; and how have you repaid the trust imposed in you? By quitting— by showing the white feather, like a flock of dunghill cockerels— by raising the white flag at the first attack!" A babble of resentful voices arose:

"Say, look here; now—"

"What do you know about football?"

"Who gave you any license to butt in here?"

"Say, that's pretty rough!"

He broke into the confused chorus of their protests, silencing the interrupters by the stormy blare of his rejoinder. He was so terribly in earnest that they just had to hearken.

"I know nothing of this game you have essayed to play. Before today I never saw it played; and if this miserable exhibition by you is a sample of the game I hope never to see it played again. But I know courage when I see it and I know cowardice when I see it."

He leveled his condemning finger at little Morehead and focused his glare upon that un-happy youth.

"Your name is Morehead! Your grandfather was a great governor of this great state. Your father was my companion in arms upon the field of battle— and no braver man ever breathed, sir. This historic inclosure bears the honored name of your honored line— Morehead Downs. You are the chosen leader of these companions of yours. And how have you led them today? How have you acquitted yourself of your trust? I ask you that— how?" He halted, out of breath.

"The other team is stronger. They've got us outclassed. Look— why, look at the reputation they've got all over this country! What— what chance have we against them?"

The confession came from little Morehead haltingly, as though he spoke against his own will in his own defense.

"Damn their reputation!" shouted Major Stone. "Your very words are an admission of the things I allege against you, and against all of you here. Concede that your antagonists are stronger than you, man for man. Concede that they outclass you in experience. Is that any reason why they should outclass you in courage and in determination? Your father and the fathers of more than half of the rest of you served in an army that for four years defended our beloved country against a foe immensely stronger than they were— stronger in men, in money, in munitions, in food, in supplies, in guns— stronger in everything except valor.

"Suppose, because of the odds against them, your people had lost heart from the very outset, as you yourselves have lost heart here today. Would that great war have lasted for four years? Or would it have lasted for four months? Would the Southern Confederacy have endured until it no longer had the soldiers to fill the gaps and hold the lines; or food for the bellies of those soldiers who were left; or powder and lead for their guns? Or would it have surrendered after the first repulse, as you have surrendered? Answer me that, some of you!

"These Northerners are game clear through; I can tell that. Their ancestors before them were brave men— the Southern Confederacy could never have been starved out and bled white by a breed of cowards. And these young men here— these splendid young Americans from up yonder in that Northern country— have the same gallant spirit their people showed forty years ago against your people. But you— you have lost the spirit of your race, that surely must have been born in you. You are going to let these Yankees run right over you— your behavior proves it— and not fight back. That is what I charge against you. That is what I am here to tell you."

"How about me?" put in one of the blanketed contingent of his audience. "My people were all Unionists."

"Your name?" demanded the Major of him.

"Speedman."

"A son of the late Colonel Henry T. Speedman?"

"His nephew."

"I knew your uncle and your uncle's brothers and your grandfather. They were Union-men from principle; and I admired them for it, even though we differed, and even though they took up arms against their own kinsmen and fought on the opposite side. They wore the blue from conviction; but when the war was over your uncle, being a Southerner, helped to save his native state from carpet-baggery and bayonet rule. That was the type of man your uncle was. I regret to note that you did not inherit his qualities. I particularly observed your behavior out there on that field yonder a while ago. You quit, young man— you quit like a dog!"

"Say, look here; you're an old man, and that's enough to save you!" Speedman suddenly was sobbing in his mortification. "But— but you've got no right to say things like that to me. You've— you've-" A gulp cut the miserable youngster's utterance short. He choked and plaintively tried again: "If we can't win, we can't win— and that's all there is to it! Isn't it, fellows?"

He looked to his companions in distress for comfort; but all of them, as though mesmerized, were looking at Major Stone. It dawned on me, watching and listening across the threshold, that some influence— some electric appeal to an inner consciousness of theirs— was beginning to galvanize them, taking the droop out of their spines, and making their frames tense where there had been a sag of non-resistance, and putting sparks of resentment into their eyes. The transformation had been almost instantaneously accomplished, but it was plainly visible.

"I am not expecting that you should win," snapped the Major, turning Speedman's words into an admonition for all of them. "I do not believe it is humanly possible for you to win. There is nothing disgraceful in being fairly defeated; the disgrace is in accepting defeat without fighting back with all your strength and all your will and all your skill and all your strategy and all your tactics. And that is exactly what I have just seen you doing. And that, judging by all the indications, is exactly what you will go on doing during the remaining portion of this affair."

There were no more interruptions. For perhaps two or three minutes more, then, the old Major went steadily on, saying his say to the end. Saying it, he wasn't the Old Major I had known before; he was not pottering and ponderous; he did not clothe his thoughts in cumbersome, heavy phrases. He fairly bit the words off— short, bitter, scorching words— and spat them out in their faces. He did not plead with them; nor— except by indirection— did he invoke a sentiment that was bound to be as much a part of them as the nails on their fingers or the teeth in their mouths.

And, somehow, I felt— and I knew they felt— that here, in this short, stumpy white-haired form, stood the Old South, embodied and typified, with all its sectional pride and all its sectional devotion— yes, and all its sectional prejudices. All at once, in the midst of a sentence, he checked up; and then, staring hard at them through a pause, he spoke his final message: "You are of the seed of heroes. Try to remember that when you go back out yonder before that great crowd. You are the sons of men who had sand, who had bottom, who had all the things a fighting man should have. Try— if you can— to remember it!"

Out from behind the group that had clustered before the speaker, darted a diminutive darky— Midsylvania's self-appointed water carrier:

"He done jest said it!" whooped the little negro, dancing up and down in frenzy. "He done jest said it! 'Cinnamon Seed an' Sandy Bottom!' Dat's it! 'Cinnamon Seed an' Sandy Bottom!'— same ez you sez it w'en you sings Dixie Land. Dem's de words to win by! W'ite folks, youse done heared de lesson preached frum de true tex'. Come on! Le's us go an' tear dem Sangamonders down! 'Cinnamon Seed an' Sandy Bottom!' Oh, gloree, gloree, hallelujah!"

He rocked back on his splay feet, his knees sprung forward, his mouth wide open, and his eyes popping out of his black face.

The Major did not look the little darky's way. Settling his slouch hat on his head, he faced about and out he stalked; and I, following along after him, was filled with conflicting emotions, for, as it happened, my father was a Confederate soldier, too, and I had been bred up on a mixed diet of Robert E. Lee, N. B. Forrest and Albert Sidney Johnston.

I followed him back to our post, he saying nothing at all on the way and I likewise silent. I scrooged past him to my place alongside Ike Webb and sat down, and tried in a few words to give Ike and Gil Boyd a summary of the sight I had just witnessed. And when I was done I illustrated my brief and eager narrative by pointing with a flirt of my thumb to Major Stone, stiffly erect on my left hand, with his chest protruded and his head held high in a posture faintly suggestive of certain popular likenesses of the late Napoleon Bonaparte; and on his elderly face was the look of one who, having sowed good seed in receptive loam, confidently expects an abundant and a gratifying harvest.

It was a different team which came out for the second half of that game; not exactly a jaunty team, nor yet a boisterous one, but rather a team that were grimly silent, indicating by their silence a certain preparedness and a certain resolution for the performance of that which is claimed to speak louder than words— action.

The onlookers, I judged, saw the difference almost instantly and realized that from some source, somehow, Morehead's men had gathered unto themselves a new power of will, which presently they meant to express physically. And three minutes later Sangamon found herself breasted by a mechanism that had in its composition the springiness of an earnest desire and a sincere determination, whereas before, in emergencies, it had expressed no more than sullen and downhearted desperation.

Now from the very outset there was resilience behind its formations and active intelligence behind its movements, guiding and shaping them. The confronting line might give under the pressure of superior weight, but it bounced right back. At once it was made manifest that the Red eleven would not thenceforward be content merely to defend, but would have the effrontery actually to attack, and attack again, and to keep on attacking. No longer was it a case of hammer falling on anvil; two hammers were battering against one another, nose to nose now, and in one stroke there was as much buoyancy as in the other.

In my eagerness to reach my climax I am getting ahead of my story. Let's go back a bit: The whistle blew. The antagonists having swapped goals, Midsylvania now had what benefit was to be derived from the wind, which blew out of the West at a quartering angle across the field. Following the kick-off an interchange of punts ensued. Midsylvania apparently elected to continue these kicking operations indefinitely; whereupon it is probable the Sangamon strategists jumped at the conclusion that, realizing the hopelessness of overcoming the weight presented against them, the locals meant to make a kicking match of it. Be that as it may, they accepted the challenge, if challenge it was, and a punting duel ensued, with no noteworthy fortunes falling to either eleven.

I think it was early in this stage of the proceedings, after some mighty brisk scrimmaging, when the strangers, by coming into violent physical contact with their opponents, discovered that a new spirit inspired and governed the others, and began to apprehend that, after all, this would not be a walkover for them; but that they must fight, and fight hard, to hold their present lead, and fight even harder if they expected to swell that lead.

When, at the first opportunity for a forward push, the Red line came at the Blue with an impetuosity theretofore lacking from its frontal assaults, you could almost see the ripple of astonishment running down the spines of the Northerners as they braced themselves to meet and stay the onslaught. Anyhow, you could imagine you saw it; certainly there were puzzled looks on the faces of some of them as they emerged from the mêlée.

With appreciative roars, the crowd greeted these evidences of a newer and more comforting aspect to the situation. Each time some Midsylvania player caught the booted ball as it came tumbling out of the skies the grand stand rocked to the noise; each time Midsylvania sent it flying back to foreign ground it rocked some more; each time the teams clashed, then locked together, it was to be seen that the Midsylvanians held their ground despite the efforts of their bulkier rivals to uproot and overthrow them.

And, at that, the air space beneath the peaked roof was ripped all to flinders by exultant blares from sundry thousands of lungs. Under the steady pounding feet the floor of the grand stand became a great bass drum, which was never silent; and all the myriad red flags danced together. Into the struggle an element of real dash had entered and mightily it uplifted the spectators. They knew now that, though the Varsity team might be beaten, and probably would be, they would not be disgraced. It would be an honorable defeat before overpowering odds, and one stoutly resisted to the end by all that intelligence, plus pluck, could do.

There was no fault now to be found with Midsylvania's captain. Little Morehead, with his face a red smear, was playing all over the lot. The impact of a collision with a bigger frame than his, had slammed him face down against the ground, skinning one cheek and bloodying his nose. He looked like a mad Indian in streaky war paint, and he played like one. He seemed to be everywhere at once, exhorting, commanding, leading; by shouted precept and by reckless example giving the cue to his teammates.

I suppose the latter half was about half over when the Sangamon team changed their tactics and, no longer content to play safe and exchange punts, sought to charge through and gain ground by sheer force. Doubtlessly their decision was based on sound principles of reason; but by reason of certain insurmountable obstacles, personified in eleven gouging, wrestling, panting, sweating youths, they were effectually deterred, during a breathless period of minutes, from so doing.

It was inevitable that a break must come sooner or later. It was not humanly possible for any team or any two teams to maintain that punishing pace very long without giving way somewhere.

The ball, after various vicissitudes, was in the middle of the field, and the Northerners had it. As the Blue tackles slipped back of their comrades stealthily, and Vretson, stealing forward, poised himself to take the catch, we on the press benches realized that Sangamon meant to undertake a repetition of the device that had won her lone goal for her. Thirty minutes earlier it would have seemed the logical move to try. Now, in view of everything, it was audacious.

At that, though, I guess it was Sangamon's best card, even though Midsylvania would be forewarned and forearmed by their earlier disastrous experience to take measures for combating the play. Everything depended on getting Vretson away to a flying start and then keeping his interference intact.

The captain chanted the code numbers. The Blue press shifted in quick shuttlelike motions, and the ball, beautifully and faultlessly handled, was flipped back, aiming straight for Vretson's welcoming grasp. Simultaneously something else happened. That something else was Morehead.

As the ball was passed he moved. There was a hole in Sangamon's breastworks, made by the spreading out of her men. It was a little hole and a hole which instantaneously closed up again, being stoppered by an interposing torso; but in that flash of space Morehead saw the opening and, without being touched, came whizzing straight through it like a small, compact torpedo. Head in and head down, he crashed into Vretson in the same tenth-second when the ball reached Vretson's fingers. With his skull, his shoulders, his arms, and his trunk he smashed against the giant.

Vretson staggered sideways. The ball escaped from his grip; and, striking the earth, it took one lazy bound, and then another; but no more. As it bounced the second time, Morehead, bending double from his hips, slid under it with outspread arms, scooped it up to his breast, and was off, traveling faster, I am sure, than Morehead in all his life had ever traveled. He was clear and away, going at supertopspeed, while Vretson still spun and rocked on his heels.

Obeying the signal for the play the majority of the Sangamon team already had darted off to their right to make a living barrier upon the threatened side of the imaginary lane their star was due to follow. It behooved them to reverse the maneuver. Digging their heels into the earth for brakes they wheeled round, scuttling back and spreading out to intercept the fugitive; but he was already past and beyond Vretson, and nearing the line of cross-angle along which the nearest of his pursuers must go to encounter him. Before him, along the eastern boundary of Sangamon's territory, was a clear stretch of cross-marked turf.

Vretson recovered himself and made a stem chase of it, and Vretson could run, as I said before; but it would have been as reasonable to expect a Jersey bull to overtake a swamp rabbit when the swamp rabbit had the start of the bull, and was scared to death besides, as to expect Vretson to catch Morehead. The Red captain traveled three feet for every two the bigger man traveled. Twenty yards— thirty, forty— he sped, and not a tackler's hand was laid on him. With the pack of his adversaries tagging out behind him like hounds behind a hare, he pitched over the goal line and lay there, his streaming nose in the grass roots, with the precious ball under him, and the Sangamon players tumbling over him as they came tailing up. Single-handed, on a fluky chance, Morehead had duplicated and bettered what Vretson, with assistance, had done.

The crowd simply went stark, raving crazy and behaved accordingly. But the Varsity section in the grand stand and the clump of blanketted Varsity substitutes and scrubs on the side lines were the craziest spots of all.

After this there isn't so very much to be told. Midsylvania kicked for a goal, but failed, as Sangamon had done. The ball struck the crossbar between the white goal posts and flopped back; and during the few remaining minutes of play neither side tallied a point, though both tried hard enough and Sangamon came very near it once, but failed— thanks to the same inspired counterforces that had balked her in similar ambitions all through this half.

So, at the end, with the winter sun going down red in the west, and the grand stand all red with dancing flags to match it, the score stood even— four to four.

Officially a tie, yes; but not otherwise— not by the reckoning of the populace. That Midsylvania, outmanned and outweighted as she was, should have played those Middle West champions to a standstill was, in effect, a victory— so the crowd figured— and fitting to be celebrated on that basis, which promptly it was.

Out from the upstanding ranks of the multitude, down from the stand, across the track and into the field came the Varsity students, clamoring their joy, and their band came with them, and others, unattached, came trailing after them. Some were dancing dervishes and some were human steam whistles, and all the rest were just plain lunatics. They fell into an irregular weaving formation, four or six abreast, behind the team, with Morehead up ahead, riding upon the shoulders of two of his fellows; and round the gridiron they started, going first between one pair of goal posts and then between the other pair. Doubtlessly the band played; but what tune they elected to play nobody knew, because nobody could hear it— not even the musicians themselves.

As the top of the column, completing its first circuit, swung down the gridiron toward the judges' stand, Morehead pointed toward where we sat and, from his perch on their shoulders, called down something to those who bore him. At that, a deputation of about half a dozen broke out of the mass and charged straight for us. For a moment it must have seemed to the crowd that this detachment contemplated a physical assault upon some obnoxious newspaper man behind our bench, for they dived right in among us, laying hands upon one of our number, heaving him bodily upward, and bearing him away a prisoner.

Half a minute later Major Putnam Stone, somewhat disheveled as to his attire, was also mounted on a double pair of shoulders and was bobbing along at the front of the procession, side by side with young Morehead. Judging by his expression, I should say the Major was enjoying the ride. Without knowing the whys and the wherefores of it, the spectators derived that in some fashion this little, old, white-haired man was esteemed by Midsylvania's representatives to have had a share in the achieved result.

As this conviction sank home, the exultant yelling mounted higher and higher still. I think it was along here the members of the band quit trying to be heard and stopped their playing, and took their horns down from their faces.

Immediately after this still another strange figure attained a conspicuous place in the parade: A little darky, mad with joy, and wearing a red-and-gray sweater much too roomy for him, came bounding across the field, with an empty water bucket in one hand. He caught up with the front row of the marchers; and, scuttling along backward, directly in front of them, he began calling out certain words in a sort of slogan, repeating them over and over again, until those nearest him detected the purport of his utterances and started chanting them in time with him.

Presently, as the chorus of definite sounds and the meaning of the sounds spread along down the column, the Varsity boys took up the refrain, and it rose and fell in a great, thundering cadence. And then everybody made out its substance, the words being these:

"Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom! Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom! CINNAMON SEED AND SANDY BOTTOM!"

The sun, following its usual custom, continued to go down, growing redder and redder as it went; and Midsylvania, over and above the triumph it had to celebrate and was celebrating, had also these three things now added unto her: A new college yell, in this perfectly meaningless line from an old song; a new cheer leader— her first, by the way— in the person of a ragged black water boy; and a new football idol to take to her heart, the same being an elderly gentleman who knew nothing at all of the science of football, and doubtlessly cared less— an idol who in the fullness of time would become a tradition, to be treasured along with the noseless statue of Henry Clay and the beech tree under which Daniel Boone slept one night.

So that explains why, each year after the main game, when the team of a bigger and stronger Midsylvania have broken training, they drink a rising toast to the memory of Major Putnam Stone, deceased; whereat, as afore-stated, there are no heel-taps whatsoever.

________________

2: The Mysterious Occurrence in Piccadilly

Grant Allen

1848-1899

Belgravia May 1884

Collected in: Strange Stories, 1894

I REALLY never felt so profoundly ashamed of myself in my whole life as when my father-in-law, Professor W. Bryce Murray, of Oriel College, Oxford, sent me the last number of the Proceedings of the Society for the Investigation of Supernatural Phenomena. As I opened the pamphlet, a horrible foreboding seized me that I should find in it, detailed at full length, with my name and address in plain printing (not even asterisks), that extraordinary story of his about the mysterious occurrence in Piccadilly. I turned anxiously to page 14, which I saw was neatly folded over at the corner; and there, sure enough, I came upon the Professor's remarkable narrative, which I shall simply extract here, by way of introduction, in his own admirable and perspicuous language.

"I wish to communicate to the Society," says my respected relation, "a curious case of wraiths or doubles, which came under my own personal observation, and for which I can vouch on my own authority, and that of my son-in-law, Dr. Owen Mansfield, keeper of Accadian Antiquities at the British Museum. It is seldom, indeed, that so strange an example of a supernatural phenomenon can be independently attested by two trustworthy scientific observers, both still living.

"On the 12th of May, 1873— I made a note of the circumstance at the time, and am therefore able to feel perfect confidence as to the strict accuracy of my facts— I was walking down Piccadilly about four o'clock in the afternoon, when I saw a simulacrum or image approaching me from the opposite direction, exactly resembling in outer appearance an undergraduate of Oriel College, of the name of Owen Mansfield. It must be carefully borne in mind that at this time I was not related or connected with Mr. Mansfield in any way, his marriage with my daughter having taken place some eleven months later: I only knew him then as a promising junior member of my own College. I was just about to approach and address Mr. Mansfield, when a most singular and mysterious event took place. The simulacrum appeared spontaneously to glide up towards me with a peculiarly rapid and noiseless motion, waved a wand or staff which it bore in its hands thrice round my head, and then vanished hastily in the direction of an hotel which stands at the corner of Albemarle Street. I followed it quickly to the door, but on inquiry of the porter, I learned that he himself had observed nobody enter. The simulacrum seems to have dissipated itself or become invisible suddenly in the very act of passing through the folding glass portals which give access to the hotel from Piccadilly.

"That same evening, by the last post, I received a hastily-written note from Mr. Mansfield, bearing the Oxford postmark, dated Oriel College, 5 p.m., and relating the facts of an exactly similar apparition which had manifested itself to him, with absolute simultaneity of occurrence. On the very day and hour when I had seen Mr. Mansfield's wraith in Piccadilly, Mr. Mansfield himself was walking down the Corn Market in Oxford, in the direction of the Taylor Institute. As he approached the corner, he saw what he took to be a vision or image of myself, his tutor, moving towards him in my usual leisurely manner. Suddenly, as he was on the point of addressing me with regard to my Aristotle lecture the next morning, the image glided up to him in a rapid and evasive manner, shook a green silk umbrella with a rhinoceros-horn handle three times around his head, and then disappeared incomprehensibly through the door of the Randolph Hotel. Returning to college in a state of breathless alarm and surprise, at what he took to be an act of incipient insanity or extreme inebriation on my part, Mr. Mansfield learnt from the porter, to his intense astonishment, that I was at that moment actually in London. Unable to conceal his amazement at this strange event, he wrote me a full account of the facts while they were still fresh in his memory: and as I preserve his note to this day, I append a copy of it to my present communication, for publication in the Society's Transactions.

"There is one small point in the above narrative to which I would wish to call special attention, and that is the accurate description given by Mr. Mansfield of the umbrella carried by the apparition he observed in Oxford. This umbrella exactly coincided in every particular with the one I was then actually carrying in Piccadilly. But what is truly remarkable, and what stamps the occurrence as a genuine case of supernatural intervention, is the fact that Mr. Mansfield could not possibly ever have seen that umbrella in my hands, because I had only just that afternoon purchased it at a shop in Bond Street. This, to my mind, conclusively proves that no mere effort of fancy or visual delusion based upon previous memories, vague or conscious, could have had anything whatsoever to do with Mr. Mansfield's observation at least. It was, in short, distinctly an objective apparition, as distinguished from a mere subjective reminiscence or hallucination."

As I laid down the Proceedings on the breakfast table with a sigh, I said to my wife (who had been looking over my shoulder while I read): "Now, Nora, we're really in for it. What on earth do you suppose I'd better do?"

Nora looked at me with her laughing eyes laughing harder and brighter than ever. "My dear Owen," she said, putting the Proceedings promptly into the waste paper basket, "there's really nothing on earth possible now, except to make a clean breast of it."

I groaned. "I suppose you're right," I answered, "but it's a precious awkward thing to have to do. However, here goes." So I sat down at once with pen, ink, and paper at my desk, to draw up this present narrative as to the real facts about the "Mysterious Occurrence in Piccadilly."

ii

IN 1873 I was a fourth-year man, going in for my Greats at the June examination. But as if Aristotle and Mill and the affair of Corcyra were not enough to occupy one young fellow's head at the age of twenty-three, I had foolishly gone and fallen in love, undergraduate fashion, with the only really pretty girl (I insist upon putting it, though Nora has struck it out with her pen) in all Oxford. She was the daughter of my tutor, Professor Bryce Murray, and her name (as the astute reader will already have inferred) was Nora.

The Professor had lost his wife some years before, and he was left to bring up Nora by his own devices, with the aid of his sister, Miss Lydia Amelia Murray, the well-known advocate of female education, woman's rights, anti-vaccination, vegetarianism, the Tichborne claimant, and psychic force. Nora, however, had no fancy for any of these multifarious interests of her aunt's: I have reason to believe she takes rather after her mother's family: and Miss Lydia Amelia Murray early decided that she was a girl of no intellectual tastes of any sort, who had better be kept at school at South Kensington as much as possible. Especially did Aunt Lydia hold it to be undesirable that Nora should ever come in contact with that very objectionable and wholly antagonistic animal, the Oriel undergraduate. Undergraduates were well known to laugh openly at woman's rights, to devour underdone beefsteaks with savage persistence, and to utter most irreverent and ribald jests about psychic force.

Still, it is quite impossible to keep the orbit of a Professor's daughter from occasionally crossing that of a stray meteoric undergraduate. Nora only came home to Oxford in vacation time: but during the preceding Long I had stopped up for the sake of pursuing my Accadian studies in a quiet spot, and it was then that I first quite accidentally met Nora. I was canoeing on the Cherwell one afternoon, when I came across the Professor and his daughter in a punt, and saw the prettiest girl in all Oxford actually holding the pole in her own pretty little hands, while that lazy old man lolled back at his ease with a book, on the luxurious cushions in the stern. As I passed the punt, I capped the Professor, of course, and looking back a minute later I observed that the pretty daughter had got her pole stuck fast in the mud, and couldn't, with all her force, pull it out again. In another minute she had lost her hold of it, and the punt began to drift of itself down the river towards Iffley.

Common politeness naturally made me put back my canoe, extricate the pole, and hand it as gracefully as I could to the Professor's daughter. As I did so, I attempted to raise my straw hat cautiously with one hand, while I gave back the pole with the other: an attempt which of course compelled me to lay down my paddle on the front, of the canoe, as I happen to be only provided with two hands, instead of four like our earlier ancestors. I don't know whether it was my instantaneous admiration for Nora's pretty blush, which distracted my attention from the purely practical question of equilibrium, or whether it was her own awkwardness and modesty in taking the pole, or finally whether it was my tutor's freezing look that utterly disconcerted me, but at any rate, just at that moment, something unluckily (or rather luckily) caused me to lose my balance altogether. Now, everybody knows that a canoe is very easily upset: and in a moment, before I knew exactly where I was, I found the canoe floating bottom upward about three yards away from me, and myself standing, safe and dry, in my tutor's punt, beside his pretty blushing daughter. I had felt the canoe turning over as I handed back the pole, and had instinctively jumped into the safer refuge of the punt, which saved me at least the ignominy of appearing before Miss Nora Murray in the ungraceful attitude of clambering back, wet and dripping, into an upset canoe.

The inexorable logic of facts had thus convinced the Professor of the impossibility of keeping all undergraduates permanently at a safe distance: and there was nothing open for him now except resignedly to acquiesce in the situation so created for him. However much he might object to my presence, he could hardly, as a Christian and a gentleman, request me to jump in and swim after my canoe, or even, when we had at last successfully brought it alongside with the aid of the pole, to seat myself once more on the soaking cushions. After all, my mishap had come about in the endeavour to render him a service: so he was fain with what grace he could to let me relieve his daughter of the pole, and punt him back as far as the barges, with my own moist and uncomfortable bark trailing casually from the stern.

As for Nora, being thus thrown unexpectedly into the dangerous society of that gruesome animal, the Oriel undergraduate, I think I may venture to say (from my subsequent experience) that she was not wholly disposed to regard the creature as either so objectionable or so ferocious as she had been previously led to imagine. We got on together so well that I could see the Professor growing visibly wrathful about the corners of the mouth: and by the time we reached the barges, he could barely be civil enough to say Good morning to me when we parted.

An introduction, however, no matter how obtained, is really in these matters absolutely everything. As long as you don't know a pretty girl, you don't know her, and you can't take a step in advance without an introduction. But when once you do know her, heaven and earth and aunts and fathers may try their hardest to prevent you, and yet whatever they try they can't keep you out. I was so far struck with Nora, that I boldly ventured whenever I met her out walking with her father or her aunt, to join myself to the party: and though they never hesitated to show me that my presence was not rapturously welcomed, they couldn't well say to me point-blank, "Have the goodness, Mr. Mansfield, to go away and not to speak to me again in future." So the end of it was, that before the beginning of October term, Nora and I understood one another perfectly, and had even managed, in a few minutes' tête-à-tête in the parks, to whisper to one another the ingenuous vows of sweet seventeen and two-and-twenty.

When the Professor discovered that I had actually written a letter to his daughter, marked "Private and Confidential," his wrath knew no bounds. He sent for me to his rooms, and spoke to me severely. "I've half a mind, Mansfield," he said, "to bring the matter before a college meeting. At any rate, this conduct must not be repeated. If it is, Sir,"— he didn't finish the sentence, preferring to terrify me by the effective figure of speech which commentators describe as an aposiopesis: and I left him with a vague sense that if it was repeated I should probably incur the penalties of præmunire (whatever they may be), or be hanged, drawn, and quartered, with my head finally stuck as an adornment on the acute wings of the Griffin, vice Temple Bar removed.

Next day, Nora met me casually at a confectioner's in the High, where I will frankly confess that I was engaged in experimenting upon the relative merits of raspberry cream and lemon water ices. She gave me her hand timidly, and whispered to me half under her breath, "Papa's so dreadfully angry, Owen, and I'm afraid I shall never be able to meet you any more, for he's going to send me back this very afternoon to South Kensington, and keep me away from Oxford altogether in future." I saw her eyes were red with crying, and that she really thought our little romance was entirely at an end.

"My darling Nora," I replied in an undertone, "even South Kensington is not so unutterably remote that I shall never be able to see you there. Write to me whenever you are able, and let me know where I can write to you. My dear little Nora, if there were a hundred papas and a thousand Aunt Lydias interposed in a square between us, don't you know we should manage all the same to love one another and to overcome all difficulties?"

Nora smiled and half cried at once, and then discreetly turned to order half a pound of glacé cherries. And that was the last that I saw of her for the time at Oxford.

During the next term or two, I'm afraid I must admit that the relations between my tutor and myself were distinctly strained, so much so as continually to threaten the breaking out of open hostilities. It wasn't merely that Nora was in question, but the Professor also suspected me of jeering in private at his psychical investigations. And if the truth must be told, I will admit that his suspicions were not wholly without justification. It began to be whispered among the undergraduates just then that the Professor and his sister had taken to turning planchettes, interrogating easy-chairs, and obtaining interesting details about the present abode of Shakespeare or Milton from intelligent and well-informed five-o'clock tea-tables. It had long been well known that the Professor took a deep interest in haunted houses, considered that the portents recorded by Livy must have something in them, and declared himself unable to be sceptical as to facts which had convinced such great men as Plato, Seneca, and Samuel Johnson. But the table-turning was a new fad, and we noisy undergraduates occasionally amused ourselves by getting up an amateur séance, in imitation of the Professor, and eliciting psychical truths, often couched in a surprisingly slangy or even indecorous dialect, from a very lively though painfully irreverent spirit, who discoursed to us through the material intervention of a rickety what-not. However, as the only mediums we employed were the very unprofessional ones of two plain decanters, respectively containing port and sherry, the Professor (who was a teetotaler, and who paid five guineas a séance for the services of that distinguished psychical specialist, Dr. Grade) considered the interesting results we obtained as wholly beneath the dignity of scientific inquiry. He even most unworthily endeavoured to stifle research by gating us all one evening when a materialized spirit, assuming the outer form of the junior exhibitioner, sang a comic song of the period in a loud voice with the windows open, and accompanied itself noisily with a psychical tattoo on the rickety what-not. The Professor went so far as to observe sarcastically that our results appeared to him to be rather spirituous than spiritual.

On May 11, 1873 (I will endeavour to rival the Professor in accuracy and preciseness), I got a short note from dear Nora, dated from South Kensington, which I, too (though not from psychical motives), have carefully preserved. I will not publish it, however, either here or in the Society's Proceedings, for reasons which will probably be obvious to any of my readers who happen ever to have been placed in similar circumstances themselves. Disengaging the kernel of fact from the irrelevant matter in which it was imbedded, I may state that Nora wrote me somewhat to this effect. She was going next day to the Academy with the parents of some schoolfellow; could I manage to run up to town for the day, go to the Academy myself, and meet her "quite accidentally, you know, dear," in the Water-colour room about half-past eleven?

This was rather awkward; for next day, as it happened, was precisely the Professor's morning for the Herodotus lecture; but circumstances like mine at that moment know no law. So I succeeded in excusing myself from attendance somehow or other (I hope truthfully) and took the nine a.m. express up to town. Shortly after eleven I was at the Academy, and waiting anxiously for Nora's arrival. That dear little hypocrite, the moment she saw me approach, assumed such an inimitable air of infantile surprise and innocent pleasure at my unexpected appearance that I positively blushed for her wicked powers of deception.

"You here, Mr. Mansfield!" she cried in a tone of the most apparently unaffected astonishment, "why, I thought it was full term time; surely you ought to be up at Oriel."

"So I am," I answered, "officially; but in my private capacity I've come up for the day to look at the pictures."

"Oh, how nice!" said that shocking little Nora, with a smile that was childlike and bland. "Mr. Mansfield is such a great critic, Mrs. Worplesdon; he knows all about art, and artists, and so on. He'll be able to tell us which pictures we ought to admire, you know, and which aren't worth looking at. Mr. Worplesdon, let me introduce you; Mrs. Worplesdon— Miss Worplesdon. How very lucky we should have happened to come across you, Mr. Mansfield!"

The Worplesdons fell immediately, like lambs, into the trap so ingenuously spread for them. Indeed, I have always noticed that ninety-nine per cent. of the British public, when turned into an art-gallery, are only too glad to accept the opinion of anybody whatsoever, who is bold enough to have one, and to express it openly. Having thus been thrust by Nora into the arduous position of critic by appointment to the Worplesdon party, I delivered myself ex cathedrâ forthwith upon the merits and demerits of the entire exhibition; and I was so successful in my critical views that I not only produced an immense impression upon Mr. Worplesdon himself, but also observed many ladies in the neighbourhood nudge one another as they gazed intently backward and forward between wall and catalogue, and heard them whisper audibly among themselves, "A gentleman here says the flesh tones on that shoulder are simply marvellous;" or, "That artist in the tweed suit behind us thinks the careless painting of the ferns in the foreground quite unworthy of such a colourist as Daubiton." So highly was my criticism appreciated, in fact, that Mr. Worplesdon even invited me to lunch with Nora and his party at a neighbouring restaurant, where I spent the most delightful hour I had passed for the last half-year, in the company of that naughty mendacious little schemer.

About four o'clock, however, the Worplesdons departed, taking Nora with them to South Kensington; and I prepared to walk back in the direction of Paddington, meaning to catch an evening train, and return to Oxford. I was strolling in a leisurely fashion along Piccadilly towards the Park, and looking into all the photographers' windows, when suddenly an awful apparition loomed upon me— the Professor himself, coming round the corner from Bond Street, folding up a new rhinoceros-handled umbrella as he walked along. In a moment I felt that all was lost. I was up in town without leave; the Professor would certainly see me and recognize me; he would ask me how and why I had left the University, contrary to rules; and I must then either tell him the whole truth, which would get Nora into a fearful scrape, or else run the risk of being sent down in disgrace, which might prevent me from taking a degree, and would at least cause my father and mother an immense deal of unmerited trouble.

Like a flash of lightning, a wild idea shot instantaneously across my brain. Might I pretend to be my own double? The Professor was profoundly superstitious on the subject of wraiths, apparitions, ghosts, brain-waves, and supernatural appearances generally; if I could only manage to impose upon him for a moment by doing something outrageously uncommon or eccentric, I might succeed in stifling further inquiry by setting him from the beginning on a false track which he was naturally prone to follow. Before I had time to reflect upon the consequences of my act, the wild idea had taken possession of me, body and soul, and had worked itself out in action with all the rapidity of a mad impulse. I rushed frantically up to the Professor, with my eyes fixed in a vacant stare on a point in space somewhere above the tops of the chimney-pots: I waved my stick three times mysteriously around his head; and then, without giving him time to recover from his surprise or to address a single word to me, I bolted off in a Red Indian dance to the nearest corner.

There was an hotel there, which I had often noticed before, though I had never entered it; and I rushed wildly in, meaning to get out as best I could when the Professor (who is very short-sighted) had passed on along Piccadilly in search of me. But fortune, as usual, favoured the bold. Luckily, it was a corner house, and, to my surprise, I found when I got inside it, that the hall opened both ways, with a door on to the side street. The porter was looking away as I entered; so I merely ran in of one door and out of the other, never stopping till I met a hansom, into which I jumped and ordered the man to drive to Paddington. I just caught the 4.35 to Oxford, and by a little over six o'clock I was in my own rooms at Oriel.

It was very wrong of me, indeed; I acknowledge it now; but the whole thing had flashed across my undergraduate mind so rapidly that I carried it out in a moment, before I could at all realize what a very foolish act I was really committing. To take a rise out of the Professor, and to save Nora an angry interview, were the only ideas that occurred to me at the second: when I began to reflect upon it afterwards, I was conscious that I had really practised a very gross and wicked deception. However, there was no help for it now; and as I rolled along in the train to Oxford, I felt that to save myself and Nora from utter disgrace, I must carry the plot out to the end without flinching. It then occurred to me that a double apparition would be more in accordance with all recognized principles of psychical manifestation than a single one. At Reading, therefore, I regret to say, I bought a pencil, and a sheet of paper, and an envelope; and before I reached Oxford station, I had written to the Professor what I now blush to acknowledge as a tissue of shocking fables, in which I paralleled every particular of my own behaviour to him by a similar imaginary piece of behaviour on his part to me, only changing the scene to Oxford. It was awfully wrong, I admit. At the time, however, being yet but little more than a schoolboy, after all, I regarded it simply in the light of a capital practical joke. I informed the Professor gravely how I had seen him at four o'clock in the Corn Market, and how astonished I was when I found him waving his green silk umbrella three times wildly, around my head.

The moment I arrived at Oxford, I dashed up to college in a hansom, and got the Professor's address in London from the porter. He had gone up to town for the night, it seemed, probably to visit Nora, and would not be back in college till the next morning. Then I rushed down to the post-office, where I was just in time (with an extra stamp) to catch the last post for that night's delivery. The moment the letter was in the box, I repented, and began to fear I had gone too far: and when I got back to my own rooms at last, and went down late for dinner in hall, I confess I trembled not a little, as to the possible effect of my quite too bold and palpable imposition.

Next morning by the second post I got a long letter from the Professor, which completely relieved me from all immediate anxiety as to his interpretation of my conduct. He rose to the fly with a charming simplicity which showed how delighted he was at this personal confirmation of all his own most cherished superstitions. "My dear Mansfield," his letter began, "now hear what, at the very self-same hour and minute, happened to me in Piccadilly." In fact, he had swallowed the whole thing entire, without a single moment's scepticism or hesitation.

From what I heard afterwards, it was indeed a lucky thing for me that I had played him this shocking trick, for Nora believes he was then actually on his way to South Kensington on purpose to forbid her most stringently from holding any further communication with me in any way. But as soon as this mysterious event took place, he began to change his mind about me altogether. So remarkable an apparition could not have happened except for some good and weighty reason, he argued: and he suspected that the reason might have something to do with my intentions towards Nora. Why, when he was on his way to warn her against me, should a vision, bearing my outer and bodily shape, come straight across his path, and by vehement signs of displeasure, endeavour to turn him from his purpose, unless it were clearly well for Nora that my attentions should not be discouraged?

From that day forth the Professor began to ask me to his rooms and address me far more cordially than he used to do before: he even, on the strength of my singular adventure, invited me to assist at one or two of his psychical séances. Here, I must confess, I was not entirely successful: the distinguished medium complained that I exerted a repellent effect upon the spirits, who seemed to be hurt by my want of generous confidence in their good intentions, and by my suspicious habit of keeping my eyes too sharply fixed upon the legs of the tables. He declared that when I was present, an adverse influence seemed to pervade the room, due, apparently, to my painful lack of spiritual sympathies. But the Professor condoned my failure in the regular psychical line, in consideration of my brilliant success as a beholder of wraiths and visions. After I took my degree that summer, he used all his influence to procure me the post of keeper of the Accadian Antiquities at the Museum, for which my previous studies had excellently fitted me: and by his friendly aid I was enabled to obtain the post, though I regret to say that, in spite of his credulity in supernatural matters, he still refuses to believe in the correctness of my conjectural interpretation of the celebrated Amalekite cylinders imported by Mr. Ananias, which I have deciphered in so very simple and satisfactory a manner. As everybody knows, my translation may be regarded as perfectly certain, if only one makes the very modest assumption that the cylinders were originally engraved upside down by an Aztec captive, who had learned broken Accadian, with a bad accent, from a Chinese exile, and who occasionally employed Egyptian hieroglyphics in incorrect senses, to piece out his own very imperfect idiom and doubtful spelling of the early Babylonian language. The solitary real doubt in the matter is whether certain extraordinary marks in the upper left-hand corner of the cylinder are to be interpreted as accidental scratches, or as a picture representing the triumph of a king over seven bound prisoners, or, finally, as an Accadian sentence in cuneiforms which may be translated either as "To the memory of Om the Great," or else as "Pithor the High Priest dedicates a fat goose to the family dinner on the 25th of the month of mid winter." Every candid and unprejudiced mind must admit that these small discrepancies or alternatives in the opinions of experts can cast no doubt at all upon the general soundness of the method employed. But persons like the Professor, while ready to accept any evidence at all where their own prepossessions are concerned, can never be induced to believe such plain and unvarnished statements of simple scientific knowledge.

However, the end of it all was that before I had been a month at the Museum, I had obtained the Professor's consent to my marriage with Nora: and as I had had Nora's own consent long before, we were duly joined together in holy matrimony early in October at Oxford, and came at once to live in Hampstead. So, as it turned out, I finally owed the sweetest and best little wife in all Christendom to the mysterious occurrence in Piccadilly.

_____________________

3: Preliminaries

Cornelia Atwood Comer

1867-1929

The Atlantic Monthly Nov 1910

YOUNG OLIVER PICKERSGILL was in love with Peter Lannithorne's daughter. Peter Lannithorne was serving a six-year term in the penitentiary for embezzlement.

It seemed to Ollie that there was only one right-minded way of looking at these basal facts of his situation. But this simple view of the matter was destined to receive several shocks in the course of his negotiations for Ruth Lannithorne's hand. I say negotiations advisedly. Most young men in love have only to secure the consent of the girl and find enough money to go to housekeeping. It is quite otherwise when you wish to marry into a royal family, or to ally yourself with a criminal's daughter. The preliminaries are more complicated.

Ollie thought a man ought to marry the girl he loves, and prejudices be hanged! In the deeps of his soul, he probably knew this to be the magnanimous, manly attitude, but certainly there was no condescension in his outward bearing when he asked Ruth Lannithorne to be his wife. Yet she turned on him fiercely, bristling with pride and tense with over-wrought nerves.

'I will never marry any one,' she declared, 'who doesn't respect my father as I do!'

If Oliver's jaw fell, it is hardly surprising. He had expected her to say she would never many into a family where she was not welcome. He had planned to get around the natural objections of his parents somehow— the details of this were vague in his mind— and then he meant to reassure her warmly, and tell her that personal merit was the only thing that counted with him or his. He may have visualized himself as wiping away her tears and gently raising her to share the safe social pedestal whereon the Pickersgills were firmly planted. The young do have these visions not infrequently. But to be asked to respect Peter Lannithorne, about whom he knew practically nothing save his present address!

'I don't remember that I ever saw your father, Ruth,' he faltered.

'He was the best man,' said the girl excitedly, 'the kindest, the most indulgent.— That's another thing, Ollie. I will never marry an indulgent man, nor one who will let his wife manage him. If it hadn't been for mother— ' She broke off abruptly.

Ollie tried to look sympathetic and not too intelligent. He had heard that Mrs. Lannithorne was considered difficult.

'I oughtn't to say it, but can't explain father unless I do. Mother nagged; she wanted more money than there was; she made him feel her illnesses, and our failings, and the overdone beefsteak, and the under-done bread,— everything that went wrong, always, was his fault. His fault— because he didn't make more money. We were on the edge of things, and she wanted to be in the middle, as she was used to being. Of course, she really hasn't been well, but I think it's mostly nerves,' said Ruth, with the terrible hardness of the young. 'Anyhow, she might just as well have stuck knives into him as to say the things she did. It hurt him— like knives, I could see him wince— and try harder— and get discouraged— and then, at last— ' The girl burst into a passion of tears.

Oliver tried to soothe her. Secretly he was appalled at these squalid revelations of discordant family life. The domestic affairs of the Pickersgills ran smoothly, in affluence and peace. Oliver had never listened to a nagging woman in his life. He had an idea that such phenomena were confined to the lower classes.

'Don't you care for me at all, Ruth?'

The girl crumpled her wet handkerchief. 'Ollie, you're the most beautiful thing that ever happened— except my father. He was beautiful, too; indeed, indeed, he was. I'll never think differently. I can't. He tried so hard.'

All the latent manliness in the boy came to the surface and showed itself.

'Ruth, darling, I don't want you to think differently. It's right for you to be loyal and feel as you do. You see, you know, and the world doesn't. I'll take what you say and do as you wish. You mustn't think I'm on the other side. I'm not. I'm on your side, wherever that is. When the time comes I'll show you. You may trust me, Ruth.'

He was eager, pleading, earnest. He looked at the moment so good, so loving and sincere, that the girl, out of her darker experience of life, wondered wistfully if it were really true that Providence ever let people just live their lives out like that— being good, and prosperous, and generous, advancing from happiness to happiness, instead of stubbing along painfully as she felt she had done, from one bitter experience to another, learning to live by failures.

It must be beautiful to learn from successes instead, as it seemed to her Oliver had done. How could any one refuse to share such a radiant life when it was offered? As for loving Oliver, that was a foregone conclusion. Still, she hesitated.

'You're awfully dear and good to me, Ollie,' she said. 'But I want you to see father. I want you to go and talk to him about this, and know him for yourself. I know I'm asking a hard thing of you, but, truly, I believe it's best. If he says it's all right for me to marry you, I will— if your family want me, of course,' she added as an afterthought.

'Oughtn't I to speak to your mother?' hesitated Oliver.

'Oh,— mother? Yes, I suppose she'd like it,' said Ruth, absent-mindedly. 'Mother has views about getting married, Ollie. I dare say she'll want to tell you what they are. You mustn't think they're my views, though.'

'I'd rather hear yours, Ruth.'

She flashed a look at him that opened for him the heavenly deeps that lie before the young and the loving, and he had a sudden vision of their life as a long sunlit road, winding uphill, winding down, but sunlit always— because looks like that illumine any dusk.

'I'll tell you my views— some day,' Ruth said softly. 'But first—'

'First I must talk to my father, your mother, your father.' Oliver checked them off on his fingers. 'Three of them. Seems to me that's a lot of folks to consult about a thing that doesn't really concern anybody but you and me!'

AFTER THE FASHION of self-absorbed youth, Oliver had never noticed Mrs. Lannithorne especially. She had been to him simply a sallow little figure in the background of Ruth's vivid young life; someone to be spoken to very politely, but otherwise of no particular moment.

If his marital negotiations did nothing else for him, they were at least opening his eyes to the significance of the personalities of older people.

The things Ruth said about her mother had prepared him to find that lady querulous and difficult, but essentially negligible. Face to face with Mrs. Lannithorne, he had a very different impression. She received him in the upstairs sitting-room to which her semi-invalid habits usually confined her. Wrapped in a white wool shawl and lying in a long Canton lounging-chair by a sunshiny window, she put out a chilly hand in greeting, and asked the young man to be seated.

Oliver, scanning her countenance, received an unexpected impression of dignity. She was thin and nervous, with big dark eyes peering out of a pale, narrow face; she might be a woman with a grievance, but he apprehended something beyond mere fretfulness in the discontent of her expression. There was suffering and thought in her face, and even when the former is exaggerated and the latter erroneous, these are impressive things.

'Mrs. Lannithorne, have you any objection to letting Ruth marry me?'

'Mr. Pickersgill, what are your qualifications for the care of a wife and family?'

Oliver hesitated. 'Why, about what anybody's are, I think,' he said, and was immediately conscious of the feebleness of this response. 'I mean,' he added, flushing to the roots of his blond hair, 'that my prospects in life are fair. I am in my father's office, you know. I am to have a small share in the business next year. I needn't tell you that the firm is a good one. If you want to know about my qualifications as a lawyer— why, I can refer you to people who can tell you if they think I am promising.'

'Do your family approve of this marriage?'

'I haven't talked to them about it yet.'

'Have you ever saved any money of your own earning, or have you any property in your own name?'

Oliver thought guiltily of his bank account, which had a surprising way of proving, when balanced, to be less than he expected.

'Well,— not exactly.'

'In other words, then, Mr. Pickersgill, you are a young and absolutely untried man; you are in your father's employ and practically at his mercy; you propose a great change in your life of which you do not know that he approves; you have no resources of your own, and you are not even sure of your earning capacity if your father's backing were withdrawn. In these circumstances you plan to double your expenses and assume the whole responsibility of another person's life, comfort, and happiness. Do you think that you have shown me that your qualifications are adequate?'

All this was more than a little disconcerting. Oliver was used to being accepted as old Pickersgill's only son— which meant a cheerfully accorded background of eminence, ability, and comfortable wealth. It had not occurred to him to detach himself from that background and see how he looked when separated from it. He felt a little angry, and also a little ashamed of the fact that he did not bulk larger as a personage, apart from his environment. Nevertheless, he answered her question honestly.

'No, Mrs. Lannithorne, I don't think that I have.'

She did not appear to rejoice in his discomfiture. She even seemed a little sorry for it, but she went on quietly:—

'Don't think I am trying to prove that you are the most ineligible young man in the city. But it is absolutely necessary that a man should stand on his own feet, and firmly, before he undertakes to look after other lives than his own. Otherwise there is nothing but misery for the woman and children who depend upon him. It is a serious business, getting married.'

'I begin to think it is,' muttered Oliver blankly.

'I don't want my daughters to marry,' said Mrs. Lannithorne. 'The life is a thousand times harder than that of the self-supporting woman— harder work, fewer rewards, less enjoyment, less security. That is true even of an ordinarily happy marriage. And if they are not happy— Oh, the bitterness of them!'

She was speaking rapidly now, with energy, almost with anguish. Oliver, red in the face, subdued, but eager to refute her out of the depths and heights of his inexperience, held himself rigidly still and listened.

'Did you ever hear that epigram of Disraeli— that all men should marry, but no women? That is what I believe! At least, if women must marry, let others do it, not my children, not my little girls!— It is curious, but that is how we always think of them. When they are grown they are often uncongenial. My daughter Ruth does not love me deeply, nor am I greatly drawn to her now, as an individual, a personality,— but Ruth was such a dear baby! I can't bear to have her suffer.'

Oliver started to protest, hesitated, bit his lip, and subsided. After all, did he dare say that his wife would never suffer? The woman opposite looked at him with hostile, accusing eyes, as if he incarnated in his youthful person all the futile masculinity in the world.

'Do you think a woman who has suffered willingly gives her children over to the same fate?' she demanded passionately. 'I wish I could make you see it for five minutes as I see it, you, young, careless, foolish! Why, you know nothing— nothing! Listen to me. The woman who marries gives up everything, or at least jeopardizes everything: her youth, her health, her life perhaps, certainly her individuality. She acquires the permanent possibility of self-sacrifice. She does it gladly, but she does not know what she is doing. In return, is it too much to ask that she be assured a roof over her head, food to her mouth, clothes to her body? How many men marry without being sure that they have even so much to offer? You yourself, of what are you sure? Is your arm strong? Is your heart loyal? Can you shelter her soul as well as her body? I know your father has money. Perhaps you can care for her creature needs, but that isn't all. For some women life is one long affront, one slow humiliation. How do I know you are not like that?'

'Because I'm not, that's all!' said Oliver Pickersgill abruptly, getting to his feet.

He felt badgered, baited, indignant, yet he could not tell this frail, excited woman what he thought. There were things one didn't say, although Mrs. Lannithorne seemed to ignore the fact. She went on ignoring it.

'I know what you are thinking,' she said, 'that I would regard these matters differently if I had married another man. That is not wholly true. It is because Peter Lannithorne was a good man at heart, and tried to play the man's part as well as he knew how, and because it was partly my own fault that he failed so miserably, that I have thought of it all so much. And the end of all my thinking is that I don't want my daughters to marry.'

Oliver was white now, and a little unsteady. He was also confused. There was the note of truth in what she said, but he felt that she said it with too much excitement, with too great facility. He had the justified masculine distrust of feminine fluency as hysterical. Nothing so presented could carry full conviction. And he felt physically bruised and battered, as if he had been beaten with actual rods instead of stinging words; but he was not yet defeated.

'Mrs. Lannithorne, what do you wish me to understand from all this. Do you forbid Ruth and me to marry— is that it?'

She looked at him dubiously. She felt so fiercely the things she had been saying that she could not feel them continuously. She, too, was exhausted.

Oliver Pickersgill had a fine head, candid eyes, a firm chin, strong capable hands. He was young, and the young know nothing, but it might be that there was the making of a man in him. If Ruth must marry, perhaps him as well as another. But she did not trust her own judgment, even of such hands, such eyes, and such a chin. Oh, if the girls would only believe her, if they would only be content to trust the wisdom she had distilled from the bitterness of life! But the young know nothing, and believe only the lying voices in their own hearts!

'I wish you would see Ruth's father,' she said suddenly. 'I am prejudiced. I ought not to have to deal with these questions. I tell you, I pray Heaven none of them may marry— ever; but, just the same, they will! Go ask Peter Lannithorne if he thinks his daughter Ruth has a fighting chance for happiness as your wife. Let him settle it. I have told you what I think. I am done.'

'I shall be very glad to talk with Ruth's father about the matter,' said Oliver with a certain emphasis on father. 'Perhaps he and I shall be able to understand each other better. Good-morning, Mrs. Lannithorne!'

OLIVER PICKERSGILL SENIOR turned his swivel-chair about, bit hard on the end of his cigar, and stared at his only son.

'What's that?' he said abruptly. 'Say that again.'

Oliver Junior winced, not so much at the words as at his father's face.

'I want to marry Ruth Lannithorne,' he repeated steadily.

There was a silence. The elder Pickersgill looked at his son long and hard from under lowered brows. Oliver had never seen his father look at him like that before: as if he were a rank outsider, some detached person whose doings were to be scrutinized coldly and critically, and judged on their merits. It is a hard hour for a beloved child when he first sees that look in heretofore indulgent parental eyes. Young Oliver felt a weight at his heart, but he sat the straighter, and did not flinch before the appraising glance.

'So you want to marry Peter Lannithorne's daughter, do you? Well, now what is there in the idea of marrying a jail-bird's child that you find especially attractive?'

'Of course I might say that I've seen something of business men in this town, Ross, say, and Worcester, and Jim Stone, and that if it came to a choice between their methods and Lannithorne's, his were the squarer, for he settled up, and is paying the price besides. But I don't know that there's any use saying that. I don't want to marry any of their daughters— and you wouldn't want me to. You know what Ruth Lannithorne is as well as I do. If there's a girl in town that's finer-grained, or smarter, or prettier, I'd like to have you point her out! And she has a sense of honor like a man's. I don't know another girl like her in that. She knows what's fair,' said the young man.

Mr. Pickersgill's face relaxed a little. Oliver was making a good argument with no mushiness about it, and he had a long-settled habit of appreciating Ollie's arguments.

'She knows what's fair, does she? Then what does she say about marrying you?'

'She says she won't marry anybody who doesn't respect her father as she does!'

At this the parent grinned a little, grimly it is true, but appreciatively. He looked past Oliver's handsome, boyish head, out of the window, and was silent for a time. When he spoke, it was gravely, not angrily.

'Oliver, you're young. The things I'm as sure of as two and two, you don't yet believe at all. Probably you won't believe 'em if I put them to you, but it's up to me to do it. Understand, I'm not getting angry and doing the heavy father over this. I'm just telling you how some things are in this world,— facts, like gravitation and atmospheric pressure. Ruth Lannithorne is a good girl, I don't doubt. This world is chuck full of good girls. It makes some difference which one of 'em you marry, but not nearly so much difference as you think it does. What matters, from forty on, for the rest of your life, is the kind of inheritance you've given your children. You don't know it yet, but the thing that's laid on men and women to do is to give their children as good an inheritance as they can. Take it from me that this is Gospel truth, can't you? Your mother and I have done the best we can for you and your sisters. You come from good stock, and by that I mean honest blood. You've got to pass it on untainted. Now— hold on!' he held up a warning hand as Oliver was about to interrupt hotly. 'Wait till I'm through— and then think it over. I'm not saying that Peter Lannithorne's blood isn't as good as much that passes for untainted, or that Ruth isn't a fine girl. I'm only telling you this: when first you look into your son's face, every failing of your own will rise up to haunt you because you will wish for nothing on God's earth so much as that that boy shall have a fair show in life and be a better man than you. You will thank Heaven for every good thing you know of in your blood and in your wife's, and you will regret every meanness, every weakness, that he may inherit, more than you knew it was in you to regret anything. Do you suppose when that hour comes to you that you'll want to remember his grandfather was a convict? How will you face that down?'

Young Oliver's face was pale. He had never thought of things like this. He made no response for a while. At last he asked,—

'What kind of a man is Peter Lannithorne?'

'Eh? What kind of—? Oh, well, as men go, there have been worse ones. You know how he came to get sent up. He speculated, and he borrowed some of another man's money without asking, for twenty-four hours, to protect his speculation. He didn't lose it, either! There's a point where his case differs from most. He pulled the thing off and made enough to keep his family going in decent comfort, and he paid the other money back; but they concluded to make an example of him, so they sent him up. It was just, yes, and he said so himself. At the same time there are a great many more dishonest men out of prison than Peter Lannithorne, though he is in it. I meet 'em every day, and I ought to know. But that's not the point. As you said yourself, you don't want to marry their daughters. Heaven forbid that you should! You want to marry his daughter. And he was weak. He was tempted and fell— and got found out. He is a convict, and the taint sticks. The Lord knows why the stain of unsuccessful dishonesty should stick longer than the stain of successful dishonesty. I don't. But we know it does. That is the way things are. Why not marry where there is no taint?'

'Father—?'

'Yes, Ollie.'

'Father, see here. He was weak and gave way— once! Are there any men in the world who haven't given way at least once about something or other?— are there, father?'

There was a note of anguish in the boy's voice. Perhaps he was being pushed too far. Oliver Pickersgill Senior cleared his throat, paused, and at last answered sombrely,—

'God knows, Ollie. I don't. I won't say there are.'

'Well, then—'

'See here!' his father interrupted sharply. 'Of course I see your argument. I won't meet it. I shan't try. It doesn't change my mind even if it is a good argument. We'll never get anywhere, arguing along those lines. I'll propose something else. Suppose you go ask Peter Lannithorne whether you shall marry his daughter or not. Yes, ask him. He knows what's what as well as the next man. Ask Peter Lannithorne what a man wants in the family of the woman he marries.'

There was a note of finality in the older man's voice. Ollie recognized it drearily. All roads led to Lannithorne, it seemed. He rose, oppressed with the sense that henceforward life was going to be full of unforeseen problems; that things which, from afar, looked simple, and easy, and happy, were going to prove quite otherwise. Mrs. Lannithorne had angered rather than frightened him, and he had held his own with her; but this was his very own father who was piling the load on his shoulders and filling his heart with terror of the future. What was it, after all, this adventure of the married life whereof these seasoned travelers spoke so dubiously? Could it really be that it was not the divine thing it seemed when he and Ruth looked into each other's eyes?

He crossed the floor dejectedly, with the step of an older man, but at the door he shook himself and looked back.

'Say, dad!'

'Yes, Ollie.'

'Everybody is so terribly depressing about this thing, it almost scares me. Aren't there really any happy times for married people, ever? You and Mrs. Lannithorne make me feel there aren't; but somehow I have a hunch that Ruth and I know best! Own up now! Are you and mother miserable? You never looked it!'

His father surveyed him with an expression too wistful to be complacent. Ah, those broad young shoulders that must be fitted to the yoke! Yet for what other end was their strength given them? Each man must take his turn.

'It's not a soft snap. I don't know anything worth while that is. But there are compensations. You'll see what some of them are when your boys begin to grow up.'

ACROSS OLIVER'S young joy fell the shadow of fear. If, as his heart told him, there was nothing to be afraid of, why were his elders thus cautious and terrified? He felt himself affected by their alarms all the more potently because his understanding of them was vague. He groped his way in fog. How much ought he to be influenced by Mrs. Lannithorne's passionate protests and his father's stern warnings? He realized all at once that the admonitory attitude of age to youth is rooted deep in immortal necessity. Like most lads, he had never thought of it before save as an unpleasant parental habit. But fear changes the point of view, and Oliver had begun to be afraid.

Then again, before him loomed the prospect of his interview with Peter Lannithorne. This was a very concrete unpleasantness. Hang it all! Ruth was worth any amount of trouble, but still it was a tough thing to have to go down to the state capital and seek one's future father-in-law in his present boarding-place! One oughtn't to have to plough through that particular kind of difficulty on such an errand. Dimly he felt that the path to the Most Beautiful should be rose-lined and soft to the feet of the approaching bridegroom. But, apparently, that wasn't the way such paths were laid out. He resented this bitterly, but he set his jaws and proceeded to make his arrangements.

It was not difficult to compass the necessary interview. He knew a man who knew the warden intimately. It was quickly arranged that he was to see Peter Lannithorne in the prison library, quite by himself.

Oliver dragged himself to that conference by the sheer strength of his developing will. Every fibre of his being seemed to protest and hold back. Consequently he was not in the happiest imaginable temper for important conversation.

The prison library was a long, narrow room, with bookcases to the ceiling on one side and windows to the ceiling on the other. There were red geraniums on brackets up the sides of the windows, and a canary's cage on a hook gave the place a false air of domesticity, contradicted by the barred sash. Beneath, there was a window-seat, and here Oliver Pickersgill awaited Lannithorne's coming.

Ollie did not know what he expected the man to be like, but his irritated nerves were prepared to resent and dislike him, whatever he might prove. He held himself rigidly as he waited, and he could feel the muscles of his face setting themselves into hard lines.

When the door opened and some one approached him, he rose stiffly and held out his hand like an automaton.

'How do you do, Mr. Lannithorne? I am Oliver Pickersgill, and I have come— I have come—'

His voice trailed off into silence, for he had raised his eyes perfunctorily to Peter Lannithorne's face, and the things printed there made him forget himself and the speech he had prepared.

He saw a massive head topping an insignificant figure. A fair man was Peter Lannithorne, with heavy reddish hair, a bulging forehead, and deep-set gray eyes with a light behind them. His features were irregular and unnoticeable, but the sum-total of them gave the impression of force. It was a strong face, yet you could see that it had once been a weak one. It was a tremendously human face, a face like a battle-ground, scarred and seamed and lined with the stress of invisible conflicts. There was so much of struggle and thought set forth in it that one involuntarily averted one's gaze. It did not seem decent to inspect so much of the soul of a man as was shown in Peter Lannithorne's countenance. Not a triumphant face at all, and yet there was peace in it. Somehow, the man had achieved something, arrived somewhere, and the record of the journey was piteous and terrible. Yet it drew the eyes in awe as much as in wonder, and in pity not at all!

These things were startlingly clear to Oliver. He saw them with a vividness not to be overestimated. This was a prison. This might be a convict, but he was a man. He was a man who knew things and would share his knowledge. His wisdom was as patent as his suffering, and both stirred young Oliver's heart to its depths. His pride, his irritation, his rigidity vanished in a flash. His fears were in abeyance. Only his wonder and his will to learn were left.

Lannithorne did not take the offered hand, yet did not seem to ignore it. He came forward quietly and sat down on the window-seat, half turning so that he and Oliver faced each other.

'Oliver Pickersgill?' he said. 'Then you are Oliver Pickersgill's son.'

'Yes, Mr. Lannithorne. My father sent me here— my father, and Mrs. Lannithorne, and Ruth.'

At his daughter's name a light leaped into Peter Lannithorne's eyes that made him look even more acutely and painfully alive than before.

'And what have you to do with Ruth, or her mother?' the man asked.

Here it was! The great moment was facing him. Oliver caught his breath, then went straight to the point.

'I want to marry your daughter, Mr. Lannithorne. We love each other very much. But— I haven't quite persuaded her, and I haven't persuaded Mrs. Lannithorne and my father at all. They don't see it. They say things— all sorts of dreadful things,' said the boy. 'You would think they had never been young and— cared for anybody. They seem to have forgotten what it means. They try to make us afraid— just plain afraid. How am I to suppose that they know best about Ruth and me?'

Lannithorne looked across at the young man long and fixedly. Then a great kindliness came into his beaten face, and a great comprehension.

Oliver, meeting his eyes, had a sudden sense of shelter, and felt his haunting fears allayed. It was absurd and incredible, but this man made him feel comfortable, yes, and eager to talk things over.

'They all said you would know. They sent me to you.'

Peter Lannithorne smiled faintly to himself. He had not left his sense of humor behind him in the outside world.

'They sent you to me, did they, boy? And what did they tell you to ask me? They had different motives, I take it.'

'Rather! Ruth said you were the best man she had ever known, and if you said it was right for her to marry me, she would. Mrs. Lannithorne said I should ask you if you thought Ruth had a fighting chance for happiness with me. She doesn't want Ruth to marry anybody, you see. My father— my father'— Oliver's voice shook with his consciousness of the cruelty of what was to follow, but he forced himself to steadiness and got the words out— 'said I was to ask you what a man wants in the family of the woman he marries. He said you knew what was what, and I should ask you what to do.'

Lannithorne's face was very grave, and his troubled gaze sought the floor. Oliver, convicted of brutality and conscience-smitten, hurried on, 'And now that I've seen you, I want to ask you a few things for myself, Mr. Lannithorne. I— I believe you know.'

The man looked up and held up an arresting hand. 'Let me clear the way for you a little,' he said. 'It was a hard thing for you to come and seek me out in this place. I like your coming. Most young men would have refused, or come in a different spirit. I want you to understand that if in Ruth's eyes, and my wife's, and your father's, my counsel has value, it is because they think I see things as they are. And that means, first of all, that I know myself for a man who committed a crime, and is paying the penalty. I am satisfied to be paying it. As I see justice, it is just. So, if I seem to wince at your necessary allusions to it, that is part of the price. I don't want you to feel that you are blundering or hurting me more than is necessary. You have got to lay the thing before me as it is.'

Something in the words, in the dry, patient manner, in the endurance of the man's face, touched Oliver to the quick and made him feel all manner of new things: such as a sense of the moral poise of the universe, acquiescence in its retributions, and a curious pride, akin to Ruth's own, in a man who could meet him after this fashion, in this place.

'Thank you, Mr. Lannithorne,' he said. 'You see, it's this way, sir. Mrs. Lannithorne says—

And he went on eagerly to set forth his new problems as they had been stated to him.

'Well, there you have it,' he concluded at last. 'For myself, the things they said opened chasms and abysses. Mrs. Lannithorne seemed to think I would hurt Ruth. My father seemed to think Ruth would hurt me. Is married life something to be afraid of? When I look at Ruth, I am sure everything is all right. It may be miserable for other people, but how could it be miserable for Ruth and me?'

Peter Lannithorne looked at the young man long and thoughtfully again before he answered. Oliver felt himself measured and estimated, but not found wanting. When the man spoke, it was slowly and with difficulty, as if the habit of intimate, convincing speech had been so long disused that the effort was painful. The sentences seemed wrung out of him, one by one.

'They haven't the point of view,' he said. 'It is life that is the great adventure. Not love, not marriage, not business. They are just chapters in the book. The main thing is to take the road fearlessly,— to have courage to live one's life.'

'Courage?'

Lannithorne nodded.

'That is the great word. Don't you see what ails your father's point of view, and my wife's? One wants absolute security in one way for Ruth; the other wants absolute security in another way for you. And security— why, it's just the one thing a human being can't have, the thing that's the damnation of him if he gets it! The reason it is so hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven is that he has that false sense of security. To demand it just disintegrates a man. I don't know why. It does.'

Oliver shook his head uncertainly.

'I don't quite follow you, sir. Oughtn't one to try to be safe?'

'One ought to try, yes. That is common prudence. But the point is that, whatever you do or get, you aren't after all secure. There is no such condition, and the harder you demand it, the more risk you run. So it is up to a man to take all reasonable precautions about his money, or his happiness, or his life, and trust the rest. What every man in the world is looking for is the sense of having the mastery over life. But I tell you, boy, there is only one thing that really gives it!'

'And that is—?'

Lannithorne hesitated perceptibly. For the thing he was about to tell this undisciplined lad was his most precious possession; it was the piece of wisdom for which he had paid with the years of his life. No man parts lightly with such knowledge.

'It comes,' he said, with an effort, 'with the knowledge of our power to endure. That's it. You are safe only when you can stand everything that can happen to you. Then and then only! Endurance is the measure of a man.'

Oliver's heart swelled within him as he listened, and his face shone, for these words found his young soul where it lived. The chasms and abysses in his path suddenly vanished, and the road lay clear again, winding uphill, winding down, but always lit for Ruth and him by the light in each other's eyes. For surely neither Ruth nor he could ever fail in courage!

'Sometimes I think it is harder to endure what we deserve, like me,' said Lannithorne, 'than what we don't. I was afraid, you see, afraid for my wife and all of them. Anyhow, take my word for it. Courage is security. There is no other kind.'

'Then— Ruth and I— '

'Ruth is the core of my heart!' said Lannithorne thickly. 'I would rather die than have her suffer more than she must. But she must take her chances like the rest. It is the law of things. If you know yourself fit for her, and feel reasonably sure you can take care of her, you have a right to trust the future. Myself, I believe there is Some One to trust it to. As for the next generation, God and the mothers look after that! You may tell your father so from me. And you may tell my wife I think there is the stuff of a man in you. And Ruth— tell Ruth—'

He could not finish. Oliver reached out and found his hand and wrung it hard.

'I'll tell her, sir, that I feel about her father as she does! And that he approves of our venture. And I'll tell myself, always, what you've just told me. Why, it must be true! You needn't be afraid I'll forget— when the time comes for remembering.'

Finding his way out of the prison yard a few minutes later, Oliver looked, unseeing, at the high walls that soared against the blue spring sky. He could not realize them, there was such a sense of light, air, space, in his spirit.

Apparently, he was just where he had been an hour before, with all his battles still to fight, but really he knew they were already won, for his weapon had been forged and put in his hand. He left his boyhood behind him as he passed that stern threshold, for the last hour had made a man of him, and a prisoner had given him the master-key that opens every door.

___________

4: The Damned Thing

Ambrose Bierce

1842-1914?

Collected in: Can Such Things Be?  1893

i— One Does Not Always Eat what is on the Table

BY THE LIGHT of a tallow candle which had been placed on one end of a rough table a man was reading something written in a book. It was an old account book, greatly worn; and the writing was not, apparently, very legible, for the man sometimes held the page close to the flame of the candle to get a stronger light on it. The shadow of the book would then throw into obscurity a half of the room, darkening a number of faces and figures; for besides the reader, eight other men were present. Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent, motionless, and the room being small, not very far from the table. By extending an arm any one of them could have touched the eighth man, who lay on the table, face upward, partly covered by a sheet, his arms at his sides. He was dead.

The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke; all seemed to be waiting for something to occur; the dead man only was without expectation. From the blank darkness outside came in, through the aperture that served for a window, all the ever unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness— the long nameless note of a distant coyote; the stilly pulsing thrill of tireless insects in trees; strange cries of night birds, so different from those of the birds of day; the drone of great blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of small sounds that seem always to have been but half heard when they have suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an indiscretion. But nothing of all this was noted in that company; its members were not overmuch addicted to idle interest in matters of no practical importance; that was obvious in every line of their rugged faces— obvious even in the dim light of the single candle. They were evidently men of the vicinity— farmers and woodsmen.

The person reading was a trifle different; one would have said of him that he was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that in his attire which attested a certain fellowship with the organisms of his environment. His coat would hardly have passed muster in San Francisco; his foot-gear was not of urban origin, and the hat that lay by him on the floor (he was the only one uncovered) was such that if one had considered it as an article of mere personal adornment he would have missed its meaning. In countenance the man was rather prepossessing, with just a hint of sternness; though that he may have assumed or cultivated, as appropriate to one in authority. For he was a coroner. It was by virtue of his office that he had possession of the book in which he was reading; it had been found among the dead man's effects— in his cabin, where the inquest was now taking place.

When the coroner had finished reading he put the book into his breast pocket. At that moment the door was pushed open and a young man entered. He, clearly, was not of mountain birth and breeding: he was clad as those who dwell in cities. His clothing was dusty, however, as from travel. He had, in fact, been riding hard to attend the inquest.

The coroner nodded; no one else greeted him.

"We have waited for you," said the coroner. "It is necessary to have done with this business to-night."

The young man smiled. "I am sorry to have kept you," he said. "I went away, not to evade your summons, but to post to my newspaper an account of what I suppose I am called back to relate."

The coroner smiled.

"The account that you posted to your newspaper," he said, "differs, probably, from that which you will give here under oath."

"That," replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, "is as you please. I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent. It was not written as news, for it is incredible, but as fiction. It may go as a part of my testimony under oath."

"But you say it is incredible."

"That is nothing to you, sir, if I also swear that it is true."

The coroner was silent for a time, his eyes upon the floor. The men about the sides of the cabin talked in whispers, but seldom withdrew their gaze from the face of the corpse. Presently the coroner lifted his eyes and said: "We will resume the inquest."

The men removed their hats. The witness was sworn.

"What is your name?" the coroner asked.

"William Harker."

"Age?"

"Twenty-seven."

"You knew the deceased, Hugh Morgan?"

"Yes."

"You were with him when he died?"

"Near him."

"How did that happen— your presence, I mean?"

"I was visiting him at this place to shoot and fish. A part of my purpose, however, was to study him and his odd, solitary way of life. He seemed a good model for a character in fiction. I sometimes write stories."

"I sometimes read them."

"Thank you."

"Stories in general— not yours."

Some of the jurors laughed. Against a sombre background humor shows high lights. Soldiers in the intervals of battle laugh easily, and a jest in the death chamber conquers by surprise.

"Relate the circumstances of this man's death," said the coroner. "You may use any notes or memoranda that you please."

The witness understood. Pulling a manuscript from his breast pocket he held it near the candle and turning the leaves until he found the passage that he wanted began to read.

ii— What May Happen in a Field of Wild Oats

"...THE SUN had hardly risen when we left the house. We were looking for quail, each with a shotgun, but we had only one dog. Morgan said that our best ground was beyond a certain ridge that he pointed out, and we crossed it by a trail through the chaparral. On the other side was comparatively level ground, thickly covered with wild oats. As we emerged from the chaparral Morgan was but a few yards in advance. Suddenly we heard, at a little distance to our right and partly in front, a noise as of some animal thrashing about in the bushes, which we could see were violently agitated.

"'We've started a deer,' I said. 'I wish we had brought a rifle.'

"Morgan, who had stopped and was intently watching the agitated chaparral, said nothing, but had cocked both barrels of his gun and was holding it in readiness to aim. I thought him a trifle excited, which surprised me, for he had a reputation for exceptional coolness, even in moments of sudden and imminent peril.

"'O, come,' I said. 'You are not going to fill up a deer with quail-shot, are you?'

"Still he did not reply; but catching a sight of his face as he turned it slightly toward me I was struck by the intensity of his look. Then I understood that we had serious business in hand and my first conjecture was that we had 'jumped' a grizzly. I advanced to Morgan's side, cocking my piece as I moved.

"The bushes were now quiet and the sounds had ceased, but Morgan was as attentive to the place as before.

"'What is it? What the devil is it?' I asked.

"'That Damned Thing!' he replied, without turning his head. His voice was husky and unnatural. He trembled visibly.

"I was about to speak further, when I observed the wild oats near the place of the disturbance moving in the most inexplicable way. I can hardly describe it. It seemed as if stirred by a streak of wind, which not only bent it, but pressed it down— crushed it so that it did not rise; and this movement was slowly prolonging itself directly toward us.

"Nothing that I had ever seen had affected me so strangely as this unfamiliar and unaccountable phenomenon, yet I am unable to recall any sense of fear. I remember— and tell it here because, singularly enough, I recollected it then— that once in looking carelessly out of an open window I momentarily mistook a small tree close at hand for one of a group of larger trees at a little distance away. It looked the same size as the others, but being more distinctly and sharply defined in mass and detail seemed out of harmony with them. It was a mere falsification of the law of aerial perspective, but it startled, almost terrified me. We so rely upon the orderly operation of familiar natural laws that any seeming suspension of them is noted as a menace to our safety, a warning of unthinkable calamity. So now the apparently causeless movement of the herbage and the slow, undeviating approach of the line of disturbance were distinctly disquieting. My companion appeared actually frightened, and I could hardly credit my senses when I saw him suddenly throw his gun to his shoulder and fire both barrels at the agitated grain! Before the smoke of the discharge had cleared away I heard a loud savage cry— a scream like that of a wild animal— and flinging his gun upon the ground Morgan sprang away and ran swiftly from the spot. At the same instant I was thrown violently to the ground by the impact of something unseen in the smoke— some soft, heavy substance that seemed thrown against me with great force.

"Before I could get upon my feet and recover my gun, which seemed to have been struck from my hands, I heard Morgan crying out as if in mortal agony, and mingling with his cries were such hoarse, savage sounds as one hears from fighting dogs. Inexpressibly terrified, I struggled to my feet and looked in the direction of Morgan's retreat; and may Heaven in mercy spare me from another sight like that! At a distance of less than thirty yards was my friend, down upon one knee, his head thrown back at a frightful angle, hatless, his long hair in disorder and his whole body in violent movement from side to side, backward and forward. His right arm was lifted and seemed to lack the hand— at least, I could see none. The other arm was invisible. At times, as my memory now reports this extraordinary scene, I could discern but a part of his body; it was as if he had been partly blotted out— I cannot otherwise express it— then a shifting of his position would bring it all into view again.

"All this must have occurred within a few seconds, yet in that time Morgan assumed all the postures of a determined wrestler vanquished by superior weight and strength. I saw nothing but him, and him not always distinctly. During the entire incident his shouts and curses were heard, as if through an enveloping uproar of such sounds of rage and fury as I had never heard from the throat of man or brute!

"For a moment only I stood irresolute, then throwing down my gun I ran forward to my friend's assistance. I had a vague belief that he was suffering from a fit, or some form of convulsion. Before I could reach his side he was down and quiet. All sounds had ceased, but with a feeling of such terror as even these awful events had not inspired I now saw again the mysterious movement of the wild oats, prolonging itself from the trampled area about the prostrate man toward the edge of a wood. It was only when it had reached the wood that I was able to withdraw my eyes and look at my companion. He was dead."

iii— A Man Though Naked May Be in Rags

THE CORONER rose from his seat and stood beside the dead man. Lifting an edge of the sheet he pulled it away, exposing the entire body, altogether naked and showing in the candle-light a claylike yellow. It had, however, broad maculations of bluish black, obviously caused by extravasated blood from contusions. The chest and sides looked as if they had been beaten with a bludgeon. There were dreadful lacerations; the skin was torn in strips and shreds.

The coroner moved round to the end of the table and undid a silk handkerchief which had been passed under the chin and knotted on the top of the head. When the handkerchief was drawn away it exposed what had been the throat. Some of the jurors who had risen to get a better view repented their curiosity and turned away their faces. Witness Harker went to the open window and leaned out across the sill, faint and sick. Dropping the handkerchief upon the dead man's neck the coroner stepped to an angle of the room and from a pile of clothing produced one garment after another, each of which he held up a moment for inspection. All were torn, and stiff with blood. The jurors did not make a closer inspection. They seemed rather uninterested. They had, in truth, seen all this before; the only thing that was new to them being Harker's testimony.

"Gentlemen," the coroner said, "we have no more evidence, I think. Your duty has been already explained to you; if there is nothing you wish to ask you may go outside and consider your verdict."

The foreman rose— a tall, bearded man of sixty, coarsely clad.

"I should like to ask one question, Mr. Coroner," he said. "What asylum did this yer last witness escape from?"

"Mr. Harker," said the coroner, gravely and tranquilly, "from what asylum did you last escape?"

Harker flushed crimson again, but said nothing, and the seven jurors rose and solemnly filed out of the cabin.

"If you have done insulting me, sir," said Harker, as soon as he and the officer were left alone with the dead man, "I suppose I am at liberty to go?"

"Yes."

Harker started to leave, but paused, with his hand on the door latch. The habit of his profession was strong in him— stronger than his sense of personal dignity. He turned about and said:

"The book that you have there— I recognize it as Morgan's diary. You seemed greatly interested in it; you read in it while I was testifying. May I see it? The public would like—"

"The book will cut no figure in this matter," replied the official, slipping it into his coat pocket; "all the entries in it were made before the writer's death."

As Harker passed out of the house the jury reentered and stood about the table, on which the now covered corpse showed under the sheet with sharp definition. The foreman seated himself near the candle, produced from his breast pocket a pencil and scrap of paper and wrote rather laboriously the following verdict, which with various degrees of effort all signed:

"We, the jury, do find that the remains come to their death at the hands of a mountain lion, but some of us thinks, all the same, they had fits."

iv— An Explanation from the Tomb

IN THE DIARY of the late Hugh Morgan are certain interesting entries having, possibly, a scientific value as suggestions. At the inquest upon his body the book was not put in evidence; possibly the coroner thought it not worth while to confuse the jury. The date of the first of the entries mentioned cannot be ascertained; the upper part of the leaf is torn away; the part of the entry remaining follows:

"... would run in a half-circle, keeping his head turned always toward the centre, and again he would stand still, barking furiously. At last he ran away into the brush as fast as he could go. I thought at first that he had gone mad, but on returning to the house found no other alteration in his manner than what was obviously due to fear of punishment.

"Can a dog see with his nose? Do odors impress some cerebral centre with images of the thing that emitted them?...

"Sept. 2.— Looking at the stars last night as they rose above the crest of the ridge east of the house, I observed them successively disappear— from left to right. Each was eclipsed but an instant, and only a few at the same time, but along the entire length of the ridge all that were within a degree or two of the crest were blotted out. It was as if something had passed along between me and them; but I could not see it, and the stars were not thick enough to define its outline. Ugh! I don't like this."...

Several weeks' entries are missing, three leaves being torn from the book.

"Sept. 27.— It has been about here again— I find evidences of its presence every day. I watched again all last night in the same cover, gun in hand, double-charged with buckshot. In the morning the fresh footprints were there, as before. Yet I would have sworn that I did not sleep— indeed, I hardly sleep at all. It is terrible, insupportable! If these amazing experiences are real I shall go mad; if they are fanciful I am mad already.

"Oct. 3.— I shall not go— it shall not drive me away. No, this is MY house, MY land. God hates a coward...

"Oct. 5.— I can stand it no longer; I have invited Harker to pass a few weeks with me— he has a level head. I can judge from his manner if he thinks me mad.

"Oct. 7.— I have the solution of the mystery; it came to me last night— suddenly, as by revelation. How simple— how terribly simple!

"There are sounds that we cannot hear. At either end of the scale are notes that stir no chord of that imperfect instrument, the human ear. They are too high or too grave. I have observed a flock of blackbirds occupying an entire tree-top— the tops of several trees— and all in full song. Suddenly— in a moment— at absolutely the same instant— all spring into the air and fly away. How? They could not all see one another— whole tree-tops intervened. At no point could a leader have been visible to all. There must have been a signal of warning or command, high and shrill above the din, but by me unheard. I have observed, too, the same simultaneous flight when all were silent, among not only blackbirds, but other birds— quail, for example, widely separated by bushes— even on opposite sides of a hill.

"It is known to seamen that a school of whales basking or sporting on the surface of the ocean, miles apart, with the convexity of the earth between, will sometimes dive at the same instant— all gone out of sight in a moment. The signal has been sounded— too grave for the ear of the sailor at the masthead and his comrades on the deck— who nevertheless feel its vibrations in the ship as the stones of a cathedral are stirred by the bass of the organ.

"As with sounds, so with colors. At each end of the solar spectrum the chemist can detect the presence of what are known as 'actinic' rays. They represent colors— integral colors in the composition of light— which we are unable to discern. The human eye is an imperfect instrument; its range is but a few octaves of the real 'chromatic scale.' I am not mad; there are colors that we cannot see.

"And, God help me! the Damned Thing is of such a color!"

__________________

5: A Catspaw

Jack Rugby

(Maria Braithwaite, 1861-1927)

Adelaide Observer, 1 April 1899

Maria Black was born in Scotland, and came to Australia aged about 4. After her marriage to Edward Braithwaite she lived in Broken Hill, NSW. She was a stalwart of the local Temperance activist movement, as well as a writer of short stories, mostly under the name "Jack Rugby".

SO RAN THE HEADING of the following announcement in the meaning's paper:—

Another Startling Jewel Robbery.

Jewellery to the Amount of £5,000 Abstracted.

No Clue to the Mystery.

Another startling jewel robbery was reported to the police this morning from the firm of Dalwood, McGrath, & Co., which was entered 'during the night, and jewellery amounting to upwards of £5,000 taken, consisting mostly of rings, brooches, and bracelets. This makes a series of three robberies of the same class within the month. The two former ate still shrouded in mystery, in spite of the untiring efforts of the police; and this last appears to be done by the same master hands, who must be thoroughly conversed with the buildings, as not a trace of their ingress nor egress can be found. Some person or persons, with duplicate keys and a thorough knowledge of the surroundings, have done the work, and no doubt ere this shown a clean pair of heels, as it is not likely they would remain long in the vicinity."

It was remarkable that none but jewellery of the firm's workmanship suited their taste, and they were certainly connoisseurs in the art. The detectives werd baffled over the whole affair, and badgered and worried out of their lives working on clues that led to nothing but defeat. The workmen and assistants on the different premises appeared above all suspicion, submitting to the most rigorous cross-examination and thorough search of their possessions, notwithstanding which they were closely watched, but no result was arrived at. They just seemed to have vanished into thin air, so little trace was there left of them, that the men sent here and there to peer into, impersonate, and pry might have spared themselves the trouble. It was most exasperating, when suddenly through the insatiable vanity of woman the whole affair came to the surface.

There was a house in Argyle-street known as the smartest boarding-house in the city, and if you had searched the whole town over you would not have found a smarter lot of servant maids. Chief amongst the boarders was Mr. Elwyn, though none of them could ever guess how he made his living, nor where he spent his time, which always seemed fully occupied. He usually sat at the table after the others had gone, supping his coffee and reading the papers.

On the morning after the robbery he sat thus engaged, when a smart ring came to the front door, which was answered by one of the housemaids, who always waited at table, and was a general favourite with the boarders. There was small wonder for this, as she was such a charmingly bright and pretty girl, and needless to say very dressy.

Elwyn laid down his paper and went to the window. A cab stood in front of the house, and the cabman, with a good-sized square box wrapped in brown paper, was at the door handing it to Mary.

"What is that?" said her mistress, coming forward. "Another parcel for you. Dear me, Mary, you are always getting parcels."

"It is just my summer hat," explained the girl, bearing it off quickly with a kind of nervous excitement, as if afraid of being censured for extravagance.

"Seems to get a lot of parcels," said Elwyn, with an easy laugh, who had come out, and was leaning carelessly against the door.

"Yes, indeed; rather too many for a girl in her position. But those girls are most extravagant. The more wages they get the more they spend, and never think of saving a penny."

"Perhaps they are presents," suggested Elwyn.,

"I think not. If I thought any girls in my employ received presents of that kind I would dismiss them at once."

"A summer hat, did she say?" queried Elwyn.

"Yes, a summer hat. And I am sure the silly girl has two or three already."

"This is her third big parcel within the month," said Elwyn.

"Is it really? What can the girl be thinking about? I know she got a new dress just lately. Those girls dress far better than I do, or really can afford to do."

"And the first parcel— what had she in that?" asked Elwyn, smilingly.

"I'm sure I don't know. Some finery, you may he sure," laughed the lady.

"And the same cabman to bring it each time," muttered Elwyn to himself, moving off in time to see Mary come flushed ana hurried out of the lumber-room, and hurry through the house to clear her table. Unseen, he slipped into the lumber-room, that seemed to contain nothing but an accumulation of rubbish. Lying om the top of some broken deal boxes that were evidently intended for kindling lay a large wisp of twisted brown paper, apparently just thrown in. He picked it up, begun to untwist it, and straighten it out. Adhering to it in different parts were some little fluffs of pink cotton wool, commonly used by jewellers. These he carefully put together and pressed into his sovereign purse, and sauntering into the dining-room, began to talk to Mary, who was all smiles and dimples.

"Nice little jewel scare in the city again this morning, Mary; did you hear about it?"

''Yes, awful, isn't it? However can they be so careless about their shops as to let people break in like that?" she exclaimed.

"Shockingly careless of them," he laughed, seeming not to notice the girl's changing face. "Serve 'em right if they don't get the jewels back; don't you think?"

"Yes, indeed I do," she answered, brightening up; "teach them to be more careful next time."

"So it will. Nice day, Mary. Wouldn't you like to go out and try your new hat on?" She reddened as she prepared to carry her tray off.

"Oh. I'm going out to-morrow— it's my afternoon out," she answered, pertly.

"Really! Whither away to this time, Mary?"

"The beach," and she went out with a laugh and a nod, while Elwyn from behind his paper watched her curiously. But a very different man watched her on the following afternoon, as in the height of fashion she tripped from the side entrance of the house in Argyle-street, and lifting the latest craze in parasols, went up the road.

There was scarcely a soul on the street as Mary looked cautiously round, nothing nearer to her than a dirty old loafer who sauntered on the opposite side, with apparently no interest in anything beyond sunning himself. He neither saw nor heard Mary, and drawing from her pocket something that shone and glittered, and admiring it for a moment with dimpled, smiling complacency, she slipped it over her wrist and went on. It was a chain bangle of the finest workmanship, with a large pendant ruby heart, and a single diamond of flawless lustre in a gold setting— a jewel fit for a Duchess. Ever and anon she would lift her shapely arm and let the sun strike the stones that flashed out a hundred rays. It was just the right finish to a beautifully-cut sleeve and a well-gloved hand, and it was with a little sigh of regret that Mary slipped it from her wrist and back into her pocket as she got into a more populated part of the town.

Late that evening as she opened the gate on her return, and prepared to walk down the side entrance, she was startled to hear a voice call, "Mary, I want to speak to you a moment," and looking round she saw the figure of a man standing in the shelter of a laurel bush. It was Elwyn, and as he stepped forward he motioned her to follow him.

The house stood in its own grounds, and on the opposite side from tlie servants' and tradesmen's entrance it opened into a spacious garden, which was sacred to boarders and the family only. At this side Elwyn had a small private room that opened with French windows to the terrace at the side. It was a room that servants were told "not to bother about dusting," and in fact seldom entered. A light was burning, and. Elwyn told the girl to enter. But Mary refused indignantly exclaiming, "Mr. Elwyn, I'm surprised at you."

"Come now, Mary, if you are going to make it a matter of prudery it will only hasten matters. If you like to be so modest I will call your mistress, and you can face it out before her."

"What is it?" she gasped, turning pale and beginning to tremble. Elwyn laid his hand on her arm, end,' drawing her in, placed her in a chair near the open door.

"Now, Mary, it is just a simple matter," he said, taking from his pocket a gold sovereign purse, and, pressing the spring, he took out a little piece of pink wadding, and, holding it up before her, said, "Mary, can you match this for me from that piece you have upstairs?"

The girl looked white enough to faint, and Elwyn, thinking she might do so, stood beside her with one hand resting lightly on her shoulder aud still holding the pink wool before her eyes. But she rallied rapidly and sat upright, saying, "I don't know what you mean, nor what right you have to talk to me so. What is it? A piece of pink wadding. I don't know anything about it. Let me go, please; you are hindering; and I had to be home in time to serve dinner."

"I very much fear, Mary, that you will have to serve something more serious than dinner. Just oblige me with a look at that bracelet you have in your pocket."

Mary's strength utterly forsook her at this, and she leaned back in her cbair once more half fainting.

"Who and what are you?" she asked faintly.

"I am Detective Ehvyn, of the Private Enquiry Office."

The dainty parasol slipped from her hold, and her two hands fell helplessly into her lap.

"It's all up, Alary; just make a clean breast of it and ease your mind. It will be better for all concerned. 1 know you are just a catspaw for the rest. Where is the plant?"

"I— don't— know."

"Yes you do, Mary. It came along with that summer hat this morning. It was wrapped in pink wadding."

"Just the bangle," she cried, falling on her knees before him. "Just the bangle. It is in my pocket. Take it away—take it away.'"

'No, Mary; they are a pack of scoundrels, and not worth screening. Own up now. Where is it hidden?" She put her band

into her pocket, and threw the bangle on i the floor before him, the red ruby heart lying on the dusty carpet flashed and glittered in the light.

"That is all I have, and all I know of. Take the cursed tiling out of my sight. I never knew it was stolen."

"Now, Mary, don't add lie to lie. Why were you so careful that no one saw you before slipping it on going up the street?"

"No one saw me," she answered in a hoarse whisper.

"Did you see an old man?"

"Yes; but he never looked."

"You may not have thought so; but he is beside you now, rejuvenated."

She let her head fall forward with a groan on the soft cushion of the chair. The detective felt positive at that moment that he knew where to put his hands on the thieves, but to find the jewellery was a different matter, and so he kept pressing the poor, misguided girl, whom he knew was in the secret.

"You parted with Carson just before coming to the gate, Mary."

She did not answer.

"I shall have to arrest him," he went on mercilessly.

"No, no!" she cried, rising, and throwing her hands up. "He is innocent. He knows nothing."

"And Cragie and Duff," he went on; "they are all in it. Be a sensible girl, and tell nie where the rest of it is," and he stooped and picked up the glittering bauble that lay at his feet. He knew it was one of the stolen goods, and marked at a high figure, for it was down on his list.

Mary was obdurate, and would not tell, persisting that she knew of none other, than this, and there was nothing left but to take her in charge. She shared a room with two of the other girls, and a most rigorous search was at once instituted. Inside and out, upstairs and down; but nothing was to be found of the missing jewellery. The rest of the gang were then arrested and committed for trial, and during that period of waiting Mary made a confession. She had been supplied with trunks with false bottoms and sides. The jewellery had been fastened firmly between sheets of wadding, and all she had to do was to slip it in. Not so much as a jewel was missing. Mary got eighteen months for complicity and receiving stolen goods, the rest three years each.

But Mary redeemed herself. When Carson came out she was waiting to welcome him, in the midst of the Prison Gate Brigade, one of its staunchest soldiers. They are married now and fighting side by side, trying to snatch others from the sin that smirched themselves.

_____________

6: Bread Upon the Waters

J. S. Fletcher

1863-1935

The Red Magazine 7 Jan 1921

Collected in:  The Massingham Butterfly and other Stories, 1926

WHEN UNCLE THOMAS SCARTERFIELD died and left his niece, Marilla Vandale, eleven thousand dollars, Marilla was second governess in Miss Dellaby's school for young ladies at Dulwich. She was then twenty-two years of age, and up to that time her life had been about as uniformly grey as the coating of a modern battleship. Indeed, between Marilla and such a vessel there was a striking similarity; she had been a unit, on duty against possible enemy forces for ten years, and if nothing had ever come to open battle, it was, perhaps, because Marilla was altogether too grey and too much camouflaged into the bargain to excite any great notice— she had just slipped quietly along in the waters of life. Sent to Miss Dellaby at the age of twelve, on the understanding that— consequent upon a reduction in terms— she was to make herself generally useful, she had gone through the succeeding processes of half-pupil, half-help, pupil-teacher and governess; and life had been dull, drab and uniform. Marilla had neither father nor mother, brother nor sister. Somebody, she believed, exercised, or had once exercised, some sort of guardianship over her. In time she got an idea that the somebody had paid Miss Dellaby a certain sum of money to take her, Marilla, clean off that somebody's hands— the somebody, at any rate, never once came near her after she had entered the Dellaby portals. Nobody ever came but Uncle Thomas Scarterfield. He was an oldish person, very ancient of fashion, something in the trade line, Marilla thought, and evidently not at all used to young ladies. But he came once a year punctually, asked Marilla how she did, hummed and hahed in the parlour for ten minutes, and, on taking a shy and hurried leave, invariably pressed into her hand a packet of cheap and very sticky sweets, and a crisp, brand new banknote for twenty pounds.

This happened regularly for all the years which Marilla spent at Dulwich. Then, one year, Mr. Scarterfield failed to materialise. In his place appeared a solicitor who announced to Marilla, in Miss Dellaby's presence, that Mr. Thomas Scarterfield was no more, and had left to Miss Vandale eleven thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven pounds, which sum was now at her disposal.

Marilla had a good deal of sentiment in her composition, and she shed tears over the memory of Uncle Scarterfield. They were largely induced by remorse at the thought of how she had made fun of his sticky sweets, which, as soon as his back was turned, she had invariably given to the scullery-maid. In drying her tears— in the privacy of her bedroom and before the mirror— she suddenly realised that she was not merely pretty, but unusually pretty. And thereat she began to think about pretty clothes. It would be ridiculous, after all, to affect deep mourning or even half-mourning, for an old man whom she scarcely knew. When Miss Dellaby, a few minutes later, suggested this tribute to the dead, Marilla made no answer. She was already determined to get out of the surroundings of the past ten years. She felt like a flower that has been shut under a pot. Fortune had lifted the pot at last and thrown it clean away. Now she was going to burst out into full bloom, to expand, to live, to open her petals to the sun in unchecked freedom.

Within a week unheard-of events took place at Dellaby's. Marilla, who for ten years had been the most subservient and obedient of young women, suddenly assumed an attitude of independence and authority which made Miss Dellaby wonder. She not only announced her intention of leaving at once, but of taking Miss Chillingworth with her— Miss Chillingworth, who had been Miss Dellaby's right hand for twenty years, and had become somewhat faded in the process. Miss Dellaby gasped and protested. Marilla showed firmness.

"I must have a companion," she said, "I can't live alone. Miss Chillingworth is just what I want. She will go with me."

"Miss Chillingworth has been here over twenty years!" protested Miss Dellaby.

"And I have been ten," said Marilla. "So she wants a change just twice as badly as I do. And that's badly enough."

What understanding Miss Vandale and Miss Chillingworth came to Miss Dellaby never knew. But, within a few days of the solicitor's visit to Marilla, they departed in company for Minerva Lodge. Marilla handed Miss Dellaby a cheque in lieu of notice. She enjoyed drawing that cheque. And she enjoyed carrying Miss Chillingworth off to a private hotel, where she took rooms for herself and her companion. There were more cheques drawn during the next week or two— Marilla was fitting herself out; she was equally generous in fitting Miss Chillingworth out, too. The process came to an end one day when, after quite an hour of anxious thought, Marilla decided that there was not one single thing left to do in the refitting line. Thereupon she turned to her companion.

"Now," she said, "we're going to travel."

Miss Chillingworth's delicately pencilled eyebrows arched themselves.

"Travel, my dear!" she exclaimed. "I— I thought you were going to settle down in a nice little flat!"

"That'll come afterwards," declared Marilla. "But we're going to see something of the world first. Not much, but something. It's now the beginning of March— we'll go on to the Continent until May begins. Then we'll come back, get a flat, and see London. But first— out of England! I want to breathe something— quite different."

"I hope it will be safe," murmured Miss Chillingworth. "Those foreigners, you know! Where do you think of going?"

Marilla produced the prospectus of a noted travel agency.

"This is the very thing," she said. "I mapped it all out last night. These people issue tickets for trains, hotels, boats, everything. All you've got to do is to pay your money to them here in London, and they give you books of tickets and coupons; it's the most delightfully simple thing in the world. This is the trip we're going on— it's a sort of roundabout affair; it takes in Paris, Marseilles, Cannes, Nice, Monte Carlo—  "

"Oh, my dear!" said Miss Chillingworth. "That dreadful place!"

"Monaco, Genoa, Pisa," continued Marilla imperturbably. "Then Rome, Naples, Florence, Venice, Milan, Lucerne, Basle, and back to Paris. It takes you just about seven weeks, and you get a few days in each place, and see lots of things in between."

"And I fear it must cost a great deal of money!" sighed Miss Chillingworth.

"It costs money, certainly," assented Marilla; "but I feel sure one will get one's money's worth. I shall buy the necessary tickets to-morrow, and we'll start on Monday. You'd better read over these hints as to what one should take in the way of luggage."

ii

RATHER MORE than a fortnight later Miss Chillingworth, toying with a tea cup on the sun-flooded lawn outside Ciro's, at Monte Carlo:

"Marilla," she cried, "I— I feel as if we'd never lived at Dulwich in our lives!"

Marilla, waking out of a day-dream, nodded comprehendingly. She glanced about her, lazily taking in the details of the scene— the sunlight, the warmth, the scent of rare plants and flowers, the gayly-dressed folk, the black-bearded, white-toothed Algerian moving in and out amongst the crowd, offering bright-coloured prayer-rugs and carpets, the façade of the Casino, the glimpses of deep blue sea beyond its walls.

"I know what you mean," she murmured. "All is very different."

"Different!" said Miss Chillingworth. "Yes, in more ways than one. This place now— why, it's always represented to one at home in England as a— as a— hell! And— it's a perfect paradise! And so— so quite respectable and— and even aristocratic. During the three days we've been here, I haven't seen anything that one could take exception to. Though, of course, it is rather a pity to see people— gamble! But it's all done in such a very, very refined way."

Marilla made no answer. She was dreamily watching the front of the Casino. Suddenly she started into activity.

"Chillie!" she exclaimed. "There he is, once more! He's been at it again!"

Miss Chillingworth knew to whom Marilla referred; knew well enough before ever she turned in the direction in which Marilla was looking. Down the steps of the Casino came, listlessly, almost pathetically, a young man in whom these two ladies had taken much interest since their arrival at Monte Carlo. He appeared to be of about Marilla's age; he was essentially English in all his attributes, and more boyish than was good for him, and morning, noon and night he was at the gaming tables. Miss Chillingworth and Marilla, to whom the various operations presented a thrilling and wicked fascination, never lingered behind croupiers and gamblers without seeing him amongst them. And he always seemed to be losing his money, but whether he was or not— and he scarcely ever won— he invariably looked bored to death.

"Of course he's lost again!" said Marilla musingly. "And such a child! They oughtn't to let mere infants like that go unattended!"

"I suppose he has a mother— somewhere," remarked Miss Chillingworth. "Whatever would she say, to see all that good money going?"

"I dare say he thinks he may win it all back," said Marilla. "But boys like that ought not to have so much money! However does he come to be throwing it about in that way?"

"Perhaps he's a bank clerk who's run away with thousands of pounds," suggested Miss Chillingworth. "He looks sad sometimes."

"Not so much sad as inscrutable," decided Marilla. "I saw him lose— oh, such a lot— last night, and he merely yawned, and went away with his hands in his pockets."

"Well, surely he can't go on for ever like that!" said Miss Chillingworth. "And what will he do then? They say"— here she dropped her voice to a whisper— "they say that when these gamblers come to the end of everything, they shoot themselves and get quietly buried without any fuss— awful!"

"Isn't it?" assented Marilla. "I hope he won't— he's so very nice-looking."

"I really think his mother ought to be here," declared Miss Chillingworth. "Young men are certainly not to be trusted— alone."

The young man, however, was still alone, and still at his old game when Marilla and Miss Chillingworth repaired to the Casino that night. Virtuous though they were, each was well aware, in secret, that the gaming-tables drew them; they felt that they could stand for hours watching the turns and fluctuations of fortune. Miss Chillingworth said that she was embracing the opportunity of studying human frailty at close quarters; Marilla said nothing— all her eyes were on the apparently apathetic youth.

And there he was, as usual, in his accustomed place. Marilla, from the other side of the table, watched him attentively. If she had known more about such things, she would have known that the infatuated young man was following a system with steady and remorseless persistence. Whatever his system was, it certainly brought him no luck that night; his pile of gold and notes steadily diminished, and at last suddenly disappeared under the croupier's ready rake. Thereat, imperturbable as ever, the luckless one pushed back his chair, and, with his accustomed bored, indifferent air, sauntered out of the place.

Marilla glanced around her. Miss Chillingworth was some little distance away, absorbed in watching an ancient, bright-eyed, much made-up, aristocratic dame, who was gambling with all the fever and eagerness of a boy. She had forgotten Marilla. And Marilla made off— following the young Englishman. He was tall and fair-headed and broad-shouldered, and hence easily kept in sight. At a distance she tracked him to the terrace, and, emerging upon it, stood for a moment entranced by the beauty of the night and the scene. There was a glorious full moon in the sky, and there was the Mediterranean shining beneath its glow, and there was Monaco on one side of the bay, and Mentone on the other, and the various hotels and houses looked like fairy places in the bewitching light, and in the warm night lay the scent of orange groves and palms.

Marilla came across her quarry suddenly. She had seen him stroll round the edge of a mass of exotic shrubs; following him, she ran right upon him. He was sitting on a garden seat; he was bending forward, his bare head was sunk in his hands. Without a moment's thought, Marilla stepped lightly forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't do it!" she said earnestly. "Please don't do it!"

The accosted one dropped his hands and turned an amazed countenance on this unceremonious disturber of his reflections. Seeing a young and very pretty woman, evidently in a state of great concern and gravity, standing at his side, he hastily got to his feet, still staring.

"Eh?" he stammered. "Er— I— er— don't do— what?"

"Shoot yourself, you know," said Marilla hurriedly. "Or— take poison, or— or anything of that sort— don't! Of course, it must be dreadful to lose your money, but then— well, really, I wouldn't, if I were you."

After all, moonlight is not sunlight, and just then a passing cloud veiled the moon somewhat; moreover, Marilla was too serious and too resolved in her own convictions to see anything beyond her own nose— otherwise she might have noticed that while she spoke the young man's face underwent several changing expressions, and that the veriest ghost of a smile began to come about his lips.

"Oh— ah— er— yes, to be sure!" he said lamely. "You wouldn't, eh? Er— well, I say, won't you sit down?"

"If you'll promise not to do anything desperate, I will," said Marilla.

Without waiting for the promise, she sat down, at one corner of the seat; the young man dropped into the other and looked inquiringly at her. In another instant he would have laughed; but Marilla, who up to that time had never exercised nor cultivated a sense of humour, was seriously, profoundly in earnest.

"I've been watching you— for three days," she said. "Oh, what a lot of money you must have lost! And to-night— you lost everything? Didn't you?"

"Absolutely cleaned out," replied the ill-doer, with a well-affected groan. "Went right through it!"

"You've nothing left!" exclaimed Marilla.

"Not one cent in either pocket— left or right!" asserted the youth. "Broke!"

"Whatever would your mother say!" said Marilla, awe-stricken.

The catechised rubbed his chin. He was covertly watching Marilla out of his eye-corners, and he was wishing that she would go on talking for quite a while. But he rubbed his chin again, thinking of her last question. He knew his mother. Still, it was better to dissemble.

"Um!" he answered, assuming doubtfulness. Then, appearing remorseful, he added in a low voice: "Don't— know!"

"I should think she'd be absolutely horrified!" declared Marilla.

The young man said nothing. It was difficult to explain to this evidently highly proper maiden that his mother might cherish quite different conceptions of things, so he remained silent, hanging his head.

"When people get to that stage— here," said Marilla, "they generally— end their lives! You will not do that? Promise me!"

"Er— not just now— not at present," responded the youth fervently. "Honest injun, I won't. Not— er— not now that— that— er— you seem to be so jolly particular about it. All right! Run of bad luck, you know— better luck next time. I say, you stopping here at Monte?"

"There will be no next time!" said Marilla, with Dellaby-taught severity and utterly ignoring the eager question. "You must go away— at once!"

The youth's jaw dropped. He turned an open mouth on Marilla, and saw that her pretty face was governess-like in its sternness.

"Eh?" he exclaimed. "Hop it? What, just when— oh, I say, come off it! Besides"— a brilliant and magnificent idea struck him— "can't!" he said triumphantly. "Didn't I say I was cleaned out? Can't be done, you see! Got to wait now for—"

"You must not wait for anything!" interrupted Marilla, more sternly than before. "You were going to say you must wait for money. No! I shall give you the money, and you will go straight home to England!"

The youth's mouth opened wider than ever. He scratched the lobe of his ear. He stared hard and long at Marilla, and suddenly he leaned near to her.

"Do you mean to say that you're so anxious that I shouldn't drop any more at those tables that you want to give me money to go back to England?" he said. "That it?"

"That is it," declared Marilla. "I shall give you the money, and you will give me your promise to catch the first train to-morrow morning."

"I say!" he said. "Are you a sort of— philanthropist? Or, perhaps, a millionaire? Which is it? Besides, if you aren't a millionaire, you might run short, you know."

"I'm not a millionaire," replied Marilla, "but I have plenty of money, because I know how to take care of it. Here," she continued, gravely thrusting a hand into her bag and withdrawing something which she forced on her victim— "here is twenty-five pounds. You will go straight home, away from this temptation—"

"By gad, and it is tempting, too!" exclaimed the youth, with his eyes fixed ardently on Marilla's earnest countenance. "Bit too tempting to leave—  "

"Be a man!" said Marilla severely. "Is there nothing to do, nothing to go to, at home in England?"

The youth reflected a moment.

"Oh, well, yes!" he said presently. "To be sure— I shall just be in time— just— for the Grand National! You really want me to go?"

"For your own sake," declared Marilla. "Some day— when you are wiser— you will thank me."

The youth sat and stared at her in dead silence for quite two minutes. And Marilla looked at him. Certainly, she decided, he was a very handsome boy. She began to feel more motherly than ever.

"Do go!" she said suddenly. "Please!"

The youth bent a little nearer.

"Look here!" he said, with more of seriousness in his tones than had been there before. "Do you really mean to give me this money so that I can be off? Then— have you got a lot of your own?— I mean, you won't run short?"

"I have plenty of money," said Marilla. "That is not the point."

"All right!" said the youth. He suddenly thrust the notes in his pocket. "I'm going to take you at your word. Now, then— when and where can I give you this back, in person?"

"Oh," exclaimed Marilla. "I— I would rather— please not to think of that!"

The next instant the banknotes were on the seat between them, and the temporary recipient showed signs of rising.

"Then it's off!" he said. "No business!"

"Oh, please!" pleaded Marilla. "Because—"

"Then you'll have to say when and where!" he commanded. "Why, I don't even know who you are!"

Marilla became aware of brute, masculine force. It was he, now, who was getting the upper hand. Against her will, she drew out a card case and delivered up a card. The masterful one glanced at it.

"What an awfully pretty name!" he exclaimed. "All right— M-Miss Vandale— you'll see me with your five-and-twenty— but— when?"

"I shall be home again in five weeks," said Marilla. She was beginning to feel a little puzzled. This youth, whom she had believed to be on the verge of suicide, appeared to be assuming remarkably business-like airs. "But— please do not trouble to— to give me the money until it is— you know— quite convenient."

The befriended one rose. Marilla rose, too. For a second they looked at each other in the moonlight.

"All right!" he said in a low voice. "You're a most extraordinarily good little sort! I say— I've seen you about. Is that your companion— or what— with you? All right— let her take care of you. Is she in there— very well, you toddle back to her. I'm off— see you in five weeks."

He gave Marilla's hand a strong firm pressure, and shot away round a corner as if in a desperate hurry. Marilla went slowly back to find Miss Chillingworth. Miss Chillingworth was already seeking her, and was found in a state of apprehension.

"I have been with that young man," said Marilla. "He lost his all at the tables to-night. I have sent him back to England."

"Goodness gracious, child!" exclaimed Miss Chillingworth. "Do you mean that you've given him money? Dear, dear; I'm afraid you'll never see it again!"

"I shall certainly see him again," murmured Marilla.

iii

WHEN, some six weeks later, a servant of the private hotel in which Marilla and Miss Chillingworth were once more safely bestowed in London, after their Continental adventures, came up to their sitting-room with an intimation that Mr. John Sutton had called and awaited Miss Vandale's pleasure, neither had the slightest idea as to who Mr. John Sutton might be.

"It must be a man about that flat we looked at yesterday," said Marilla, after a moment's reflection. "Show him up, if you please."

The maid retired, to return presently and to open the door again with a look on her demure face which indicated that, whether this was a man who had to do with flats or not, he was certainly interesting and notable.

He was, in short, something out of the common in that hotel— one chiefly given up to middle-aged ladies of the spinster type— and his mere presence seemed to radiate fashion and distinction in a spreading, generous way. Once or twice since her escape from the Dellaby dullness, Marilla, Miss Chillingworth in attendance, had peregrinated Piccadilly, and seen gentlemen, old and young, in the very height of fashion, from the crowns of their glossy hats to the soles of their shining boots. These, Miss Chillingworth said, were those highly mysterious personages, the men about town. Marilla thought them very grand indeed as they lounged along the pavement or stood on the steps of their clubs; secretly, she wondered if they spent most of their mornings at their toilet-tables in charge of their valets. And now here was one of these visions before her whose purple and fine linen made all else look dingy, and he was the young man to whom she had given a moral lecture and twenty-five pounds on the terrace at Monte Carlo.

But if this was a young man about town, he was certainly a very shy one. He blushed when he caught sight of Marilla; he became embarrassed. He looked nervously at her and doubtfully at Miss Chillingworth. Marilla blushed too, more from surprise than anything else. The grandeur of her visitor's apparel was disconcerting. She was thankful, however, that she herself was in a pretty morning gown. She continued to stammer a word or two, and to introduce Miss Chillingworth, to whom the young man made a half-frightened obeisance. Then all three looked at each other. The situation was almost painful.

"We are back again," said Marilla, with a terrible effort. "Come home, you know."

"Er— thought you might have, you know," responded Mr. John Sutton. "Happened to be passing this way; thought I'd look in. Off-chance— you know that?"

"Very kind of you," murmured Marilla.

Mr. John Sutton made a stern attempt to be normal.

"Have a good time?" he inquired, including Miss Chillingworth in his glance. "Knock round anywhere else?"

"Lots of places," said Marilla. "Italy."

"Rome was truly delightful!" observed Miss Chillingworth. "We were greatly privileged. We saw the Pope."

"Oh?" remarked Mr. Sutton. "Good business! Decent old Johnnie, I believe; haven't seen him myself."

"Have you been in Rome?" asked Marilla.

"Once," replied Mr. Sutton. "Two days. Races, you know. Jolly good racecourse they have there. Quite English."

"We visited all the notable sights," remarked Miss Chillingworth, with marked emphasis on the personal pronoun. "The Coliseum, St. Peter's, the Capitol, the Catacombs, the— the— everything! Magnificent! Quite an education. We were sorry to leave Rome."

"Oh, Rome's all right— what I saw of it!" assented Mr. Sutton. "Do you very well at the Regina. You stay there?"

"We stayed at the Continental," said Marilla, "near the station."

"But, after all, there's nothing like good old London!" declared Mr. Sutton with sudden enthusiasm. "Always something going on here. Get a bit pipped in those foreign spots, don't you?"

"We didn't," said Marilla. "We found the time fly."

"Oh, really!" responded Mr. Sutton. "Er— good business! Some people— er— don't, you know."

At this stage Miss Chillingworth remarked that she must really attend to her letters and left the room. Mr. Sutton opening the door for her with great politeness. When he had closed it, he turned to Marilla with a glance in which there was a curious compound of knowingness, shyness and a certain amount of appeal to the fellow-feeling which ought to exist between young people.

"I say," he said in a half whisper. "I've got some money for you!"

"Oh, please, never mind!" she answered. "I— any time, really!"

"No; but I don't mean that," said Mr. Sutton. "That's all right, of course, but I mean— you see, when I got back, I was just in time for the Grand National, and I knew— felt dead certain anyway— that Clear-the-Course would just romp home, and I backed him myself. And— and I put your five-and-twenty on, for you, don't you know. Got tens; and, of course, as you no doubt know, Clear-the-Course came in by six lengths all right, so we raked in a pot of money. And here's yours— two-seventy-five. Good business, eh?"

He produced and offered to Marilla a small roll of new banknotes.

"All correct," he added. "Been in my pocket-book ever since."

Maxilla almost screamed. Her eyes opened in horror.

"And a decent old lot of my own," said Mr. Sutton calmly. "I'd a hundred on. Won a cool thousand over that little do."

"Oh!" said Marilla faintly.

"Quite an inspiration, wasn't it?" he remarked cheerfully. "Don't often get 'em, though. Boot on the other leg, usually, I'm afraid."

He placed the notes on the table by which Marilla sat, and Marilla recoiled.

"I— I can't take that!" she exclaimed. "It's not mine!"

"Not yours!" said Mr. Sutton. "Of course! Why, have you never won anything before?"

"Of course not!" declared Marilla. "Never!"

"Then that's a jolly good beginning," sighed Mr. Sutton. "Wonder if it'll last?"

Marilla suddenly picked up the notes, counted out twenty-five, put it in her pocket and pushed the rest back.

"Take it, if you please," she said peremptorily.

"Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Sutton, with widening eyes. "What?"

"Give it back to the person from whom you got it," ordered Marilla.

Mr. Sutton's elegantly trimmed head wagged decisively.

"Guess not!" he said, with an unmistakable firmness. "Had plenty out of me in my time, that chap— rather!"

"Take it away!" retorted Marilla. "I do not gamble!"

Mr. Sutton glanced round the room, as if in despair. His eye encountered a small wooden box which rested on the mantelpiece. There was a slit in the top, and on the side were gilt letters— London Hospital. Without a word he caught up the objectionable notes and began cramming them into the box. Marilla screamed. But Mr. Sutton laughed, turned his back, and looked at her with eyes of almost malicious triumph.

"Oh!" sighed Marilla. For the second time she felt curiously aware of some sort of masterfulness. "Do— do you usually throw money about like this?"

"You refused to have it," he answered. "So— why not give it away? Those chaps that run the hospitals, they're always advertising for money. Some poor beggar'll get the benefit of it. Besides, I didn't throw it away! You did that. You threw it back to me. So— there it is. Pleasant surprise for the hospital people!"

Marilla folded her fingers in her lap and looked at him.

"I believe you're a very strange young man," she said, after a brief silence. "Are you?"

"Upon my honour, no!" declared Mr. Sutton fervently, with a most evident desire to be credited. "I'm a very ordinary sort, really. Just like— like all the other chaps of— of my sort, you know."

"What is your sort?" demanded Marilla.

"Oh, nothing out of the common, I assure you, really," said Mr. Sutton. "Not at all bad, you know. And I say, look here. I wanted to know if you couldn't come along for a ride with me in my car, eh? Got to go into the country to-morrow to see a fellow about a horse. Do come! Give you a jolly good time."

Marilla regarded him for a moment from under half-closed eyelids.

"Are you including Miss Chillingworth in your invitation?" she asked demurely.

Mr. Sutton glanced narrowly at the door.

"Well— er— most happy, you know, some other time, you know," he said. "But— er— wouldn't it be rather jollier if— eh?"

He paused, looking at Marilla, with almost infantile confidence. Marilla suddenly laughed— for the first time since his entrance.

"Very well," she said. "What time?"

iv

MISS CHILLINGWORTH was not sure— her knowledge of the ways of the wicked world being uncertain, not to say elementary— if it were proper that Marilla should go motoring alone with a young man who, after all, was a stranger, and whom she had originally met under strange, if perhaps romantic circumstances. But it was of little use to say so; Marilla, in spite of her strict bringing-up under the Dellaby roof at Dulwich, was a young person of character and decision, and Miss Chillingworth had found out during their Continental experiences that she not only liked to have her own way, but took every good care to get it. So she contented herself with a mild remark.

"I hope the young man is quite to be depended upon, my dear," she said.

"I scarcely think of him as a young man," answered Marilla. "He is a mere boy— a child. I think he needs somebody to look after him. But I dare say he can drive a motor car."

Secretly, she was wondering how a youth who confessed to being clean broke, as he had phrased it, at Monte Carlo, and was obviously relieved to have ready money put into his hand wherewith to return to England, should so soon have retrieved his fortunes as to be able to drop two hundred and fifty pounds into a charity box and own an automobile; there was quite attractive mystery in that; she meant to get at the bottom of it. More evidence of mystery came next day at noon, when Mr. Sutton, now arrayed in motoring outfit, drove a very smart and undoubtedly expensive car up to the door of the private hotel and carried Marilla away.

Every window in the hotel was occupied when they moved off, and Miss Chillingworth, left alone, felt that she herself had gone up several inches in the social scale by her association with so much grandeur. As for Marilla, who had taken great pains to be absolutely correct in the details of her toilet, she stepped into the luxurious car as if she had been doing that sort of thing all her life, and paid no more attention to the watching eyes and open mouths than to the gargoyles of the neighbouring church.

Mr. Sutton took the Bath road out of London, and between the metropolis and Maidenhead he and Marilla did little in the way of conversation. Nor did they waste much time in exchange of ideas over the luncheon table to which they sat down at Skindle's. Mr. Sutton remarked, in business-like fashion, that they'd a long way to go, and he ate and drank in a way which showed that his natural instincts were towards promptitude and celerity.

"Where are we going?" asked Marilla, when they were once more in the car and speeding forward. "Where does the man live whose horse you want to see?"

"Right away beyond Wantage," answered Mr. Sutton. "Pretty country, too— worth seeing. By the way, are you fond of old houses? Romantic sort, towers, ivy, oriel windows— that sort of stuff, eh?"

"I adore anything of that sort," said Marilla with decision. "That's the sort of thing you miss on the Continent. A really fine old English house. There's nothing like it."

"Show you one I know, close by where we're going," said Mr. Sutton. "Regular rummy old spot, picturesque, and all that."

An hour or so later, in the rural stretches of the Berkshire-Oxfordshire borders, Mr. Sutton pulled up his car at the gates of a roadside farmstead, and remarking that this was the place where he wanted to see the man and the horse, excused himself for a few minutes, leaving Marilla to ruminate in the car. Marilla did so quite happily; the surrounding scenery was delightful; a truly English landscape, with an ancient spire in one direction, the tower and gables of a grey-walled house in another, a wealth of green meadows and new-leaved trees all around her, and in the hedgerows the roses and honeysuckle of the dawning summer. She was wondering whether a cottage in the country would not be preferable to a flat in town when Mr. Sutton reappeared.

"All right?" he demanded. "Haven't been bored?"

"Bored?" exclaimed Marilla. "I was thinking I'd like to stop here for ever! It's delightful. What's that old place behind the trees there beneath the hill?"

"That's the old shack we're going to look at," answered Mr. Sutton. "Old spot I spoke of. See it at close quarters presently."

He drove slowly forward and round two or three corners, then, when some farmsteads and cottages came in sight, he stopped the car, and, diving into one of its numerous receptacles, produced an enormous pair of blue goggles and a large, slouched hat, which he proceeded to adjust about his eyes and head, much to Marilla's wonder.

"You do look a sight!" laughed Marilla. "It's as if you were a highwayman— in disguise. I shouldn't have known you."

Mr. Sutton muttered something about the sun and his eyes, and moved forward again through a pretty and picturesque village which drew many admiring comments from Marilla, but got scarcely a glance from himself. He seemed, indeed, to be in a hurry to get through it, and paid little attention to his companion's rapturous enthusiasm over the quaint cottages, trim flower gardens, and general old-world air.

Presently he swung round another corner, drove a little way up an avenue of magnificent beech trees, and then, coming to an opening in the great over-hanging branches, stopped the car and waved a hand.

"There you are!" he said. "Full frontal view. What they call a highly desirable property."

Marilla looked in the direction indicated by that half-careless wave. She found herself gazing on a scene which no other country in the world could show. Before her lay a wide, undulating park, rich in trees and vivid in colour, with a herd of red deer browsing in its shadowy glades, and a shining lake lying full in the sunlight. At its farthest extremity, backed by shelving wood, stood a beautiful Elizabethan mansion, surrounded by gardens and pleasure grounds which Marilla could see, even at that distance, to be veritable haunts of peaceful delight.

"Oh," cried Marilla, "what a perfect dream of a place! It's worth coming a thousand miles to see! You've seen it before?"

"Just about a hundred thousand times. Born round here," answered Mr. Sutton laconically. "Like it, then?"

"Like it?" exclaimed Marilla. "It's the most absolutely charming old spot I ever saw! What is it called?"

"Huntney Court," replied Mr. Sutton, lighting a cigarette. "That's Huntney Village that you enthused about."

"It must be one of the most beautiful bits of England, this," declared Marilla. "How I'd just like to live here in that wonderful old house! Whose is it?"

"Johnnie called Lord Huntney," announced Mr. Sutton indifferently. "Viscount Huntney, to give the beggar his full rights. Village is his, too, and all the land round here— piles of it."

"What a lucky man!" sighed Marilla. "If you were born round here, you no doubt know him? What's he like?"

"What do you think he'd be like?" demanded Mr. Sutton with a quizzical glance.

"I should think he'd be something like his surroundings," said Marilla. "Romantic. Is he?"

"Not a bit," said Mr. Sutton. "Very ordinary chap. All right, you know. Good sort; quite simple. No side on him. Saw him this morning in town."

"Did you really!" exclaimed Marilla. "How awfully interesting! But fancy being in London when he might be here."

"Oh, I don't know," remarked Mr. Sutton. "Can't always be in the same place, you know. So you really like the old shanty?"

"Shanty!" cried Marilla indignantly. "It's a perfect paradise! It makes me think of— of Queen Elizabeth and the Earl of Leicester and— and those sort of days when everything was poetry and romance, and all that."

"Does it really?" said Mr. Sutton wonderingly. "Good Lord! Glad you like it, anyway. Well, we'd better do a right turn."

But at that stage of the proceedings the luxurious car took a hand. Something proved obstreperous. The car refused to budge. Its owner grew very cross and very red, and began to mutter under his breath. Finally, he got down on hands and knees, and disappeared beneath the machinery. Marilla heard him swearing to himself. Five— ten— fifteen minutes passed; the objurgations became more frequent. But the car remained motionless.

A man came along in a light cart— a man who looked like a tradesman going his rounds. He glanced keenly at Marilla, more keenly at the car and the figure still engaged in studying its mechanism. Marilla saw a look of understanding and recognition come into his eyes. His hand went mechanically to his cap.

"Can I be of any use to your lordship?" he inquired, bending down to the grovelling figure. "I'm going into the village, my lord. Can I send somebody?"

The grovelling figure withdrew a very red and angry face, and glanced at the questioner.

"Oh!" he said. "Er— thank you, Mr. Cutts. Well, you might send that apprentice chap at the blacksmith's; he knows something about this sort of thing. Tell him to hurry up and bring some tools."

The tradesman lifted his whip.

"Very good, my lord," he said. "I'll hasten him."

He drove rapidly away, and a dead silence followed the whirr of his wheels. Then the blue goggles were turned on Marilla, the face beneath them grew redder and redder. Marilla, too, had become uncertain of colour, sometimes she was pink and sometimes pale. But, whether pink or pale, her face was bent on the goggles.

"Oh!" she said at last, in a hushed voice which indicated much concern of mind. "He— he called you my lord."

The blue goggles came off, and a pair of much abashed eyes turned nervously but shakily on Marilla's.

"Yes," assented the supposed Mr. Sutton. "Had me there. I— I didn't want any of these people to recognise me. That's why I stuck these things on. I suppose Cutts knew the car. I say, Marilla. I may call you Marilla, mayn't I? You're not cross, Marilla? You see, I was clean gone on you that night at Monte. Fact! And— and— well, I just wanted you to see this old place of mine to see if you liked it. Do you really, Marilla? But you said you did."

"I do," faltered Marilla. "But, oh, how very naughty you are! I believe you played a trick on me at Monte Carlo. You weren't broke! You took that money so that— so that you could have an excuse to see me again. How wicked of you!"

"Aren't you going to forgive me?" demanded the deceiver ingenuously. He had leaned into the car by that time, and procured himself of Marilla's hands. "Say you are, Marilla, say— yes?"

Marilla let her eyes turn in the direction of the village. The blacksmith's talented apprentice was not yet in sight; nobody was in sight in either direction. She allowed herself to be drawn nearer to this masterful disturber of her maiden peace.

"I suppose I really must," whispered Marilla.

____________

7: Almost Immortal

Austin Hall

1880-1933

All-Story Weekly, 7 Oct 1916

1: Robinson's Decision

THERE WERE THREE OF US: Robinson, Hendricks, and myself,

Robinson had had a varied career, soldier, policeman, lawyer, and several other professions which he never divulged, but which kept continually cropping out in his conversation.

I have an idea he had been a sailor and had sailed over all the seven seas. There was no country which he had not visited, no people nor race nor tribe of which he knew not the characteristics, nor any institution with whose history and development he had not an intimate knowledge.

Indeed, it was on the historical side that he was the most remarkable. I have never seen such a man. The scope of his intellect seemed to embrace everything. From the Chaldeans down, all was to him an open book. He appeared to know as much about Nebuchadnezzar as about me.

All the great lights of history were to him as men living and present; he would tell of their foibles and greatness, their manners and personal appearance with as much vividness and distinctness as if they and not I were seated by his side for portrayal, Then he would lapse off into gibbering of a kind which I could not and would not understand, into tongues obsolete and forgotten, which he chose to call Chaldaic, Sanscrit, and what not.

Again he would drift off into anecdote and speak of an incident wherein Caesar and Pompey, and another character I knew not of, were the principals. He knew anecdotes by the million; there seemed to be no limit to the supply with which he -amused me from day to day; nor do I ever remember his relating the same one twice.

Big and little, large and small, people and kings, he appeared to have them all at his fingers' ends. I wondered sometimes that he did not write history, he who knew more than all the historians put together.

Once I asked him, but he only shrugged his shoulders.

"I have no time," he laughed. "I am a loafer. Besides, I know too much. Were I to tell the truth I would be called a liar."

The other man, Hendricks, was a friend of Robinson's, an attorney who had come up to the mountains to recuperate. It seems that he and Robinson had just been through some terrible ordeal, which had played havoc with them, both mentally and physically.

He had not the wonderfully retentive memory of his friend, nor his marvelous command of language, though he did appear to have a fair smattering of the law, and a very fair education. Most of the time he spent as I did, in loitering about and in listening to the everlasting eloquence of Robinson.

As for myself, I was purely passive.

It was our custom to come out on the veranda at night and to discuss books under the fragrance of a good cigar.

I had on this day been reading a novel of the very cheap and sensational order, one that had to do with a plot of the purely imaginative type, wherein the characters were taken out of the life of ordinary reality and transplanted into the realm of the grotesque and the terrible.

I held that all works of true literary merit should contain, as a basic feature, the elements of real life, and that in' their ramifications they should hold by all means to life as it is, and to avoid transgressing the regions of the impossible. For the work at hand I had but little use, and I criticized it severely as a thing absurd and ridiculous.

It was moonlight, and for some moments after I had finished my tirade, we sat watching the shadows among the hills. Robinson was usually loquacious, but tonight he was strangely quiet. Undoubtedly he was thinking. He scarcely noticed my talk at all; but sat there working his cigar at both ends, chewing and smoking, dreaming, and apparently in the land of far away, until the moon, passing behind a cloud, and the flood of mellow light ceasing, he turned to his friend.

"Hendricks," he said, "how long has it been since I escaped from that beast?"

"Third of January, and this is the third of May," answered Hendricks, "Exactly four months. Why?"

"Oh, nothing much. Only our friend here is skeptical, and believes only in the commonplace; he is like all the rest of mankind, only I think we can cure him. I propose that we relate to him our own experience, and prove to him how one man managed to live for ten thousand years in the enjoyment of youth and vigor, and how I came to be devoured alive, and how it happens that I am living tonight to tell the tale."

"Tell him, if you wish," answered Hendricks. "I'll corroborate you as long as you stick by the truth."

Robinson moved his chair closer to mine and sat so that I could get a full and a perfect view of his whole person.

"Do you see any marks on me?" he began; "any tooth marks or anything like that? No? Yet would you believe me were I to tell you that I have been devoured alive? Not only that, but digested and enjoyed?"

"I certainly would not," I answered.

"Of course not," he replied, ''and really I don't much blame you. Time was, and not so many years ago at that, when I would have said the same thing. Nevertheless, what I am about to tell you is the gospel truth, as you will learn from my friend Hendricks."

And Robinson plunged instantly into the following story.

ABOUT six years ago, after some time spent in the islands, I returned in a practically penniless state to San Francisco. Besides my baggage and wearing apparel I could not have possessed much more than forty dollars.

One day, after I had tramped over a great portion of the city, climbing skyscrapers, invading factories, and I know not what in my never-ceasing search for employment, I struck a crowd surging up Montgomery, and like a chip in the tide, drifted along with it.

In my despair and half-heartedness I little dreamed of the strange and marvelous existence of which I was soon to become a part. Of an existence which was to reward me with a learning which I think has never before been attained by mortal man, and a wealth of such proportions that the human mind can scarce conceive of its vastness.

Both sides of the street on which I walked were lined by office buildings on whose serried windows were hung, painted and gilded, the signs and placards of numerous lawyers, doctors, corporations, and insurance companies. Among them my attention was attracted to a particular attorney's sign, whose reading in gold letters had on me a strange and gladdening effect. It read:

W. E. HENDRICKS

Attorney at Law

I had known a W. E. Hendricks before going to the islands. We had been classmates and roommates while at college, and

I remembered now, with a flash of eager hope, that it had always been his desire to build up a practice in some Western State, preferably in California. I can hardly tell you how happy and excited that hope made me.

MOMENT later I was in the office, all trembling with eagerness over the voice which came from the adjoining room. Sure enough it was Hendricks—  Bill Hendricks, the one man whom above all others, under my present indigent circumstances, I would have chosen to meet.

Naturally I moved my belongings to the quarters of Hendricks, where, under the spur of poverty, I lived on his bounty while seeking employment.

One morning, about a month later, I entered the office and found Hendricks, as usual, deep in the intricacies of his profession, Scattered over and about his desk were his everlasting law books, legal papers, and documents, an evening paper, and to one side an early edition of the San Francisco Mercury, which, without looking up, he passed over to me for perusal.

"You will find," he said, "an advertisement in the help-wanted column which it may be to your advantage to look up."

The advertisement was marked with a blue pencil, and I had but little trouble in locating it. It was for a companion, and I must say it was the most peculiar advertisement of its kind that I had ever read. It was worded something like this:

WANTED— A companion for an elderly gentleman; applicant must be about twenty-six years of age, exactly five feet eleven inches in height and must weigh between one hundred and eighty and eighty-five pounds. He must possess a small knowledge of the law; also he must be a good conversationalist and be able to give proofs as to his perfect health and vigor. No applicant with any symptom of disease or any infirmity whatsoever will be considered. Anyone answering these qualifications can procure immediate and lucrative employment by calling, et cetera.

The address of a Dr. Runson on Rubic Avenue followed.

Strange to say, although the conditions were so peculiar and various, and so impossible of filling for the ordinary man, they fitted me to a nicety.

It was almost as if I had received a special order to report for duty. I was exactly five feet eleven inches in height, and had weighed only the day before, one hundred and eighty-three pounds, so that I had a leeway of two pounds in one direction and three in the other. Besides, I possessed a college education and knew considerable about the law. If I had any weakness or infirmity of any kind I had not as yet noticed it. On top of this, I was a very fair conversationalist; at least I had always been considered so by my friends.

The position seemed made for me, and I decided to apply for it immediately.

2: Dr. Runson

AN hour later I had made my way to Rubic Avenue, where I found the rendezvous to be a most comfortable old two-story house with large, deep, easy looking verandas, a splendid lawn, and green-shuttered windows.

In response to my knock a neat little woman of some fifty summers— or rather winters, for the quiet, troubled look of her face, and the gray of her hair reminded one more of-that season than any other— appeared at the door.

She was trim and neat, and apparently expecting me, for she quietly opened the door and bade me, in a kind, motherly voice which I noticed at once, to enter, and without another word pressed a button beside her and disappeared, leaving me in the hall alone and waiting. In another moment a door opened above and a voice came down the stairs— a musical voice, but masculine and full of vigor.

"Is that you, Mr. Robinson? Just step up this way, please."

Naturally I had expected to meet a stranger, and was not a little surprised at hearing the sound of my own name spoken from above.

"It is," I answered. And I remember wondering how in the world he could know it, and who in the world he could be.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Robinson," he greeted me when I reached the landing. "Exceedingly glad. I was expecting you. Step right in."

He opened the door and led me into a study, or rather a sitting-room, or still better, a combination of the two.

"Sit down and we will talk business," he said.

A total stranger I was sure. I had never seen him before. Of my own height; but sixty; hair turned gray; of my own features, and might have been my twin brother but for thirty years or so; hands white and immaculate, slender and deft like a gambler's; neat, dressed in black, clean shaved, and a gentleman.

All this I took in at a glance as you would take in a photograph. Nothing uncommon, nothing extraordinary, everything, barring the resemblance to myself which I might have had perfect reason to expect. Then our eyes met.

Someone has said that the eyes are the gateway to the soul. This was an archway. The idea of the common vanished and in its place was the extraordinary, the magnificent. I will condense it all by my own flash of feeling— the eyes of a multitude.

You could not look into his eyes without the feeling, instinctive, but always present, that you were not looking into those of one man, but the eyes of a thousand. However, it was not an unpleasant feeling, more of strength, of power; the impression of an indomitable will which not all the world could change. Nevertheless they were pleasant, with a kindness and a joviality which danced and fascinated you.

"Now, Mr. Robinson," he began, when we were seated, "let us proceed. I shall talk first, for it is my nature, I am always first. You will be surprised at what I tell you; but do not wonder at that, as I am, I will admit, an extraordinary character. Though you will most likely find me common enough for a few months. "Now, I decided yesterday to advertise for a companion, and in looking over the available candidates I found you the most desirable. 1 knew you could easily be reached through the papers, therefore the advertisement. Your name is John Robinson, you are twenty-six years of age. Your height is five feet eleven inches. You weighed yesterday one hundred and eighty-three pounds. You have a smattering of the law and a splendid education; you have a will of your own and are handsome; you are a good conversationalist and enjoy the most perfect health. You have traveled and have but lately returned from the islands; you have but very little money, almost broke, in fact, and you need work. Is not all this true?"

"Most true, doctor," I returned. "I had no idea you knew me, or perhaps— Hendricks?"

"No," he broke in. "Neither. I never dreamed of your existence until yesterday. Didn't know Hendricks was living. Furthermore, just for the fun of it, when you dressed this morning you were minus one sock and did not find it until after you had searched for it for fully ten minutes."

I laughed, for he was telling the truth, though how he came to know I couldn't make out.

"You surely have got me, unless you are another Sherlock Holmes and a past-master of deduction."

The doctor raised his hands imploringly. "Please don't," he said. "Please don't. Not that. It's too puerile, too common. I have read Sherlock and admire the work; but I am, I hope, far above that. I have powers, Mr. Robinson, I will admit; but I am no detective. I never use deduction. Leave that to the mortals."

As he spoke he drew himself up in a proud, isolated sort of way, and I could not help but admire him, though. his manner was mystic and his words, to me, rathe confusing.-

"That is very good flesh, sir. Very good flesh!" He stepped over to my side and to my wonderment began pinching my arm severely. I don't know why, but I drew away with much the same feeling as a fat chicken might have, and was not a little angry.

"It is," I answered, reddening. "Perhaps I had better be going."

"Oh, no! Mr. Robinson. Not at all, Please don't be offended. I meant no harm. I was just wondering how it seemed to be young. You are so vigorous and so full of life that I envied you. But I meant no harm, sir. I assure you I meant no harm."

I sat down again and accepted his apology.

"And about this position?" I asked. "You know that is the object of my visit."

"To be sure!" said the doctor, "To be sure. Well, let me see. How would twenty dollars and your board and room, sound?"

"Sounds all right," I replied; "depending, though, a great deal on how I earn it."

The old man's eyes twinkled and he smiled. "You will earn it, sir, by doing nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Rather easy," I answered. "But there must be something for me to do. Even sleep is work when you are paid for it and you've got it to do whether or no."

"To be sure! To be sure! Well, we'll amend that. There will be work and it will consist in playing cards, reading, and conversation. You see I'm lonely, I'm getting old. I need a companion and intend to have one. I am wealthy and can afford it. It's merely a whim, sir, merely a whim."

He took an eraser from the table and began tossing it in his hand.

It all looked good to me. He was a character beyond doubt, and his personality attracted me. I foresaw that I would enjoy myself in his company. Here was someone to observe, someone to study; and perhaps a little risk. He was a man with some power, unknown perhaps, and might bear watching. That, however, was an attraction, rather than an obstacle. I would have had it just so. Therefore, we quickly came to an understanding and I agreed to remain.

3: The Case of Allen Doreen

MY POSITION turned out to be an excellent one. There was practically no work, merely to listen to the old gentleman, a task which I found not only interesting but agreeable. In the morning, usually between seven and eight, we had breakfast, after which we read and discussed the newspapers. About ten we would go for a short walk and make a few purchases until noon, when we had lunch.

From that time until three my time was my own, while the doctor retired to his laboratory, or sanctum, into which I was never invited, and none was allowed to go. This was something easily accounted for, I figured that anyone who would willingly devote his life to disease, drugs, and chemicals had all the license in the world to be queer and particular in his habits, and let it go at that.

About three the doctor reappeared, tired and nervous, and ready for a game of cards, Always at this time of day I noticed a hungry, longing look in his eyes; but this I took to be merely the effect of some strain on his mind, some scientific fact sought for but not attained and in no way connected it with myself. From three until dark it was the same thing day after day; cards, conversation, and reading. Rather a snap, don't you think?

So the days went by one after another, Each week my check was in hand and each week my savings mounted higher.

One day during a walk the doctor and I ran across Hendricks. Of course, I had to introduce them. The doctor seemed pleased to meet him and he to meet the doctor.

I noticed when they shook hands that they gazed squarely into each other's eyes and laughed; they seemed to see clear through each other and to take pleasure in the accomplishment. Just before we separated Hendricks took me by the arm.

"Rob," he said, "can you come down to the office? I must see you."

"Certainly," I answered. "This afternoon if you like. What's it about, Hen?"

The doctor had been studying a window display; but just then he happened to turn and once again he and Hendricks gazed full into each other's eyes, and once again they laughed.

"Well!" snapped Hendricks. "Here's my car. I must be going. Glad to have met you, doctor. So long Rob."

And a moment later from the platform of the car he shouted back through his hands: "Important!"

We stood for some moments on the curb watching the car jolting down the street, until the fog settling in, we were left alone in the blanket of mist, gloomy and silent. Somehow I felt like the weather, cold and monotonous and dreary; my life was without sunshine,

"That man," said the doctor at length, "is dangerous."

"What man!" I snapped, turning suddenly on him. He started and eyed me curiously.

"Why, that man, of course, the one we just left, Hendricks, of course. What other could I mean?"

Now I liked the old man immensely; but I could and would not stand there and see him abuse my friend.

"Look here, doctor, you may be a learned man all right and all that, and you may know a good many things unknown to the rest of us poor mortals; but that won't help you one whit, when it comes to judging men. I have known Hendricks practically all my life and I know him almost as well as myself. He is honest and fearless and the best friend that ever trod on two feet. I will not hear a word against him!" 5

My companion smiled good naturedly.

"Whom are you working for, Mr. Robinson?"

"For you."

"Whose money are you drawing?"

"Yours."

"Well, then, I want you to have nothing to do with Hendricks. He's too analytical, too dangerous. I want you to leave him alone."

I was going to answer him with heat, but just then our eyes met and I subsided. For the life of me, I could not tell why; but a complete change came over me. I instinctively felt that the doctor was right and I was wrong.

Lunch was ready when we reached the house, and after the meal the doctor as usual disappeared in his sanctum. Left to my own resources, I began to come to myself.

"Pish!" I exclaimed. "I'll go see Hendricks!"

In the hall I met the housekeeper. She was dusting some furniture. I had just placed my hand on the door knob when she touched me gently on the shoulder.

"Mr. Robinson."

I noticed that her voice was low and cautious with a sort of appeal in it.

"Well, what is it?"

She lifted her kind old face to mine; her eyes full of tenderness and entreaty and I thought of pity.

"Don't you think you had better go away and stay? It's getting to be that time of the year. You don't know what you are doing or where you are going, I have been watching the doctor. I am sure the time is at hand. You are young; you are handsome, full of life, and strength. Oh! It is not fit to be so! Do say that you will go!"

She seized the lapels of my coat in her hands and looked up into my face.

"Do say it!" she repeated. "He would kill me if he knew I had warned you!"

Just then a door creaked or a window was lowered. I know not what exactly. The woman drew back, her whole form rigid with fear. We both listened. For a moment we stood like two silent statues, alert, but hearing nothing.

"Pshaw!" I said at length. "It is nothing. Now, mother, what is the trouble?"

The sound of my voice restored her and a little color came to her face.

"Go!" she said. "And be sure to remember what I have told you!"

With that a door opened and she disappeared. As for myself, I put on my hat and started for town. A half hour later I was in Hendricks' office.

"WELL, Rob," he said, lighting a cigar, "you got here, Do you know I would have wagered a good five-dollar bill against a single unroasted peanut that you would never have made it! And I'm mighty glad you are stronger than I thought. I suppose you know what you are up against!"

Now this was a line of talk for which I was scarcely prepared, especially from Hendricks. Of course, I was some worked up after the little scene with the housekeeper; but I hardly expected to find my friend in the same humor.

"Oh, say," I cut in, "are you and the old lady in cahoots? Do you want me to lose a good thing? What's the matter?"

He thought a while, went to the window and watched the traffic in the street. Presently he turned about and in his slow, earnest way began to talk.

"Look here, Rob. The gentleman to whom I was introduced today has interested me more than any person I have ever met. He is a character I have dreamed about. I have often pictured myself meeting an individual of this species. I must say it pleases me, though I am sorry to find you in his company. I intend to give you fair warning. I shall tell you what he is, and you can direct your future actions accordingly. But first I want you to tell me all you know about him and what has transpired since you have taken up your position. Go ahead."

Kind of a poser, wasn't it?

But I had confidence in Hendricks. Of all the persons I had ever met, he was the last to take a dramatic posture. I knew him for a deep water man, a man of deep thoughts and few words; but when the words did come they were like chips of steel, sharp and to the point. Therefore, I opened my heart fully. I related to Hendricks all that I knew, also I told him of the old lady's actions and the scene in the hallway.

WHEN I had finished he smiled and began drubbing the desk with his fingers.

"And what do you make of it?" he asked.

I threw up my hands.

"You've got me, Hendricks. There's a rat in a hole somewhere; but I am not cat enough to see it."

"Well," he answered, "I am. The man's a ghoul, Ever hear of a vampire?"

"On the stage."

"Yes, and off. Not the thrilling, entrancing kind that lulls you with a scene of love and beauty and soothingly imbibes while you are in a dream of the seventh heaven; but the real stern, genuine, reality. The kind that measures and weighs every movement of its victim, the kind that watches with the pulsating eyes of a cat every play of the muscles, every flash of emotion until, secure of its prey and sure of the moment, it feeds its greed with the blood of its fellow."

"Pleasant prospect surely," I answered.

"Do you still wish to retain your job?"

"Why, old boy! If that old duffer made an offer to harm me I'd strangle him with my thumb and little finger!"

"You'd do nothing of the sort. That old man has mind. Your strength and muscle don't amount to a row of shucks. When the time comes," he snapped his fingers, "there'll be no Jack Robinson."

"I suppose he will make a sort of salad of me; or serve me up as a soup," I put in.

"Hardly that. Listen, Rob. Did you ever hear of Allen Doreen?"

"The man who walked into a London cottage and disappeared from the face of the earth even though the place was surrounded by watchers? I've heard of him surely. And I believe the story a lie."

"Well, I don't," snapped Hendricks. "The man who had charge of those watchers was my own father. He was Allen Doreen's best friend. Furthermore, when Doreen entered that house, there was a man sitting in plain view of the watchers; and that man was the exact counterpart of your doctor friend. In half an hour they had both disappeared.

"When they broke open the house it was searched from cellar to attic and from attic to cellar back again; but neither skin nor teeth nor hair was found of either. The place was completely surrounded; yet no one was seen leaving the house. It was as if they had dissolved in air, so completely was it done. That was the last ever seen of Allen Doreen. My father worked on the case for years. The police of London never quite gave it up. Yet it is a mystery today— no evidence whatever, no sign, no clue."

"Perhaps," said I, "a secret passage."

"The place was torn down three weeks afterward," Hendricks returned, "the foundations were torn up for a larger building. Such a thing would have been found. There was none."

"Well," I yawned, "you've got me. Anyhow, I'll hold my job. It's the most exciting way of doing nothing I've yet found. Besides I've started on the serial, and I'm going to see the next chapter."

Hendricks took a fresh cigar.

"Well, that settles it, Rob. You're the same old daredevil. Nothing can frighten you, not even a real, genuine, live bogey man. And I'm glad of it. We'll see the thing through. Between you and me, I think we'll catch the fox and know his game. Likewise there'll be a solution of Allen Doreen.

"So far your cases are parallel; soft snap, nothing to do, pleasant doctor, advertisement, height, weight, and measurement all agree. All we've got to do is change the results. That's up to us. Now I'm going to show you something."

From a drawer in his desk he drew out a small old-fashioned case which he unsnapped and passed over to me. It contained a photograph.

"Perhaps," said he, "you have seen someone who looks like that."

I took the picture and held it to the light. It was the doctor,

"Looks like it, doesn't it," asked my friend. "And perhaps it is. That is the man who did away with Allen Doreen, I am the exact image of my father. He recognized me at once. Now you see why we laughed in each other's faces. It was a challenge. Mine was a laugh of triumph; his, of derision and contempt. We shall see who is the fox, And now, to get down to business what is it that you propose to do?"

"Well," said I, "I see nothing else to do but to return to my work and if anything unusual or threatening occurs— why, I'm the very little boy who will put a stop to it."

"I'm glad," Hendricks smiled, "that you are so confident. However, I am going to take a few precautions, or rather, I have already taken them, Your house is even now under surveillance; there are three detectives of my own hiring on the watch, one each in the houses adjoining and one in the house across the street. They know fully what an important case they are on, and are aware of the consequent glory, if they are successful.

"They are the shiftiest, nerviest, and cleverest of the force and understand perfectly with what a wise old fox they are dealing.

"Now if anything very unusual should happen, and you wish to notify the outside world, all you have to do it to place a piece of paper in a window where it may be seen, and if you need help, two — one in each end of the window. Myself, I shall keep hidden. The old fox is onto me and consequently I shall keep out of sight until such time as I am needed, when I will be there."

"All right, Hendricks," I said, "I'll do as you say. But really, after all, I don't believe the old doc is as bad as you Say. There must be some mistake. I have an idea it will all come out right and the only thing to result will be a little foolish feeling for ourselves."

There was an embarrassed pause.

"As you will, Rob," shrugged Hendricks. "Only I wish to take no chances. You have a perfect right to your own opinion."

4: Mrs Green Makes An Effort

"BACK again?"

It was the doctor; he met me at the door, a smile on his face and his hand extended; he was in his best humor.

"Yes," said I, removing my hat, "I had a little business to transact and thought it was best done before it was too late."

"That's good!" returned the doctor, a twinkle in his eye. "Always keep your affairs in good order. Everybody should do that. Neglect nothing. That's been my motto, always and at all times. We know so little of what is going to happen."

At that moment I would have given I know not what for a more definite knowledge of what the next few days might have in store.

If I was uneasy, I think I carried it off quite well and I don't think the doctor had any suspicion. In a few minutes I was my own self and was dealing out the cards as deftly and easily as ever I had done.

"This is a fine game," said the doctor, who was winning.

"Splendid," I returned inasmuch as I was paid for losing. "Splendid!"

Swish, swish, swish; the cards glided over the table— the doctor's. I dealt myself three. Swish, swish, swish— the doctor's; clip, clip, clip— our hands were dealt. The first trick was the doctor's and his smile grew broader. The next was mine, and the next, and the next; the whole hand in fact. With the turn of luck his good humor vanished.

"A rum hand," he muttered. "Gimme something good!"

However, it was his own deal, and he surely treated himself well. All the trumps were his, likewise the tricks. His good humor returned.

"Do you know, my boy, I always like to win on this night? This, you know is the twentieth of September, the night of all nights. Every twenty years it returns."

He was watching the cards as they glided toward him, picking them up, one by one, with his long tapered fingers, and talking more apparently to himself than to me.

"Every twenty years! I have reduced it to a formula, a science. Twenty years, two minutes, fifty-eight seconds!" He drew out his watch. "Fifteen minutes of eight. Over two hours yet. Two hours and over."

He began playing again— silently— a smile on his lips, anticipating. It was a sort of sensual smile and I noticed an odd look of anticipation in his eyes as he watched the cards. The tricks were all his and he drew back entirely satisfied.

"What's this, doc? Why every twenty years? Why must you win tonight? Experiment or fact?"

"Fact," answered the doctor, "fact. I win for luck; luck always goes with the winner. You lead."

Again we went to playing; but in the intervals of play I began, absently, like one merely passing time, to roll a newspaper which was lying on the table. You may think I was perturbed; but I was not at all; I was merely doing what my friend had advised— playing safe.

If I were going to see the thing through to the end, I calculated that perhaps a little help at the climax would be a thing most convenient. Of course, my mind was working. Hendricks had called the doctor a vampire. I had never seen one; but my imagination had pictured a thing vastly different from this.

During the silent moments I watched him— cool, clear-eyed, and kindly, his every movement an act of grace, his whole manner the embodiment of fascination. When he smiled the very atmosphere seemed to tipple, his clear eyes fairly danced with mirth and you felt a sort of infinite joy in the mere privilege of sharing their pleasure.

I had known him for many days— this man, and during all that time I had found him nothing but kindness and consideration, a companion, jolly at all times. As I studied him and watched him, my mind revolted at its own folly.

What a climax of things ridiculous to classify this man with a species of moral outcast, which mankind in its loathsome horror has refused a classification with either man or beast. Can you blame me for laying the paper back on the table? I had only folded it.

THE game continued, the doctor winning regularly and deriving an infinite joy therefrom; and I, with all I had on my mind, watching him intently for ever so small a sign that might signify or prove him to be anything but that to which he pretended.

The clock struck nine. It came all at once as clocks have a habit of doing when, in the silent hours, a clashing that seems to step right out of the wall seizes you by the throat, and startles you out of your marrow. We both started; but the doctor, I was sure, was really frightened.

He half rose in his chair, seized his watch in his left hand, and stood gazing from it to the clock in a sort of palsy. A look such as I never saw in a mortal came into his eyes; they fairly danced and glittered, and as he gazed at me bewildered, I would have sworn that they dissolved, and that I looked not into the eyes of one, but into those of a hundred.

Snap. The doctor closed his watch.

"My!" he sighed. "How that did startle me! I thought it was ten and I was too late. Let us have some wine."

He reached for the bell and pressed it energetically, almost savagely.

"Do you know, Mr. Robinson," he asked while we were waiting, "do you know what it means to me?"

"Naturally I do not," I replied. "You having never told me."

"Well, I'll tell you"— leaning back in his chair— "it means this: In an hour's time I shall be either alive or dead. If my experiment or fact, as I have called it, is a success you will see me a miracle, alive, young, strong, handsome, a being to marvel at and admire. If it should fail, you will witness the most abject and miserable death that ever has been or ever will be seen on this earth.

"In a few moments from that time I shall begin to dwindle, to tumble, to struggle, to cry out; my pleading will ring in your ears for years to come; when you _ are dreaming and when you are waking you will see my fearful image; I shall be a horror and an abomination to you. In a few moments I shall be no larger than this inkstand, and I shall be growing smaller and smaller until at last I disappear— a mere speck -of nothing forever and forever.

"But you, who are standing here— you will have seen an army, a strange fantom host, jabbering, incoherent, indistinct, a confusion of the ungodly with the godly — a babel of conflicting tongues, a struggling of opposing nationalities, a maelstrom of fantom hatred, with myself the center of it all, reviled, execrated, loathed, and despised. Their curses will ring in your ears for a lifetime.

"I will stand here alone; they will vanish; one by one they will step into a grave of shadows and disappear, and you will be left alone with nothing but a problem, the solution of which will baffle not only you, but your friends and assistants for all time."

He was quite cool now, and I could see that he was perfectly sane, although my firm faith in his manhood— the good old gentleman kind— began to flicker perceptibly.

"And it was for this," I asked, "that you employed me?"

"Exactly."

"You wished to make use of me?"

"Naturally. For what does one man hire another if it is not his services? You will help me in this crisis, It will be a triumph, a great one, for one or the other of us. In any case you will have beheld something to witness which there are many who would willingly pay a fortune."

The door opened and the housekeeper brought in the wine and the glasses. I bowed to her and took the occasion to nonchalantly place the roll of paper in the window; the curtain was up and I was fairly sure that it could be seen from across the street. My action I was sure was not noticed, for the doctor was pouring out the wine, while the woman was standing alongside the table watching him,

Evidently she was greatly excited, for I noticed that her hands trembled violently, while her face, so calm and healthy usually was ashy white, to which her lips drawn down at the corners as if from some load of anguish, gave that troubled and stricken look of one standing under an impending disaster.

"Mrs, Green"— it was the doctor who spoke— "do you know the day of the month?"

It was said in a cool, steady tone, but there was mockery in it indescribably; an indefinite taunting, tinctured with hatred and self-superiority.

The woman started and her hands clenched; a very storm of fury broke upon her. If the doctor had wished to goad her to madness, he had done it well and with but a sentence. Anyway, it seemed to please him, for he smiled sweetly while she broke upon him.

"You!" she shouted as she leveled her trembling, accusing finger. "You! You liar! You murderer! You dog! You know I know! And you dare ask me! What day is it! What day of the month is it! Yes, ask, when you know so well! It is the twentieth of September, that it is! Your anniversary! Your celebration of crime— of murder!

"Where is Allen Doreen? Down in your black, black, dirty, warped, crime-bespattered soul you are gloating over a murder this very night! Where is Allen Doreen? Was I not with you twenty years ago when you murdered that poor, innocent lad? And because I did not witness the actual deed, do you suppose for an instant that I doubted your guilt?

"I am your housekeeper now and I was your housekeeper then, though you little knew it when you engaged me six months ago! Why did you hire Allen Doreen? Why did you pay him fabulous sums to do merely nothing? What became of him? What did you do with him? Answer me that! Why have you this man here? Sir," she continued, turning to me, "unless you take my advice and leave this house at once, you will never see daylight again."

"Mrs. Green! This is enough! Enough!" And before I could interfere he had seized her by the arms and ejected her from the room, turning the key in the door as he did so!

5: The Vampire

HE WAS a man of quick action, and it was done in a twinkling, almost before I could think.

But the scene had decided me.

The picture of the old woman standing there in the lamplight, her face ashen, her eyes flashing, and her accusing finger speaking as loudly as her tongue, will ever live in my memory.

And I can see the doctor still, sitting there with the wine-filled glasses, smiling cynically, egging her on with his mocking, taunting laugh.

I would have rolled a second paper and brought Hendricks and his men thundering through the door, but for a thought. I was morally sure that this man was a murderer, and I was just as certain that he was contemplating another crime this night, with myself for the victim.

But what was the proof?

I had none; only an old woman's word, and that had all been before the law already. I could not call Hendricks yet. If I were afraid, I could walk out of the door. The doctor could not stop me. But I was not afraid. No, there was but one thing to do— to wait. When the time came I would throttle him with my thumb and finger just to show Hendricks; and then call in my friends.

The doctor was in an apologetic mood, though I noticed that he put the key in his pocket. Not that I cared, for I considered myself enough of his master to take it away from him whenever needed, only I noticed it.

"You mustn't mind her," he said. "Mrs. Green is a good old soul, only a little erratic, that's all." He pointed to his forehead to signify her fault. "She has them once in a while. She lost a dear friend once; but the poor old soul has a haunting idea, of which I can never rid her, that I was the cause of his disappearance. She has been my housekeeper for years. She is splendid. Let us get back to our game."

Once again we sat down, sipping the wine and playing cards. The clock above was slowly ticking toward the fatal ten, and the doctor was having all the luck. I was very curious and expectant; but kept a cool head, watching every movement of my companion.

What were his plans? What his treachery? What his preparations? I could see none, only his everlasting playing.

He seemed superbly confident, humming a low tune, and smiling as buoyantly as a boy of twelve. There was surely something in the air; but try as I might, I could make nothing out of it. I waited.

It was half past nine— twenty minutes of the hour; the room was hot and stuffy, and I began to feel nervous. I had no fear, and, having none, I tried to laugh at myself for giving way to nerves. In spite of all my efforts, I felt myself slipping, a great lump came in my throat which I could not down, and I could hear my heart thumping against my ribs, pulsating so loudly that I was rather surprised that the doctor did not notice it.

Fifteen minutes to ten. I was watching keenly.

"At your first move, old man, I will strangle you," I said to myself.

But the doctor did not move. Instead he kept on playing, calm, happy, and in perfect good humor. His very coolness nettled me; from dislike I was rapidly running into hatred. My hands shook with desire for action. If he were a vampire, I wanted to know it, and to know it quickly!

Why this everlasting delay and these infernal cards?

I was cutting, when the first sign came, and I shall never forget it.

It was a sensation, a feeling I wish never again to experience. For the first time I knew that I was playing with a power behind the conception of man; that I was eating with the devil and was using a short spoon. It was like a wave; my courage vanished and my confidence was gone. When I looked up the doctor was peering at me.

Lord, what eyes! Cavernous, flaming with the most unholy light of ages! With a cry of horror I dropped the cards.

The doctor said not a word; his whole body seemed to shrivel and become head and that in turn to transform and disintegrate and to slowly reform and grow into eyes, immense and terrible, two great green fires, consuming, devouring, unearthly.

What was it! What was it! A scream!

The eyes vanished; the doctor was sitting there before me. Yes, it was a scream; a woman's scream. How good it seemed! A door slammed across the street; there was a scurrying of feet. I was myself. I seized the second roll and started for the window.

"Put down that paper!"

It was the doctor who spoke. The clock stood two minutes to ten.

"Put down that paper!"

I laughed.

"I'll do nothing of the sort! Stop me if you can!"

In a flash he was at me. Here I knew myself his master. Arms outstretched he made for me and I could not help laughing at his awkwardness. Timing him to a dot, I let drive my left. It was a well-directed blow, and I knew it for a knockout. He was coming head on when my blow landed.

Landed! Say, rather, entered, for my fist entered his jaw like so much mist, passed through his head and out the other side.

Unable to believe my senses, I shot out my right. It passed clean through him. I could see my fist out of his back.

With a cry of horror I sprang out of his reach. I could hear voices; someone was forcing the front door.

"Hendricks! Hendricks!" I screamed.

The old man was after me like a demon.

"Aye, Hendricks!" he mocked, "Hendricks! I fooled the father and I'll fool the son! Every twenty years I eat a man, and I'll eat you as I have the others! Give me that paper!"

He made a lunge, and before I could sidestep he had me. I struggled, but it was useless. It was like fighting with smoke. I knew I was gone; I was helpless. My friend was outside.

But he was too late.

HERE Robinson lit a cigar. "Well," I asked, "what happened?"

He puffed for a moment.

"Hendricks will have to tell you the rest; my part is done. Go ahead, Hen, and give him the other part."

Hendricks took up the narrative as follows:

6: What Hendricks Found

WHEN Robinson left my office I was extremely puzzled.

My friend would do his best, and if the old fox caught him unawares, well, then, he was a slyer fox than I imagined.

Of the man himself I was morally certain. I returned to my desk and studied the picture over and over again. They were the same, barring only the difference in the style of the clothes, which, of course, counted for nothing.

There was one thing, and one thing only, which bothered me.

These two men were of the same age; yet this picture had been taken over twenty years before. Surely the living picture—  the man himself— should have aged some in that length of time, or was he one of those upon whom years had no effect and whom advancing age always finds at middle age, stationary, healthy, and belying their own looks?

The telephone rang.

"Hello! Hello! Who is it?"

"Is this Mr. Hendricks?"

"It is. Who is this?"

"Brooks, at Rubic Avenue. We have had the house under surveillance ever since you detailed us. Mr. Robinson has just returned. The old lady— the housekeeper, the woman you mentioned— was just here. You are right, all right. She was mixed up with the Allen Doreen affair, and I think she will be our main witness. I want you to get out here and have a talk with her.

"And, by the way, the old lady says that this is the day, and we want to take no chances.

"She has gone back to the house just at present; she is mortally afraid of the doc, says that if he rang and found her gone he would surely kill her. When can you come?"

"Right away. I will be out there immediately."

In a few minutes I was on a car bound for Rubic Avenue.

My men I found in the house across the street, which they seemed to be making their headquarters. It was now five-thirty.

"Well," said I, "what news?"

"Not much of anything," said Smythe. "But we are awaiting the woman; she promised she would return as soon as you arrived, so we could settle all our plans. She says there is no danger until some time after nine, absolutely none, because the doctor, as she calls him, never works at his trade, or whatever you may call it, in the daytime. x

"Brooks, who is on the watch, reports that Robinson and the doctor have just entered one of the front rooms upstairs, and, from the looks, are playing cards."

"Very likely," I answered. "Robinson, who has just left me, says that is their chief pastime."

Then I told them about my interview with Robinson and the plans we had laid.

"So, you see, our best tactics will be to wait and watch."

Well, sir, we waited.

About six came the old lady. She was terribly excited and very much worried; but beyond a recital of her former experience and the fact that she had heard the doctor mumbling, "The twentieth, the twentieth," several times during the past few days, I can't say that she had much information to impart. But on this one thing she was very sure and very much worked up.

"Oh, how glad I am that you men are here to help Mr. Robinson!" she said. "Only I'm afraid, terribly afraid. Perhaps you are not smart enough. Oh, he's clever; it will be just like him to do his work right in front of you, and you not be able to do a thing."

"He would have to be a devil to do that," said Smythe. "I suppose you know that the house is surrounded, and that nobody can leave it nor enter without at least ten eyes upon him."

"I know it, I know it," said the old lady. "But what's been done before can be done again. I tell you for myself I ain't afraid, he won't harm me; but I do care for this young man. He won't listen to me. Says he's not afraid and all that. But I tell you all quite frankly, the doctor's not human. No, sir, 'he's something else; when a man can do what he does, he's something, and that ain't man either." With that she left us.

There was a good deal in what she said, and I told them so; but Smythe shook his head.

"I've heard of this Doreen case before, Mr. Hendricks, read of it, and I have always said I would have liked to have been there. Now, here's our chance. We have Robinson over there, big and strong, athletic, no fool and no coward, and we have a bunch of men around us, all of them trained, all alert; and we have Mrs, Green there in the house with them, and a code of signals. Everything is in our favor. We can catch the old fox red-handed, save Robinson, and clear up the Doreen mystery, and all at the same time."

WE ALL of us settled down now to our vigil. From our vantage ground of an upper room we could look across into the room where, sure enough, sat Robinson and the doctor, both apparently enjoying way up to the room. You'll have your friendly game of cards. It was not too close nor yet so far but that we could make them out quite plainly; the curtains 'were open and, of course, a great deal of the room was in our plain view.

Well, nothing happened. The minutes drew into hours, and as the first excitement wore away the time began to grow lazy. I began to get sleepy. I think it was some time after nine when Brooks nudged me,

"Look! Look! What's Robinson doing?"

Across the street I could see Rob. He was rolling up a paper.

"Was it one or two?"

I got up; but he seemed to laugh and lay it down again, and to resume his playing. Nothing more happened for about a quarter of an hour; then suddenly the old man started from his chair, pressed his hand to his forehead, and in a startled way began to talk to his companion. A few moments later, after he had resumed his seat, the door, opened, and we could see the old man and the old woman shaking their fists angrily at each other— at least the old woman shook hers. Then it was that Rob put the paper in the window.

"Ah!" exclaimed Brooks. "Now there is something doing over yonder! What'll we do?"

"Beginning to be interesting," I answered, getting up. "You stay here, Brooks, while I get the men together. Keep a close lookout. If Bob gives the other signal or if you see anything suspicious, be sure and signal to us, and we will break in immediately."

Below I gathered up the men, placed two at the back, two at the sides, and kept with me two others. Every inch of the house was to be watched, The light was at the window, and the house was silent. For some time we waited; but there was only the thumping of our- hearts and the everlasting pulsating throb of the city night. After a little a window was raised, and I heard Brooks' voice.

"Hendricks," he said coolly, "now is your time. Enter quietly and make your way up to the room. You'll have your man easy enough."

I had just reached the steps when a woman screamed, and a frightened, fearful cry it was, to be sure. And then, running and almost falling, I could hear someone coming down the stairs.

With a cry we made for the door; but at the same instant the housekeeper opened it, slammed it, and stood before us. She was white and trembling.

"Oh," she cried, "for goodness sake, hurry! Hurry! It's the devil! Sure, sure it's the devil!"

"Woman," I almost shrieked, "look what  you have done! We are locked out!"

"Burst it! Burst it open!" came an order behind.

It was Brooks.

"Hendricks! Get in there! Get in there!"

With the force of two hundred pounds he landed against the door, and in a minute we rolled, men, door, locks, and all, a heap on the floor. The woman screamed again, and above everything I could hear a voice familiar and distinct. It was Rob.

At a bound I threw myself to my feet and dashed up the stairs, A light was streaming beneath the door, and there was a peculiar noise coming from the inside, a sort of chuckle. Brooks passed me, and both together we landed against the door. It was locked; we knew that, so we sent it crashing to the floor.

The room was empty!

7: Visitor or Visitation

WE WERE baffled, defeated! I had been laughed at to my face! My best friend was gone!

A sort of haze came over me, and for the next few minutes I remember almost nothing. Then I noticed the blaze of light, the cards about the table, the empty wine glasses and bottles, and the soft green carpet, while I could see Brooks dashing about the room, stamping on the floor, pounding the walls, and swearing a great, copious string of heavy oaths.

"You below, there!" he shouted. "Are those men here yet? Well, hold tight! Don't let an inch of this house escape you! I'm going to comb over it with a fine-tooth comb! And if we don't get him, I'll know he's the devil!"

"And that's what I think he is," said I. "I could have sworn I heard him when I reached this door!"

"And I, too," returned Brooks. "Yet here we are, and there is neither hide nor hair of him!"

But however much my detective friend agreed with me, he would not, as he said, allow superstition and mystic fear to: get the better of him; and now, while he had a hand in the game and the thing 'was warm, he was going to see the house from top to bottom, attic, cellar, and sideways.

Keen over our lost prey, we set to work, and I do not believe there was a house searched as this one. With the help from headquarters, we went at it from every corner.

Everything was ransacked, rummaged, burst open, examined; walls were thumped, floors pounded, ceilings tested, and carpets torn up. But it all ended as I had foreseen.

When gray dawn struck, it found a house much like one stricken by an earthquake or a whirlwind, but never a clue that would lead us anywhere at all. Of course, I was heart-broken over Rob, and I swore by everything that I knew that I would never leave off the trail until I had either rescued or avenged him. Nor was I alone.

Brooks, with all his great confidence and splendid nonchalance of a few hours be- fore, was a thing to look at. Truly he reminded me of a bloodhound chasing his tail. With all his skill and technique he was getting nowhere. When daylight came he threw up his hands.

"I tell you, Hendricks, this is not a case; it is a study, and I must have time to think. Likewise"— remembering himself—  I must eat. But I tell you one thing; I will never leave this case until either I or the doctor get each other."

Anyway, we ate. And afterward we returned and began our search all over again. And we kept it up day in and day out, and to be doubly sure, we rented the place and moved into it. And we watched and waited, while the days grew into months, and the months into years, until I found myself five years older with a great practice and a greater mystery.

I HAD attained by hard, grinding work, I think, a very credible place in the legal world. I was not married, and was living with Brooks in the House of Mystery, as he chose to call it.

We kept a housekeeper— none other than the old Mrs. Green, who had held the same position under our spooky friend the notorious Dr. Runson, for whom the police of every city of the world were looking and not finding.

There was one great, permeating idea in the house; find the doctor, avenge Robinson, and clear up the Doreen mystery.

Brooks worked on the case as one who would work on a puzzle. He was always ready; had had the police oiled and ready, prepared at any moment to reach out and grasp its victim.

Then one night we received a sign.

At the time we had moved into the house I had chosen a nice cozy room to the rear, and would have made that my sleeping quarters had it not been for Brooks, who expostulated in the loudest manner.

"There is but one room in the whole house, Hendricks," he said, "in which we can sleep, and that is the little room up yonder to the front, where this little scene took place a few weeks back, and there we'll stay."

I remember plainly. It was in September. I had been out to a social affair, and did not get in until about eleven o'clock. When I turned on the light, Brooks was snoring loudly, his head back and his mouth wide open, as though he were enjoying it. I crawled into bed with him.

How long I slept I do not know; but when I awoke some time after with a start, it was to find Brooks, or at least I thought it was he, sitting on my feet. Like any sleepy person, I became angry.

"Hey, you! Gee whiz! Brooks, get off my feet!"

Someone at my side turned, and I saw it was Brooks.

"What's the matter with you?" he said. "I'm not on your feet. Got a nightmare?"

But I was not asleep, and I knew it. There was surely something on my feet, so I raised up and looked. Sure enough, seated there in the moonlight was the form of a man.

It was Robinson!

For a moment I was dazed, my heart jumping and my throat swollen.

"Don't you know me, old boy?" it said.

Hardly believing my own eyes, nor my ears either, I dropped back on the pillow and lay thinking. Finally I reached over and pinched Brooks, who was almost awake.

"What's the matter?"

"Do you see anything?"

"Where?"

"At the foot of the bed. On my feet."

"Pooh!"

With an air of disgust and distrust, my bedfellow raised himself and immediately dropped back on the pillow.

"Who— who is it?" he whispered.

The sound of his voice, and the fact that he, as well as I,-could see some one, reassured me; for, though I am hardly afraid of flesh and blood in the real personal form, I, like most other people, have only a creepy sympathy with an apparition. That Brooks had seen and recognized was an assurance I needed, for I must say I was in a cold sweat of fear and apprehension. I raised myself to a sitting posture.

"Well?"

It was Rob who spoke, and it was the old voice.

"Is this really you, Rob," I asked doubtfully, "or just something else?" `

He laughed.

"You think me a ghost, don't you, Hen? Well, to tell you the truth, I am, almost; at least, as near one as a man could get."

"Then— then you are not dead, Rob?"

"No," he answered, "I'm not dead, nor alive either, for that matter."

He got up and walked about the room, and I noticed that his walk was ghostlike, no noise, absolute silence, and he nearly six feet and one hundred and eighty pounds.

"Look here, Hendricks." He stopped to look at the clock. "I've got but a few moments to spare. It was only by superhuman struggle that I am here; only by a terrific battle of the will that I am with you; and at any moment, any second, I may leave you. I came to help you, to encourage you. Keep up your search, and some day you will be rewarded.

"I will help you. I am not dead. Far from it; I may live forever. Keep your eyes open at all times and watch personalities. I will try to lead them your way. Only be prepared when the time comes. You were right about the doctor. He was a vampire. I found out when it was too late. If you watch and work hard enough, I will have a chance to die even yet."

He stopped beside the bed and looked at me longingly, his eyes filled with a yearning that was piteous. My mind was in a whirl, and my heart was beating like a trip-hammer; but in the midst of it all I had presence enough to analyze his features. The eyes were the same; the hair, the jaw, and the peculiar expression of the mouth were all his; beyond a doubt it was Robinson.

I remember the wild joy that surged | through me at the certainty. I reached up to grasp him, but he drew back.

"Don't, Hen! Don't! Not now!"

He drew back; for, not to be denied, I had sprung out of the bed and was pursuing him with outstretched hands.

"Stop!"

But I would not. Instead, I followed him across the room with my hands reaching out for him. :

"Well, then, if you must have it! Goodby!"

There was a good deal of the defiant in the words, and yet a world of misery. And with that he disappeared, vanished through the solid wall as though it were the open air.

8: Pandora's Box

OF COURSE, we dressed and began a most thorough examination. The doors were locked, the windows fastened, and everything was found in its accustomed place. We could get no satisfaction; there was no solution but one; and as I was no believer in ghosts or their workings, I was loath to accept it.

Still, what other solution could we give? It was either that, or we had, both of us, been the victims of a huge hallucination, and we were, both of us, too much awake, and had altogether too much pride and confidence in our own intelligence to admit that we could drift off into a state so bordering on the insane as that. How, then, were we to account for it? I admit I tossed up my hands. It was too much for me.

If Rob was not dead; and he said he wasn't, how had he gained entrance to our room? Surely none but a fantom could have done that, and no one mortal could have vanished in such a complete and marvelous manner. Furthermore, if alive, what reason had he for keeping himself hidden, especially from his best friend, myself, whose help he needed, and from whom he had just now sought assistance?

I could see none. But one thing I did do. I cursed the impatient haste and unreason with which I had just acted. Had it not been for my own foolishness and lack of tact, we might have had a few good practical clues on which to work. Rob must have had something to impart, or he would never have paid us this visit, and so I reasoned with Brooks.

"Pshaw!" said my friend. "The man was murdered. That's plain as day. Who did it is the goal. The case has just begun, but I'm going to solve it, believe me. Meantime, I'm going back to bed."

Going to bed and going to sleep were two different things; so we spent the rest of the night in argument and in the consuming of innumerable cigars. And when the morning broke and the gray light of dawn streamed through the windows, it found two men with two different views. I for the living, and he for the dead.

Which of us was right you shall see for yourself.

I WAS engaged on the Huxly case, with which you and everybody else who reads the papers must be familiar, As I have said, I had risen not a little in my profession; my practice was large, my reputation established, and, best of all, I had the name of getting most anything I went after.

At the same time, I was on a dead level with myself, and knew my limitations, even though I did not let others into the secret.

The Huxley case, you will remember, was one of those paradises for attorneys, a sea of legal entanglements wherein they could swim about to their hearts' content, breathing law, living law, sleeping law, with no way out, no exit, no escape.

I was working night and day. It was the climax of my legal career. If I won I was made, and I was going to win.

One day, while deep in the Huxly case, I had ordered my lunch and was looking over a local paper; there was not much in it, so I was running over the market reports. I don't know how to account for it, but I have always said that the great and important changes of life are prone to come upon us suddenly and unexpectedly.

And although I have always made it a habit to watch the turning up of things, as it were, it has ever been my fortune to be caught like a drowsy sentinel, asleep at the post, How little was I aware at this moment. Everything was in the routine. The world was running smoothly; so much so, in fact, that I had to satisfy my craving for excitement with market reports.

It may have been the print, or it may have been anything. I'm sure I don't know exactly. But, anyway, when I was half through the page my eyes failed me and the whole thing blurred.

"Merely a case of nerves," you say. Perhaps so. That's what I thought. I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers against the eyeballs. The pressure brought relief for an instant, and I began rubbing them. A flickering and flashing of lights clamored with myriad tattoo across my brain, and my head swam. I opened my eyes again and reached for a glass of water. The paper was still in my hand; but it was an inky black, the light of absolute nothingness, and clean across it, in plain white letters, was the word:

ROBINSON

"Premonition," you say. Perhaps it was. Anyway, it startled me. The moment those letters were indelible in my mind, the room cleared and my- vision returned. Half startled, I looked about me.

Everything was as before; if anything had happened, nobody had noticed it. It was the same prosaic, hungry crowd, and there was the usual sound of eating, of dishes and spoons, and the quiet, soft step, step, step of flitting waiters.

Nevertheless, I was a perfect tingle of excitement; my hands shook and my heart seemed to swell up within me, to fill my throat and choke me with anticipation. Something was surely going to happen. Carefully I studied everybody in the room. Then I turned clear about and looked at the door. There it was.

It was Rob!

He was standing just inside of the door, his soft hat slouched over his eye and his empty pipe in his hand. I could see the cashier speaking to him, but he shook his head. Evidently he was looking for someone. I had half risen from my seat when our eyes met; he smiled and came quickly down the aisle. How I watched him!

"Rob, Rob, Rob," I said to myself, keeping time with his step as he came toward me. Then hesitation. The resemblance began to glimmer and fade away. The nearer he approached the less he looked like Rob. Could it really be he? How my wild hope rose and fell! When he was quite up to me I saw I was mistaken, and that he was an absolute stranger.

"Pardon me," he said, "but were you expecting me? If you don't mind, I will sit opposite you. You seemed to know me."

Know him! On closer view he seemed strangely familiar, very much like another; there was a difference and a resemblance which, added together, was indeed a puzzle.

"Your face," said I, "reminded me strangely, I took you for some one— a very old friend. And yet it could not be. I see I am wrong."

"Why?"

He looked up from the table with a strange, querulous smile.

"Why couldn't it be? Who is this person?"

A thought struck me.

"Your name is not Robinson?"

He sobered down in an instant, and began arranging his knife and fork beside his plate.

"No," he said, eying his dish; "just Jones. Ebenezer Jones. Fine name that! But suppose my name were Robinson? What would it signify?"

"What would it signify?" I repeated. "Just this. If your name were Robinson and you were the real person, whom you greatly resemble, there would be a mystery solved."

"Ha!"

My companion dropped his fork and looked up.

"What's this?" he asked. "A mystery—  a real, genuine, live mystery! Have you one, sure enough? Let's have it. That's my line exactly. It's food and drink to me."

He waited; and before I knew it I was telling him what you already know. I don't know why I should have told it there in the restaurant; but from the first he seemed to have a power over me, and through it all I had that fluttering sensation and my heart kept beating "something will happen, something will happen."

"Splendid!" he exclaimed when I was through. "And have you this picture of the doctor and a picture of Robinson?"

"In my office. Yes."

"May I see them?"

"Certainly."

"Well, I would be much obliged to you. This interests me deeply. We shall go up after we eat."

In another half hour we were examining the photos.

"So this is Robinson, and this is Dr. Runson? Eh? Might have been twins but for thirty years or so. Eh! Well, I tell you, Mr. Hendricks, you needn't worry. In less than six months you will know all about it. No? You don't believe it? Well, well! Wait and see. I have a strange power, and what I say generally comes true. Even if my name is just plain Ebenezer Jones. Now, Mr. Hendricks, I have a proposition to make. How would you like a business associate?"

He staggered me.

"Well, an assistant if you will. Call me anything you like. I will name my own terms. Salary, nothing, and as much work as you can get out of me."

I was taken back.

"Know anything about the law?"

He laughed and his eyes fairly danced with amusement. The chief justice could not have been more amused at the question.

"Just give me a trial is all I ask. I want to stay in this office until this mystery is solved; and while I'm here I want something to do. You'll find it to your advantage. I know something about law and then some. Even though my name may be just plain Ebenezer Jones."

WELL, to make the matter short, I took him in.

It was a rather sudden and strange thing to do on such a short acquaintance. I was a little surprised at myself at first, but soon found that I had made no mistake. Indeed, before many days I was shaking hands with myself. Ebenezer settled into my office with an ease and a confidence that could only come from ability and energy; and he tore into cases with a vim that was irresistible. I had asked him whether he knew anything about the law. I was soon laughing at myself,

Was there anything about the law that he didn't know! That fellow was a veritable encyclopedia. He seemed to have it all in his head. He became the brains of the office. I might well enough have burned my books. I began asking questions, and soon quit referring to my library. I found it was useless; all I got was a verification of his statements.

Naturally I prospered. We won the Huxly case hands down, although I knew it was Ebenezer's brain and not mine that did it.

Still, I got the credit, so I had no kick coming. Other cases came our way. We won them all. It was so easy that it was amazing. I congratulated both myself and him.

"Fudge," he said. "It's nothing. There's nothing to the law but the knowing."

And I guess he was right. Anyway I was in high spirits. My reputation was bounding up. I became a boy again. Success breeds dreams; I could see great pictures ahead, if I could keep this genius at work; I would be chief justice!

The mystery?

It had grown so old that I was beginning to despair of it. I had, to be sure, a restless feeling, a sort of nervous certainty that it would be cleared up some day; but I had become so used to waiting that it had become a sort of habit; I was helpless and could do nothing, and there was only hope. Of one thing I was certain— Robinson would show up some day, somehow; a sort of subconscious wisdom seemed to tell me that.

Was it the mystery that held Ebenezer? It must have been; though what he was going to gain by sitting in my office, or how he was going to solve it by doing nothing, I could not make out. There was only one clue, and that was his resemblance to Rob. When I questioned him about it he always laughed.

"If I were Rob, I think you would know it, Hendricks. No, no, boy, you're on the wrong track." Then, after a while, after a good many minutes of silence and thinking: "You'll have to wait, old boy. Only, I tell you, things may happen, and when they do, keep your wits about you."

But nothing happened in spite of his words,

Days wore into weeks and weeks into months, and we dug into the laws. Ebenezer was at it early and late; and I did my best to keep up with him. I offered him a partnership, but he refused it. When I tried to have a moneyed understanding he laughed at me.

"I have so much of that stuff that it nauseates me. I prefer to work for nothing and see what turns up."

He had no bad habits that I could notice, and I watched him closely. He always brought a bottle of port wine with him and drank it all during the day; that is, what I did not help him with. Also he smoked occasionally; only it was an old, seedy pipe, such as you would expect an Ebenezer Jones to smoke.

There was only one thing in his habits or possessions that could arouse my curiosity; that was a small case which he always carried with him; it was not more than three inches square and could be conveniently carried in his pocket. The first thing he did on entering the office was to lock this in his desk. And when he left at night it went with him without fail. Once he opened it quite accidentally, and I noticed with surprise that it contained two small bottles, both of them full of a liquid, and that the color was of port wine.

They say it was Pandora who opened the box. Of a certainty that mythical young lady was an ancestor of mine. I can understand her feelings exactly; they must have been tantalizing. Something told me I must open that box. Of course I revolted against the feeling; I fought it fiercely; all the ethics of my nature and training warned me and pleaded with me.

It was no use. There was still that feeling, perverse and ever there. My fingers itched, and my heart yearned for that case.

Why I should have had it I could not tell; it was a freak of my own nature or the hand of Fate. My lower self seemed bound to triumph in this one case, although my manhood and integrity kept saying: "No, no; thou shalt not."

"After all, what did it amount to?" I would repeat. "Merely a case and two bottles. Examine them and return them; no one will be harmed, and you will be satisfied."

Well, it went on that way for a good many days, and all the time I felt myself growing weaker. It was a trivial thing in itself; but the fight I put up against it made it, with me, a matter of some magnitude.

At length I came to it. I resolved to examine the case and in this way relieve myself of this everlasting torment. It was a simple thing in itself, and were it not for its strange aftermath I would soon have forgotten it.

9: Two Drops!

EBENEZER had stepped out of the office for a few minutes, leaving his desk unlocked. It was quickly done. I stepped over to his desk, drew out the drawer, and took therefrom the little case of mystery. A slight pressure and the thing flew open, disclosing the two small bottles I knew it to contain. I remember wondering why the two bottles instead of one inasmuch as they contained the same liquid. But did they?

Perhaps they only looked alike. To satisfy myself I picked up one of the bottles, opened it, and smelled. It had absolutely no odor, and of course I dared not taste it. It was full to the overflowing, and as my hand trembled somewhat, a drop fell on the wine-glass that was resting on the desk. I replaced the cork and was about to open the other bottle when footsteps in the hall— Ebenezer's feet— put a speedy end to my investigation.

In a minute I had closed the case and resumed the seat at my own desk, "Hello," said Ebenezer.

He placed his hat upon the desk and, taking the wine-glass, poured himself a large drink, Then in horror I recalled the spilled drop.

"Horrors! What is— "

No use for more; it was done.

At first he stood stark still, his hand raising wonderingly to his head and his eyes questioning; then his frame shook and his color began to change, first to a yellow, then to a dark green. He was the most uncanny thing I ever looked at, a being dropped from another planet.

"Mercy!" he exclaimed. "It is done!"

Then with a furious haste he tore open the desk and seized the case and vanished into the dressing-room. I could hear the lock crash as he turned the key. Then he fell; but he must have risen immediately, for I could hear someone walking. Then a voice— no, a cry, and how it rang!

"In the name of Heaven, Hendricks, open the door! It is I— Rob! Oh, before it is too late! Hurry, hurry, break it down!"

With a cry of fury I flung myself at the door. It held.

"Hurry, hurry!" came the despairing call from the other side. Then another voice cut in:

"Shut up and come here; I'm master yet."

Something fell, and then there was the tramping of many feet. A struggle seemed to be going on, and above it all the voice of men— not two nor three, but of a multitude, In the midst of my frantic haste I could hear it. Awful, excited, despairing, the incoherent shoutings of all nationalities. German, Greek, French, Italian. And above it all the voice of a master.

"This way; this way! There now; there now!"

In a perfect frenzy of haste I seized an implement and splintered the door and, as it fell back, sprang into the room.

It was empty.

No, not quite.

Ebenezer Jones was standing at the window watching the street below.

"Why," he smiled, "you must be in a hurry, Mr. Hendricks. Do you always enter a room in this manner?"

Shamefaced and abashed I stood there, puzzled, a fool shown up in the height of his folly. I was about to become a hero; I came crashing through the door ready to grapple with a multitude, and instead I was laughed at. Humbly I drew my handkerchief and mopped my face.

"Excuse me, Mr. Jones," I ventured; "but I— I surely heard strange noises in this room."

"Strange what?"

"Noises."

"Tut, tut, Hendricks." He came over to me and laid his great brawny paw on my shoulder. "What noises did you hear?"

"Why," I said, "I heard, or thought I heard, my dear old friend Robinson. He was calling to me right in this room, begging me to open the door. And there were others— lots of them. You had the door locked, so I smashed it down."

"I see you did," picking it up and placing it against the wall. "But you didn't find Rob, did you? Nor the others? Just plain old Ebenezer Jones!" He laughed and slapped me on the back. "Just plain old Ebenezer Jones. What do you know about that? Isn't it awful?" And he went off into a peal of laughter, and laughed and laughed and laughed. "Hendricks," he said, "you should have seen yourself come through that door. Oh, how funny it was. You should have been a soldier; you'd be a general!"

And that is how it ended; humiliated, shamed, and doubting, laughed at and half laughing at myself, I returned to work. But I had a feeling that after all I was right, and not such a big fool as Ebenezer Jones would have me believe. And the feeling grew. It was not long before it became a conviction, and conviction brought action.

I began to see the light.

EBENEZER went to work as though nothing had happened. So did I. But now, after the peculiar experience through which I had gone, I began to take a new interest in my strange companion. For hours I watched him wondering and figuring. From now on he was an enigma, and open question-mark.

I had taken him at first for a queer character, one of those strange personages of whom we have so many in our midst, who for a mere whim or for love of any kind of adventure will adapt themselves to any place or person in order to watch the course of events and be in on the denouement. That he had more than a curious interest in the disappearance of Rob I had not dreamed hitherto. I had taken him for what he looked, and now I felt myself deceived.

Once on a train of new thoughts I worked fast. Why his resemblance to Rob? Whence this almost uncanny knowledge of the law, this almost unhuman legal mind, which knew everything, and which cared so little for its rewards? Why his total dislike for money, society, and honor? Why, too— and I reasoned it over many, many times— the two small bottles?

And why —  yes —  the one bottle —  one drop, the sudden effect, the noises, the multitude, and Rob?

It was not a nice feeling, to be sure; but just the same, far from being ashamed of what I had done, I was resolved on playing the same trick over again on the first opportunity.

From now on I watched and waited eagerly for the little packet of mystery. Once he took it from his pocket and was about to lay it on his desk when something diverted him, and he gave it a steady, studious look, something akin to wonderment, it seemed to me, and with a sudden strange motion snapped it back into his pocket.

Then he looked over at me. It was a strange look, something I could not understand; there was something of power and yet of a strange, terrible weakness.

Could it be that this man was a fiend? Ah, no! The answer came back with the same thought. Surely not.

Yet all through that day and several more that followed there was a strange feeling between us, and at times I could feel his eyes upon me, a most uncomfortable thing. I had the impression of being feared and watched by a wonderful, superior power; I don't know that there is anything more uncanny than that. With a weaker will you at least know that you are the master; but when a stronger begins to fear, the resultant fear that it engenders in you is so haunting and depressing that it becomes horrible.

Not that he was not the same Ebenezer. He was that, and he wasn't. The outward appearance and actions were the same; it was the psychological that changed. There was a Shiftiness, a changing; the eye spoke a lie, and the personality seemed to be fluttering. I don't know of anything that could have moved me more or set me to thinking harder, There was fear, appeal, and terror in those eyes. I felt that I was being called on and that action was needed.

"Hallucination," say you?

So it seemed to me; but it was so real, so earnest, and I was so certain of it that nothing would have diverted me. What would I do, and how would I do it? There was that in those eyes which told me I could do something. I was convinced that the scene in the dressing-room was a reality, not a fantom of my own mind,

There were, there must have been many people in that room. It was Ebenezer's secret, and it should be mine. Show a man that which he can't have; and that he shall have. There was but one way— the bottles. I would try them again.

As I said, to all outward appearances Ebenezer was the same. He had the ability, the jovialness, the personality. It was only in the shifting individuality of the eyes with their appeal, their fear, and the resultant effects that he was at all different from the first Ebenezer that had entered my office,

His manners were the same, his talk and his application; he still drank his bottle of port, and he still went out for walks. Each morning he deposited the little case inside his desk, and every time as regularly as he went out, it went with him.

How I did watch that case! How I did want to lay my hands on it! But there was no use; I could not take it away from him; I must work in secret.

One morning, a very momentous one to me, Ebenezer was late. He had a right, to be sure; for who has not when he works for nothing? However, he had always been so prompt before that I noticed with surprise this one slip of punctuality; and I was more surprised, nay, almost alarmed, when he jarred open the door.

There was an appearance of one who had been out all night; his eyes were bloodshot and his hair had a sort of stand-up -and-refuse-to -lie-down look, although it had been well flattened with the brush. In one hand he carried a bottle of port; in the other I noted with surprise the case.

Without noticing me— we were always very cordial with our greetings— he walked up to his desk more like a soldier than anything and deposited thereon the bottle and the case.

"There, now," he said, and without another word turned on his heel and marched out of the room.

A few moments later I saw him entering a building on the other side of the street. There was an act of finality about it that startled me; a sort of defiance that unnerved me.

Was it a challenge? Anyway, there was the case.

WITH a feverishness that was a mixture of fear, hope, and eagerness I pressed open the cover. There they were, the two of them. Small, small receptacles of mystery: What did they not contain? My hand trembled and my mind blurred. Here was one of the mysteries of the world; a secret of many things. And I— I must see, must hear, and must know. I held them up and examined them. "Ah," I muttered, as by inspiration, "the dose and the antidote. Ebenezer, this is your Waterloo. See." I almost laughed with glee. "One drop raised hell. Two drops will raise more hell." I poured two drops in his glass. "So. And now, old boy, I'll say checkmate."

With this I took out the other bottle and placed it in my pocket. Then I replaced the first bottle and put the case where I had found it. When all was ready I returned to my desk and took up my work.

What a difference there was. On the former occasion I was all excitement and guilt; I felt I had committed a crime and was ashamed of myself. I had lost all honor and self-respect. And now, although excited, I had a feeling of triumph, of certainty, of right. I was dead sure. I was the instrument of Providence. And I remembered Ebenezer's own words.

"Things may happen; and when they do, keep your wits about you."

Well, I had them about me, now. Also, I had a hammer to batter down the door if necessary.

After what seemed an age, Ebenezer returned.

"Well," he said, '"how's things?"

"Fine," I answered.

"That's good. Same here. Was out late last night; first time for a long while."

"Theater?" I asked.

"Oh, no. Just going around. Made me sleep late, though. Actually, I thought this morning I could sleep for a hundred years. Have some?" He produced his bottle and poured himself a good drink.

"Not this morning."

I was hoping he would not insist.

"Well, here goes."

He held it up, eyed it for a moment, and then drank it at a gulp.

"So," I said, and raised from my seat. "Sol"

It was just as I expected. He turned sickly and was powerless. The two drops had done the business His eyes were—  Heavens, what eyes they were! The most unholy thing I had ever gazed into—  cavernous, burning— defiant; the eyes of a lost soul at the bar of judgment. He raised his hands to the sides of his head.

"At last!" he said. "At last!"

And, oh, the finality of those four words; the despair!

Then, with furious haste, he tore open his desk. Like a fleeting thing his hand went around the drawers. It was not there!

"Good Heavens!" he murmured, drawing back. "This is murder!"

And in a flash of thought he was in the dressing-room.

10: Azeyv Avec!

"HENDRICKS!" The cry came out. Rob's voice! Something fell.

A terrific struggle was going on; all hell seemed to be breaking loose. I made for the door with the speed of fury. It seemed an age. From inside came the old voice, the master's voice, and it said:

"I'll kill you!"

And, oh, the struggle! There were blows and hate, and above all the screaming staccato of many tongues. Hatred, despair, revenge.

Bang!

I let the door have it right in the center. It shivered and caved, the middle part demolished. Bang! I struck at the hinges. With a crash it fell to the floor, and over it I sprang into the room.

As I live I shall never see it again! The room was full of humanity. Naked and struggling they were rolled into an inextricable mass. There was hissing and gnashing of teeth. And in the center in the midst of it all was a horrible thing. It was battling the multitude. Such a struggle I had never seen before. It heaved, fought, shoved, and struck, and still they came on. If it were not master it was giving a good account of itself.

Suddenly, by a gigantic effort, it raised itself up, flung back its assailants like so many flies, and made straight for me. Two eyes— a monstrous thing.

"You!" it hissed.

With a cry of horror I backed against the wall. Its hand touched me and I felt my body grow cold as ice.

"Not yet!"

A form flashed between us and a hand grasped its throat. It was Robinson.

"Back, Hen! Back! As you value your life, back!"

Then he sailed into it. Their forms buckled together, heaved and tossed into the air. They passed in and out of each other like mist. The others came to help, but their actions were slow and aged.

Such a struggle I shall never see again. I can see myself yet, crouched against the wall watching that battle of fantoms. I was too bewildered to be afraid, too horrified to analyze. Like a dream I was passive, unable even to think.

Suddenly there was a heaving and tossing, and the form of Rob shot into the air. He and the thing were locked together. When they came down Rob was on top. The battle was over. The thing lay still, Rob backed away.

"Behold the end of Azev Avec."

It shuddered and rolled over and lifted up its head. I saw it was akin to a man, only black and terribly aged. It seemed to be shriveling. From its ghastly mouth came a sound.

"Robinson," it said.

Rob stepped closer and then knelt down.

"What is it, Azev?" And his face grew kind and pitiful. One could see that if he had any resentment it was buried in pity for what had to be done.

"Goodby, Robinson. You win. You were too strong. All's yours now. I should have picked someone with a weaker will. It was a great fight. No resentment, no hard feeling. Live ten thousand years! Almost immortal!"

All the time his form was shriveling and his voice growing fainter.

"There now," said Rob, drawing away. "Doreen, come on,"

From out of the mass of shadows stepped a form.

"Now then, Hen, open the door and into your office, There, now."

We were alone. The three of us.

"Now, take that other bottle, pour two drops for me in port wine. There, now. Give it to me."

I held it to his lips and he drank it at a gulp. The effect was immediate and astonishing. His appearance lost its fantom shadowness, and he became real and human, a man of flesh and blood.

I almost danced with joy. I seized him by the hand and fairly blubbered with my happiness.

"And now give me the bottle."

He took it from me, and with a steady hand prepared a dose for his shadow friend.

"Behold us," said Rob, standing by the side of Doreen. "The two mysteries. The two solutions. Now let's look at the others,"

He stepped to the dressing-room door and beckoned me. The room was empty.

"Where are they?" I asked.

"They were dead long ago," he answered, "Their minds and souls were alive. They were imprisoned and feeding on the body of Doreen and myself. Come into the office and I will tell you all.

"THERE, now," he said, when he had rested himself, "I will make it as short as I can, as Doreen and I both want clothes, and we both want to go out into the freedom of the street. Do you remember what you said about the doctor? You were right. He was a vampire. For ten thousand years he had been feeding on human flesh. His real name was Azev Avec, Dr. Runson was merely a composite— so was Ebenezer Jones.

"About ten thousand years ago, somewhere south of the Himalayas, Azev was born, the son of a high priest and an Indian princess his wife. His father was a man deeply immersed in magic or mysticism, or whatever you choose to call it, and held, in addition an almost uncanny knowledge of the natural laws. Among other things, he acquired a knowledge of solids; he early discovered, what we all know now, that no solid is really what the name implies; but a mass of infinitesimal particles held together in a single mass by two forces of nature, cohesion and adhesion.

"Knowledge like this was to a man of his nature and profession only an incentive for tremendous endeavor. The remainder of his life was spent with one object— the control of the particles of a solid, or to be precise, some means by which man might control and manipulate the forces of cohesion. He himself did not succeed; but on his death passed his work and knowledge on to his son Azev.

"Now, Azev added to his father's knowledge, a poetic foresight. He saw that, with this power, simply by increasing the space between the particles, a solid would become a mist and that one could pass through fire, stone, or water without danger and with the same ease with which one swarm of gnats passes through another.

"He worked hard, and he succeeded; but when success came he found that he was an old man, and that life had passed without his enjoying any of its pleasures. The thought terrified him; he hated to die without at least one great splurge of pleasure. But to enjoy pleasure he must have youth, and that had passed long, long before. Then the devil spoke:

"If you have no youth, you can get it. Steal it. Of what use is all this learning and knowledge if you are going to die?"

"The idea appealed, and Azev looked around him. He selected a young man about twenty years of age, beautiful, strong and athletic, and invited him to supper. At a favorable moment he passed him the draft, and while his body was in the misty state entered and took possession. After taking the antidote their bodies became one.

"There were two minds; but Azev's was so much the stronger that the other soon became a negligible thing, a mere occasional whim. Thus was Faust antedated by about nine thousand eight hundred years. Azev found himself a young man again, thirty years of age, strong and healthy.

"A career of dissipation followed. In a few years the body was soft and flabby, so he stole another, and so on. When he was in danger of death he merely took on another form. It worked like a charm.

Sometimes he went in for dissipation, sometimes for learning, sometimes for wealth. He became probably the richest and most learned man on earth.

"He hobnobbed with kings and emperors, Alexander the Great sent for him on his death bed; and had he arrived in time the great Macedonian would never have died at thirty-three. Caesar was his friend: Virgil his confidant. He witnessed the birth of Christianity. He chummed with Nero, and by the lurid light of burning Christians saw the religion of Europe spring into its youth.

"Down through the ages he went, always enjoying himself, and always in someone else's body: He was the Merlin of King Arthur. He was the body servant of Barbarossa, and he alone of all the earth knew the sleeping-place of him of the long red beard.

"He stood a fair chance of living forever. There were but two chances against him, fatal accidents and the absorption of a will stronger than his own. So long as his will was the strongest he ruled the body. Allen Doreen was nearly his equal; I was slightly his superior. It took me five years of terrific struggle to gain any advantage at all. Then I warned you.

"Another struggle and I associated with you, placed opportunities in your way, tempted you deliberately with the bottles, and you fell.

"Here I am. I am Robinson again; but I am much more.

"All of Azev Avec's wealth is mine, likewise his learning and wisdom. Now get us some clothes."

_________

8: The Failure

Harold Ward

1879-1950

The Black Mask, Aug 1922

AMOS DUNCAN paused for a second beside the time clock in the hallway just outside the offices of Carney & Kirk. Then, his heart beating like a trip hammer, he mustered up courage enough to push open the swinging doors and peep into the gloomy interior.

He was frightened— scared to the point of hysteria. Yet for thirty years he had stopped in that selfsame place in the hallway morning and noon on his way to work. For thirty years, fifty-two weeks in the year, six days a week and twice each day had he sought his number on the time clock and pushed the button which registered his comings and his departures. Instinctively— for figures were one of his hobbies— he made the calculation in his head : Eighteen thousand, seven hundred and twenty times had he pushed his way through those doors.

And never before— except possibly the first time when he had applied for a place with the firm— had he been as frightened as he was now.

For this was the first time he had ever come to rob!

Getting a grip on himself, he entered the big office on tiptoe— an office covering nearly one-fourth of a city block— yet he knew that old Bill Judkins, the watchman, would be making his rounds out in the factory at that particular hour. It was a part of his daily work to check up the dial on the night watchman's clock ; he knew that the old man traveled as true to schedule as a mail train.

He halted just inside the doors and listened, his eyes taking in every one of the familiar details. From where he stood he could discern the dark shapes of row after row of desks, each identical in size and finish with its mates. Around two sides of the big room were innumerable cubby holes of offices divided from each other by ground glass partitions extending two-thirds of the way to the ceiling. During working hours they housed the elite of the office world— the men and women who had pushed their heads above those of their fellows.

His own desk was second from the front in the second row from the right just inside the cashier's cage— a huge affair of wire netting and glass. It gave him renewed courage for the task ahead as he gazed upon its outlines staring at him out of the darkness. For twenty-seven years— since the day of his promotion from the office boy ranks— he had occupied that desk, or one like it, in Carney & Kirk's office, giving to Carney & Kirk the best of his manhood for starvation wages and two weeks' vacation yearly on pay. Others had gone over his head— scores of them— men no better fitted than he— young cubs with "pull" or a college education. He had long since given up hopes of promotion. He had reached the point where he was a mere cog in the machine— a fizzle and a failure.

In ninety-nine cases out of every hundred when a man goes wrong a woman is responsible. In Amos Duncan's case the woman was— Mrs, Amos Duncan!

A downtrodden cog in an office machine— a man with little force of character in the beginning— henpecked at home and abroad, Duncan held to the firm opinion that his wife had conferred a favor upon him by marrying him. The fact that he had rescued her from a life of drudgery in the shipping room of the factory changed his opinion not one iota. Nor did Mrs. Duncan fail to keep his memory refreshed whenever opportunity offered itself.

Amos Duncan longed to appear as a hero in the eyes of his wife. It had taken him two years to screw up his courage to the point of robbing Carney, & Kirk. Yet he had planned the affair so often that he knew he would be absolutely above suspicion. And with the money once in his hands, he could hide it until all memory of the affair had blown over and then, with a carefully concocted story of a lucky speculation on 'Change, resign and migrate to some distant city to spend his declining years in ease with the lady who had assumed his name.

Carney & Kirk always paid off in cash. Duncan knew that there was close to fifty thousand dollars in the vault ready to go into the pay envelopes in the morning. As assistant cashier and one of the old timers with the firm he had been entrusted with the combination. He had read that skilled burglars are able to open vaults by listening to the whirl of the mechanism. A rag saturated with alcohol would do away with tell-tale finger prints. The police would think the robbery the work of a professional.

Still walking on his toes, he worked his way through the maze of desks to the big vault in the rear of the office behind the cashier's cage. Taking a tiny flashlight from his pocket, he pressed the button and allowed the stream of light to play over the dial, while he manipulated the affair with fingers that trembled as from the ague. It refused to work. ... In his nervousness he had gone past the number. He took a deep breath and with the sweat standing out in great beads upon his face, attacked the job again...

Someone was entering the office through one of the rear doors leading from the factory!

He stopped for a second. Then, as he heard the footsteps coming toward him in. the darkness, he leaped outside the cage and drew his revolver. He had never fired a gun in his life. He had bought this one— a cheap, second-hand affair— merely as a matter of precaution and because he knew that burglars always carried such weapons.

From out of the darkness came a flash ! A report ! A bullet sped past his head and flattened itself against the vault door! It must be that Judkins, the faithful, had heard something suspicious and had entered. He longed to call out to the watchman his name... The realization of his mission in the office at that time of the night stopped him. Involuntarily, he gave a little squeak of fear. A second bullet passed unpleasantly near.

Instinctively— just as a cornered rat will fight— so his finger pressed the trigger of his own gun. He fired aimlessly in the general direction of the other, dodging from desk to desk, knocking over chairs... He was in a panic of fear.

The other's fire ceased suddenly. From out of the darkness across the great room came a dull, throaty cry. Something metallic jangled against the tiled floor. An instant later it was followed by a heavier body— a body that crashed against a desk as it dropped,

Duncan leaped through the folding doors and out into the hallway again. To unlock the outer door and dash out onto the sidewalk was but the work of an instant... Around the corner he heard the shrill whistle of the policeman on the beat as, attracted by the shots, he came lumbering along signalling for his mate...

He dodged into the shadow and turned into the alley. Behind him he could hear the policeman hammering on the office door with his night stick. From two blocks down street came the sound of another whistle. In the distance a third shrilled, proving that reinforcements were on the way.

Mrs. Duncan was sleeping soundly when he arrived home after a roundabout trip through alleys and side streets. Letting himself into the house with his pass key, he hastily sought the security of his own room.

So far as he knew no one had seen him either going to the factory nor leaving it. But, God ! What a fizzle he had made of the affair. And there was blood on his hands— the blood of poor old Judkins. What had he gained? Nothing— absolutely nothing.

He paced the floor, every nerve tingling. He wondered... Poor old Judkins... And he had a crippled wife, too... With Judkins gone she would have to go to the poorhouse... It was something that he had not foreseen.

He was still pacing the floor when the sun came up in the east. In the other room he heard Mrs. Duncan getting up. In less than two hours he would have to go to the office. Of course no one would suspect him, but—

He could hear Mrs. Duncan rattling the pots and pans in the kitchen when the door bell rang. He opened the bedroom door a crack and peeped through as she answered the summons. A gruff voice was asking for him. He heard her admit the visitors— there seemed to be two of them— then she called shrilly up the stairway for him.

He knew that they were detectives from their heavy tread. They were after him for killing Judkins. His brain was in a whirl. Yet he wondered how it happened that they associated him with the crime. He had been so careful, too. Probably he had dropped something in his mad rush to the outer door.

He could never face the music... And Mrs. Duncan ! What would she say? He couldn't tell her that he had gone to the office to rob the vault for her sake and had made a failure... The gun lay in the bureau drawer where he had tossed it. He picked it up and broke it open. The chambers were all empty. He had used every cartridge in killing poor old Judkins...

From downstairs came a buzz of conversation. Mrs. Duncan shrieked... He heard his own name mentioned... God! They had told her what he had done!... He must move rapidly.

His glance fell upon a bottle of carbolic acid... Mrs. Duncan was at the bottom of the stairway now, shrieking his name... He placed the bottle to his mouth and emptied it at a gulp!... With the fiery liquid eating into his vitals— his throat afire— he reeled across the room and tumbled in a heap upon the bed...

Outside, Mrs. Duncan was pounding at his door.

"Amos! Wake up!" she was shouting between sobs— for Mrs. Duncan was a hysterical woman— "an awful thing's happened. There are two detectives here. Old man Judkins went home sick from the factory last night and while he was gone somebody broke into the office! The robbers had a fight 'cause one of them was found dead when the police broke in after hearing the shots!

"Enright, the cashier, is out of town and they want you to come down and open the vault and see if anything is gone. Oh, isn't it awful?

"Amos, why don't you answer?"

___________

9: Planned by the Stars

C. S. Montanye

1892-1948

The Black Mask, Sep 1920

THE SANCTUM of Madame Sovio was drab and tawdry. The room was small and done in faded blue draperies upon which were tinsel stars and moons. The one window that overlooked Sixth Avenue bore the name of the astrologer in porcelain letters and the information that her hours of business were from two o'clock to five daily. A broad table that stood in the center of the room held a plaster skull and a quantity of astrological charts. Other charts were nailed up on either side of a door which led into an ante-room. The low ceiling had once been painted to give the impression of drifting clouds. Twin gas jets, blackening it, had long past destroyed the effect. The faint though pungent odor of gin hung on the stirless air.

The owner of the astrology parlor sat at the center table. Madame Sovio wore a flowing Egyptian kimono patterned extravagantly with the mystic signs of the zodiac. She was old, gaunt and unprepossessing. Her untidy hair was wreathed with a greasy veil; her shrewd eyes focused on the financial page of a morning newspaper. From time to time she stimulated herself with small quantities, of fluid poured from a square bottle convenient to her elbow.

Madame Sovio finished a perusal of the page she read and was turning languidly to the front sheet of the paper when she looked up. The door of the outer room had opened and closed. With the practice born of long experience she placed both bottle and newspaper in a lower drawer of the table, thrust a few cloves into her toothless mouth, and stood up.

The "waiting room" of the establishment was even smaller than the inner room. It contained nothing save a number of rickety chairs and a redfaced youth who was pinching out a cigarette ere consigning the stub to a coat pocket. The caller was tall, bulky and unattractive. He wore a rusty brown suit and stained yellow brogans with bumpy toes. A celluloid collar held a stringy purple cravat; from under the sagging peak of a shoddy cap a low, protruding forehead, dark, crafty eyes and a loose, rapacious mouth were visible. It was evident to Madame Sovio that the youth was flotsam cast up by the turgid rivers of subterranea.

He met her gaze and shuffled forward.

"You the one that slides out the dope on what's gonna happen?"

The woman inclined her head. "Yes. Come in."

The visitor stepped into the room hung with the faded blue draperies. Madame Sovio closed the door after him. She indicated he should take the chair opposite her across the table.

"Do you wish a horoscope or a reading?" she inquired as he sat down.

He stared.

"A spinner on the docks give me the gab that you had steered him straight on the bang-tails. I'm due to gay-cat tonight on something important. I want a frame telling me how my luck is gonna break."

Madame Sovio twined her claw fingers together. She understood the youth to mean that some client who had sought her advice as to making bets on the races had recommended him to her.

"The stars," she began, following a usual procedure, "plan and compel! Their influence falls directly on each mortal. What is planned cannot be changed. A man's planetary destiny is as inflexible as Fate. It is Fate. I charge one dollar for a reading."

The red-faced youth produced a crumpled dollar and pushed it across the table.

"Give me the dope on how I'm gonna make out. Am I gonna be lucky or not? Get the hop working and give me a buzz. Should I or shouldn't I?"

The seamy lips of the astrologer came together.

"What is your name?" she asked in a business-like voice. "What is the date of your birth? Upon what hour of that day or night were you born? I must know these things before I read the messages of the heavenly bodies."

The youth continued to stare at her for a long minute. He muttered the name of Joe Carney, informed her of the date of his natal day and, without hesitation, said he had been born at the precise hour of midnight.

Madame Sovio became engrossed in a deep study of her charts.

While she bent her gray-crowned head over the table Joe Carney settled back in his chair. He glanced about idly and wrinkled his nose at the familiar odor of gin that could not be disguised by the perfume of the cloves. He sat patiently until a slight exclamation moved his eyes to the woman across the table. He was surprised to see she was staring at a chart with every indication of horror.

"Not one hour of the twenty-four is propitious! The day is ill-omened! All the plantary influences are dark and evil. Mars, Saturn, Uranus and Mercury are adverse. Jupiter is in a hostile position and is ringed with red. This is the star that guides your footsteps through this constellation. Its scarlet rim foretells but one thing."

Joe Carney met her gaze. "What's that?"

Madame Sovio moved her hand slightly.

"Murder!" she said quietly. "At midnight you came upon this earth and at midnight the stars plan you shall be removed from it. Uranus intrudes and blurs the horoscope. I can read no further. That is all."

Joe Carney laughed harshly.

"The hell it is! I pay a dollar for that song and dance? Give me the money back. You're a robber!"

Madame Sovio pushed the dirty bill he had laid on the table across to him.

"Take it ! It will bring you no good. You are in the shadow."

The red-faced youth pocketed his money, shrugged with contempt and slouched out, banging the door after him. For an interval the woman sat motionless, fingers picking at the thumbmarked chart before her.

"The red ring," she said half-aloud. "Blood on the stars— murder on earth—"

Emerging onto Sixth Avenue, from the narrow entrance of the building housing the two rooms of the starreader, Joe Carney laughed under his breath.

"A hell of a spiel!" he said to himself. "I should get glomed for a bone to get that bunk dished out. The old dame is nuts."

He crossed to the west side of Sixth Avenue and walked north. A firm believer in the Black Arts, he wished he had not listened to the dock-walloper who had told him of the astrologer. He could have interviewed a palmist or crystal-gazer and not wasted his time. He knew nothing, and now it was too late to seek another seer. Within twenty minutes he had an appointment with Stanley Ray, the leader of the Duster Band; final plans for the night's adventures were to be unfolded to him.

In sight of the shopping district Carney entered a side street. He put a number of avenues behind him, passed under the scaffolding of an overhead railroad and presently was on the threshold of the small area of the city, controlled by Stanley Ray's band of thugs and gangsters. Tenement houses stood shoulder to shoulder in flanks of brick. Down the slope of the side street an avenue where freight cars rolled was visible ; further distant was the waterfront and the Hudson River. Frowsy women leaned from countless windows ; children played in the gutters ; the summer air was dank with the stench of salt water.

Into the avenue where the freight trains ran Joe Carney stepped. He put two blocks behind him and presently came upon a water-front hotel— a building that had been old when the city was young. Joe Carney passed through the hostelry's yawning front door and moved into a small lobby. A few loafers, smoking nauseous pipes, played checkers silently or slumbered loudly, shaggy heads tilted forward on flanneled chests.

Apart from the group, brooding over his cigarette, sat a tall, heavily built young man with a dark, sinister face in which was largely written both determination and courage. This man stood up as Carney entered, nodded his head slightly and opened a white-washed door a few feet back from where he had been sitting. When Carney had followed him into a small room that was used as a refuge for drug-peddlers and their victims, he closed the door and turned the key.

Joe Carney promptly sat down.

"Well, I'm here."

Stanley Ray inclined his head slightly. "So I see." He pulled up a chair and dropped into it. "Listen carefully. I'm passing you the word that you turn the job on Tenth Avenue tonight. I've never told you where you're to go or what you've to do. All that you know is you've been picked out by me to swing a deal and keep your peep closed. The frame is set so that all you have to do is to walk in, help yourself and walk out. A half-wit could turn this without a mistake. That's how soft it is."

Joe Carney fished in his pocket for the half-consumed cigarette. He lighted it and inhaled deeply.

"I make you. Let's have it all."

Stanley Ray went to the door and listened. He returned to his chair and leaned forward. He lowered his voice.

"Limping Lou has turned straight— by request. He works for the gas company. Tuesday he went to a flat on Tenth Avenue to read the cellar meter. In the front basement of the place are two rooms rented by a woman called Mrs. Garber. Lou had finished reading the meter and was passing out when he heard a clinking noise. It came from inside Mrs. Garber's front room. Lou tried to look through the keyhole, but it was plugged. So he went out into the alley and found the side window of the same room. This window was protected by bars, but was open at the top. Lou found a barrel, stood up on it and looked through the top of it."

Joe Carney drew a breath!

"What did he see?"

Stanley Ray leaned still closer.

"He saw Mrs. Garber sitting before a trunk— counting money! Lou said she was tying up bales of the green stuff in old aprons. He watched her until she put the aprons in the trunk, filled it to the top with old clothes and then shut it up! That's what he saw!"

Joe Carney dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it out with his heel.

"What else?"

"I stuck a plant up there," Stanley Ray resumed "I found out this Mrs. Garber is out every afternoon. She makes her money playing the stock market. It's no use trying to get into the room during the day because the janitor of the building and a bunch of ginnies are laying pipe in the cellar. I sent the Turk up yesterday. He took a fall out of the bars. He filed them to the bone. A couple of pulls will yank them out. The window's always open and you can go in over the top of it."

Joe Carney lifted his head.

"What time do I go in? Will the miser be there when I get to the trunk? How much long change do I get out of this?"

The leader of the Duster Band favored Carney with a direct, cold stare.

"You get what I give you ! Have you anything to say about it?"

Before the bland stare of the gangster king Joe Carney's eyes wavered and fell.

"Nothing," he said hastily. "Put me right on it!"

Stanley Ray smiled faintly.

"I found out this Mrs. Garber gets telephone calls from Levy's Drug Store. At a quarter of twelve I'll telephone the drug store and tell them to send for Mrs. Garber. They'll shoot their kike kid over to the basement. You'll be in the alley at quarter of twelve. When she goes out you go in. I'll stall her on the wire as long as possible. It should take you just about ten minutes to grab the dough and exit. Do you get me?"

Joe Carney reflectively rubbed his beard-rusty chin.

"Yes," he said laconically.

ii

THE NIGHT was hot and unstirring. A full moon rode high in a cloudless sky. The dank smell of the river grew more pronounced. The streets were lined with coatless loungers sprawling at ease in doorway or on stoop.

Joe Carney, shuffling up Tenth Avenue, searched each store window for a clock to tell the hour by. It could not be very late. The avenue was well filled'— a number of shops were open and doing business. Again he regretted some prophet had not been employed to prognosticate the fortunes attending the enterprise, In every task he had set out to accomplish he had been warned in advance as to the condition of his luck. If he had been told it was not favorable he had postponed the event. And never once had he been apprehended.

He walked on, hands rammed in the pockets of his coat. He eyed the numbers of the buildings as he passed them, still searching for a clock, growing aware his destination must be only a few blocks distant. He saw the moon creep up over the sullen roof-tops and perceived the canopy of brightly shining stars. He thought of the astrologer of the early afternoon and the jumble of her words.

"A murder!" he chuckled, touching the automatic revolver hung under his left arm. "Swell chance!"

Two more blocks traversed, he came abreast the building in whose basement the wealthy Mrs. Garber resided. And at the same minute his eyes fell upon the face of a clock in a store of the tenement and he started.

The hands of the clock pointed to five minutes of the midnight hour!

Guiltily realizing he had been delinquent and heedless of time, Carney descended a number of steps that led down into the basement. He found himself in a cement-lined passageway. He followed it to its termination and found himself in the clothes-line hung backyard in the rear of the building. An alley ran into the backyard, presided over by a lean cat. Carney removed the animal from his path with a toe of his boot and crouched against the face of the alley's brick wall, ceasing to curse the vivid moonlight only when a barred window of translucent glass leaped out to meet him.

A tingle of anticipation ran through Joe Carney. He found the same barrel Limping Lou had made his observations from and wheeled it close to the window. He mounted it cautiously and applied an ear to the aperture in the window's top. All was quiet within. Obviously, he decided, Mrs. Garber was in the drug store or on her way to it. He was ten minutes late and would have to work rapidly.

The window bars yielded instantly to his grasp. He tore them roughly away, one by one. When the last bar had been wrenched loose, Carney pressed the top half of the window lower and poked a head into the inky blackness of the room. Low but distinctly he heard the monotonous ticking of a clock.

Satisfied that no menace crouched in the gloom, Carney threw a leg over the sash and lowered himself into the room.

Until his eyes could grow accustomed to the murk he stood motionless. A faint odor of gin assailed his nostrils. Faint stirrings tuned his nerves to a high pitch. With a sense of direction fixed firmly in mind, he crept forward. The treasure chest, Stanley Ray had told him, rested to the right, against the room's north wall. As the thought flashed through his mind, his knees came in contact with some low-set object. His outstretched hands clasped the top of something he knew immediately was the trunk, and he exhaled a breath of relief.

The cover of the trunk swung upward at his touch. He felt to make sure that the connecting arms were firmly fastened and delved into a mass of soft garments, placed layer upon layer. These he dug out and flung to the floor, burrowing, mole-like, to reach the apron-wrapped treasure. The scent of gin seemed to envelop him. He wondered why this odor should stir odd recollections— recollections he could not piece together.

He had pulled the last article of clothing from the trunk when the door of the room vibrated with a sudden staccato rapping. Ere its first echoes throbbed into silence, a nasal voice supplanted the loud knocks with an insistent statement:

"Mrs. Garber! Somebody wants you on the telephone down at Levy's!"

Joe Carney's hands closed convulsively. The clock he had looked upon had been fast or the telephone had marred Stanley Ray's message!

In either case, Mrs. Garber must be within a few feet of him!

The messenger from the drug store began his rapping again. Stiff as stone Joe Carney sought to think. Then, as the knocks ceased for the moment, he heard, from some quarter close at hand, the creak of a bed, a soft footfall— a sibilant swish that told of a garment being donned. Followed at once the rasp of an opening door. A vagrant air current, stirred to new action, touched Carney's forehead— cold against the sweat that had gathered upon it.

Breathless questions rushed through the mind of the intruder. Should he allow the woman to answer the messenger? Or should he strike before she reached the door?

Another series of footfalls wheeled him silently about. Someone was approaching— had stepped through the door. He thought he could detect a muffled shape of shadow moving closer to him. The suspense of waiting was agony. A breath caressed his hot face and a hand touched his arm. Someone gasped.

At the same moment he sprang forward.

With a low growl he felt his fingers dig deep into a soft, stringy throat. Eyes glared into his own; for all of the fact she was a woman, the figure he clutched fought desperately, Carney released his left hand to bring it down with crushing force on the jaw of the struggling figure. Before he had crashed it savagely into the upturned face the woman managed to wrench a scream from between her lips.

Cursing, Carney struck again. He gripped the throat again with the hand he had used with hammer force and shook the woman as a terrier shakes a rat. As if from a distance he heard fresh raps falling upon the door— the voice of the messenger:

"Mrs. Garber! Mrs. Garber!"

Then silence.

Carney relaxed the gripping pressure of his death-working fingers. He found he was talking but knew not what he said. He had killed a woman, but it was her own fault. Hot blood pounded within him— rage and a gloating satisfaction. He felt that at that moment he wished she possessed the nine lives of the cat he had kicked from his path. He would strangle each from her.

And then he realized the apron-wrapped loot would never be his if he stood longer, clutching the limp figure. He opened his hands. The body slumped to the floor. The moon, swinging around, entered the alley and crept into the room, lighting it up like a pale arc-lamp. Carney looked down at the huddle of his victim.

The woman had fallen on her back. Her face was upturned to him— wreathed with a horrible, fixed grin. He stared, fascinated, eyeing, too, greasy gray hair that seemed strangely familiar. For a full watch-tick he stared, rigid. The odor of gin— the gray hair— the gaunt face, painted with the ghastly moonglare. All at once knowledge flooded him.

Mrs. Garber wore the face of the Madame Sovio who had read the stars for him that afternoon in the Sixth Avenue room!

"Murder!" Carney whispered. "She had the right dope!"

Something, as he straightened up, stopped the flow of the incoming moonlight. He raised his eyes and turned them to the window. His gaze flashed and fell upon a helmeted head looking in over the lowered top of the translucent window. His right hand darted under his jacket and gripped his automatic. In some blind, dizzy fashion he managed to drag it out.

But before he could pull the trigger the yellow glare of an electric torch smote him directly between the eyes. A voice, curt and imperious, bade him throw up his hands. Carney, blinking like an owl drenched in sunshine, fell back. His weapon crept up to firing position.

Then the heavy silence was shattered by the sound of six shots, so rapidly fired that they merged as one.

The automatic fell from Carney's hand. He wondered vaguely if he had been shot— why his legs seemed to be melting away. Cursing again, his brain reeled and scintillated with sparks. He groaned and fell heavily across something softly yielding....

The clock that had ticked monotonously whirred and struck the hour of twelve.

10: The Cat

E. F. Benson

1867-1940

The Illustrated London News 27 Nov 1905

Collected in: The Room in the Tower, and other stories,  1912

Best known for the "Mapp and Lucia" series of novels, Edward Frederic Benson also wrote a number of short stories with supernatural elements.

MANY people will, doubtless, remember that exhibition at the Royal Academy, not so many seasons ago, which came to be known as Alingham’s year, when Dick Alingham vaulted, with one bound, as it were, out of the crowd of strugglers and seated himself with admirably certain poise on the very topmost pinnacle of contemporary fame. He exhibited three portraits, each a master-piece, which killed every picture within range. But since that year nobody cared anything for pictures whether in or out of range except those three, it did not signify so greatly. The phenomenon of his appearance was as sudden as that of the meteor, coming from nowhere and sliding large and luminous across the remote and star-sown sky, as inexplicable as the bursting of a spring on some dust-ridden rocky hillside. Some fairy godmother, one might conjecture, had bethought herself of her forgotten godson, and with a wave of her wand bestowed on him this transcendant gift. But, as the Irish say, she held her wand in her left hand, for her gift had another side to it. Or perhaps, again, Jim Merwick is right, and the theory he propounds in his monograph, “On certain obscure lesions of the nerve centres,” says the final word on the subject.

Dick Alingham himself, as was indeed natural, was delighted with his fairy godmother or his obscure lesion (whichever was responsible), and (the monograph spoken of above was written after Dick’s death) confessed frankly to his friend Merwick, who was still struggling through the crowd of rising young medical practitioners, that it was all quite as inexplicable to himself as it was to anyone else.

“All I know about it,” he said, “is that last autumn I went through two months of mental depression so hideous that I thought again and again that I must go off my head. For hours daily, I sat here, waiting for something to crack, which as far as I am concerned would end everything. Yes, there was a cause; you know it.”

He paused a moment and poured into his glass a fairly liberal allowance of whisky, filled it half up from a syphon, and lit a cigarette. The cause, indeed, had no need to be enlarged on, for Merwick quite well remembered how the girl Dick had been engaged to, threw him over with an abruptness that was almost superb, when a more eligible suitor made his appearance. The latter was certainly very eligible indeed with his good looks, his title, and his million of money, and Lady Madingley—ex-future Mrs Alingham—was perfectly content with what she had done. She was one of those blonde, lithe, silken girls who, happily for the peace of men’s minds, are rather rare, and who remind one of some humanised yet celestial and bestial cat.

“I needn’t speak of the cause,” Dick continued, “but, as I say, for those two months I soberly thought that the only end to it would be madness. Then one evening when I was sitting here alone—I was always sitting alone—something did snap in my head. I know I wondered, without caring at all, whether this was the madness which I had been expecting, or whether (which would be preferable) some more fatal breakage had happened. And even while I wondered, I was aware that I was not depressed or unhappy any longer.”

He paused for so long in a smiling retrospect that Merwick indicated to him that he had a listener.

“Well?” he said.

“It was well indeed. I haven’t been unhappy since. I have been riotously happy instead. Some divine doctor, I suppose, just wiped off that stain on my brain that hurt so. Heavens, how it hurt! Have a drink, by the way?”

“No, thanks,” said Merwick. “But what has all this got to do with your painting?”

“Why, everything. For I had hardly realised the fact that I was happy again, when I was aware that everything looked different. The colours of all I saw were twice as vivid as they had been, shape and outline were intensified too. The whole visible world had been dusty and blurred before, and seen in a half light. But now the lights were turned up, and there was a new heaven and a new earth. And in the same flash, I knew that I could paint things as I saw them. Which,” he concluded, “I have done.”

There was something rather sublime about this, and Merwick laughed.

“I wish something would snap in my brain, if it kindles the perceptions in that way,” said he, “but it is just possible that the snapping of things in one’s brain does not always produce just that effect.”

“That is possible. Also, as I gather, things don’t snap unless you have gone through some such hideous period as I have been through. And I tell you frankly that I wouldn’t go through that again even to ensure a snap that would make me see things like Titian.”

“What did the snapping feel like?” asked Merwick.

Dick considered a moment.

“Do you know when a parcel comes, tied up with string, and you can’t find a knife,” he said, “and therefore you burn the string through, holding it taut? Well, it was like that: quite painless, only something got weaker and weaker, and then parted, softly without effort. Not very lucid, I’m afraid, but it was just like that. It had been burning a couple of months, you see.”

He turned away and hunted among the letters and papers which littered his writing-table till he found an envelope with a coronet on it. He chuckled to himself as he took it up.

“Commend me to Lady Madingley,” he said, “for a brazen impudence in comparison with which brass is softer than putty. She wrote to me yesterday, asking me if I would finish the portrait I had begun of her last year, and let her have it at my own price.”

“Then I think you have had a lucky escape,” remarked Merwick, “I suppose you didn’t even answer her.”

“Oh, yes, I did: why not? I said the price would be two thousand pounds, and I was ready to go on at once. She has agreed, and sent me a cheque for a thousand this evening.”

Merwick stared at him in blank astonishment. “Are you mad?” he asked.

“I hope not, though one can never be sure about little points like that. Even doctors like you don’t know exactly what constitutes madness.”

Merwick got up.

“But is it possible that you don’t see what a terrible risk you run?” he asked. “To see her again, to be with her like that, having to look at her—I saw her this afternoon by the way, hardly human—may not that so easily revive again all that you felt before? It is too dangerous: much too dangerous.”

Dick shook his head.

“There is not the slightest risk,” he said, “everything within me is utterly and absolutely indifferent to her. I don’t even hate her: if I hated her there might be a possibility of my again loving her. As it is, the thought of her does not arouse in me any emotion of any kind. And really such stupendous calmness deserves to be rewarded. I respect colossal things like that.”

He finished his whisky as he spoke, and instantly poured himself out another glass.

“That’s the fourth,” said his friend.

“Is it? I never count. It shows a sordid attention to uninteresting detail. Funnily enough too, alcohol does not have the smallest effect on me now.”

“Why drink then?”

“Because if I give it up this entrancing vividness of colour and clarity of outline is a little diminished.”

“Can’t be good for you,” said the doctor.

Dick laughed.

“My dear fellow, look at me carefully,” he said, “and then if you can conscientiously declare that I show any signs of indulging in stimulants, I’ll give them up altogether.”

Certainly it would have been hard to find a point in which Dick did not present the appearance of perfect health. He had paused, and stood still a moment, his glass in one hand, the whisky-bottle in the other, black against the front of his shirt, and not a tremor of unsteadiness was there. His face of wholesome sun-burnt hue was neither puffy nor emaciated, but firm of flesh and of a wonderful clearness of skin. Clear too was his eye, with eyelids neither baggy nor puckered; he looked indeed a model of condition, hard and fit, as if he was in training for some athletic event. Lithe and active too was his figure, his movements were quick and precise, and even Merwick, with his doctor’s eye, trained to detect any symptom, however slight, in which the drinker must betray himself, was bound to confess that no such was here present. His appearance contradicted it authoritatively, so also did his manner; he met the eye of the man he was talking to without sideway glances; he showed no signs however small, of any disorder of the nerves. Yet Dick was altogether an abnormal fellow; the history he had just been recounting was abnormal, those weeks of depression, followed by the sudden snap in his brain which had apparently removed, as a wet cloth removes a stain, all the memory of his love, and of the cruel bitterness that resulted from it. Abnormal too was his sudden leap into high artistic achievement from a past of very mediocre performance. Why should there then not be a similar abnormality here?

“Yes, I confess you show no sign of taking excessive stimulant,” said Merwick, “but if I attended you professionally—ah, I’m not touting—I should make you give up all stimulant, and go to bed for a month.”

“Why in the name of goodness?” asked Dick.

“Because, theoretically, it must be the best thing you could do. You had a shock, how severe, the misery of those weeks of depression tells you. Well, common-sense says, ‘Go slow after a shock; recoup.’ Instead of which you go very fast indeed and produce. I grant it seems to suit you; you also became suddenly capable of feats which—oh, it’s sheer nonsense, man.”

“What’s sheer nonsense?”

“You are. Professionally, I detest you, because you appear to be an exception to a theory that I am sure must be right. Therefore I have got to explain you away, and at present I can’t.”

“What’s the theory?” asked Dick.

“Well, the treatment of shock first of all. And secondly, that in order to do good work, one ought to eat and drink very little and sleep a lot. How long do you sleep by the way?”

Dick considered.

“Oh, I go to bed about three usually,” he said; “I suppose I sleep for about four hours.”

“And live on whisky, and eat like a Strasburg goose, and are prepared to run a race to-morrow. Go away, or at least I will. Perhaps you’ll break down, though. That would satisfy me. But even if you don’t, it still remains quite interesting.”

Merwick found it more than quite interesting in fact, and when he got home that night he searched in his shelves for a certain dusky volume in which he turned up a chapter called “Shock.” The book was a treatise on obscure diseases and abnormal conditions of the nervous system. He had often read it before, for in his profession he was a special student of the rare and curious. And the following paragraph which had interested him much before, interested him more than ever this evening.

“The nervous system also can act in a way that must always even to the most advanced student be totally unexpected. Cases are known, and well-authenticated ones, when a paralytic person has jumped out of bed on the cry of ‘Fire.’ Cases too are known when a great shock, which produces depression so profound as to amount to lethargy, is followed by abnormal activity, and the calling into use of powers which were previously unknown to exist, or at any rate existed in a quite ordinary degree. Such a hyper-sensitised state, especially since the desire for sleep or rest is very often much diminished, demands much stimulant in the way of food and alcohol. It would appear also that the patient suffering from this rare form of the after-consequences of shock has sooner or later some sudden and complete break-down. It is impossible, however, to conjecture what form this will take. The digestion, however, may become suddenly atrophied, delirium tremens may, without warning, supervene, or he may go completely off his head....”

BUT THE WEEKS passed on, the July suns made London reel in a haze of heat, and yet Alingham remained busy, brilliant and altogether exceptional. Merwick, unknown to him, was watching him closely, and at present was completely puzzled. He held Dick to his word that if he could detect the slightest sign of over-indulgence in stimulant, he would cut it off altogether, but he could see absolutely none. Lady Madingley meantime had given him several sittings, and in this connection again Merwick was utterly mistaken in the view he had expressed to Dick as to the risks he ran. For, strangely enough, the two had become great friends. Yet Dick was quite right, all emotion with regard to her on his part was dead, it might have been a piece of still-life that he was painting, instead of a woman he had wildly worshipped.

One morning in mid-July she had been sitting to him in his studio, and contrary to custom he had been rather silent, biting the ends of his brushes, frowning at his canvas, frowning too at her. Suddenly he gave a little impatient exclamation.

“It’s so like you,” he said, “but it just isn’t you. There’s a lot of difference! I can’t help making you look as if you were listening to a hymn, one of those in four sharps, don’t you know, written by an organist, probably after eating muffins. And that’s not characteristic of you!”

She laughed.

“You must be rather ingenious to put all that in,” she said.

“I am.”

“Where do I show it all?”

Dick sighed.

“Oh, in your eyes of course,” he said. “You show everything by your eyes, you know. It is entirely characteristic of you. You are a throw-back; don’t you remember we settled that ever so long ago, to the brute creation, who likewise show everything by their eyes.”

“Oh-h. I should have thought that dogs growled at you, and cats scratched.”

“Those are practical measures, but short of that you and animals use their eyes only, whereas people use their mouths and foreheads and other things. A pleased dog, an expectant dog, a hungry dog, a jealous dog, a disappointed dog—one gathers all that from a dog’s eyes. Their mouths are comparatively immobile, and a cat’s is even more so.”

“You have often told me that I belong to the genus cat,” said Lady Madingley, with complete composure.

“By Jove, yes,” said he. “Perhaps looking at the eyes of a cat would help me to see what I miss. Many thanks for the hint.”

He put down his palette and went to a side table on which stood bottles and ice and syphons.

“No drink of any kind on this Sahara of a morning?” he asked.

“No, thanks. Now when will you give me the final sitting? You said you only wanted one more.”

Dick helped himself.

“Well, I go down to the country with this,” he said, “to put in the background I told you of. With luck it will take me three days hard painting, without luck a week or more. Oh, my mouth waters at the thought of the background. So shall we say to-morrow week?”

Lady Madingley made a note of this in a minute gold and jewelled memorandum book.

“And I am to be prepared to see cat’s eyes painted there instead of my own when I see it next?” she asked, passing by the canvas.

Dick laughed.

“Oh, you will hardly notice the difference,” he said. “How odd it is that I always have detested cats so—they make me feel actually faint, although you always reminded me of a cat.”

“You must ask your friend Mr Merwick about these metaphysical mysteries,” said she.

THE BACKGROUND to the picture was at present only indicated by a few vague splashes close to the side of the head of brilliant purple and brilliant green, and the artist’s mouth might well water at the thought of the few days painting that lay before him. For behind the figure in the long panel-shaped canvas was to be painted a green trellis, over which, almost hiding the woodwork, there was to sprawl a great purple clematis in full flaunting glory of varnished leaf and starry flower. At the top would be just a strip of pale summer sky, at her feet just a strip of grey-green grass, but all the rest of the background, greatly daring, would be this diaper of green and purple. For the purpose of putting this in, he was going down to a small cottage of his near Godalming, where he had built in the garden a sort of outdoor studio, an erection betwixt a room and a mere shelter, with the side to the north entirely open, and flanked by this green trellis which was now one immense constellation of purple stars. Framed in this, he well knew how the strange pale beauty of his sitter would glow on the canvas, how she would start out of the background, she and her huge grey hat, and shining grey dress, and yellow hair and ivory white skin and pale eyes, now blue, now grey, now green. This was indeed a thing to look forward to, for there is probably no such unadulterated rapture known to men as creation, and it was small wonder that Dick’s mood, as he travelled down to Godalming, was buoyant and effervescent. For he was going, so to speak, to realise his creation: every purple star of clematis, every green leaf and piece of trellis-work that he put in, would cause what he had painted to live and shine, just as it is the layers of dusk that fall over the sky at evening which make the stars to sparkle there, jewel-like. His scheme was assured, he had hung his constellation—the figure of Lady Madingley—in the sky: and now he had to surround it with the green and purple night, so that it might shine.

His garden was but a circumscribed plot, but walls of old brick circumscribed it, and he had dealt with the space at his command with a certain originality. At no time had his grass plot (you could scarcely call it “lawn”) been spacious; now the outdoor studio, twenty-five feet by thirty, took up the greater part of it. He had a solid wooden wall on one side and two trellis walls to the south and east, which creepers were beginning to clothe and which were faced internally by hangings of Syrian and Oriental work. Here in the summer he passed the greater part of the day, painting or idling, and living an outdoor existence. The floor, which had once been grass, which had withered completely under the roof, was covered with Persian rugs; a writing-table, and a dining-table were there, a bookcase full of familiar friends and a half-dozen of basket chairs. One corner, too, was frankly given up to the affairs of the garden, and a mowing machine, a hose for watering, shears, and spade stood there. For like many excitable persons, Dick found that in gardening, that incessant process of plannings and designings to suit the likings of plants, and make them gorgeous in colour and high of growth, there was a wonderful calm haven of refuge for the brain that had been tossing on emotional seas. Plants, too, were receptive, so responsive to kindness; thought given to them was never thought wasted, and to come back now after a month’s absence in London was to be assured of fresh surprise and pleasure in each foot of garden-bed. And here, with how regal a generosity was the purple clematis to repay him for the care lavished on it. Every flower would show its practical gratitude by standing model for the background of his picture.

The evening was very warm, warm not with any sultry premonition of thunder, but with the clear, clean heat of summer, and he dined alone in his shelter, with the after-flames of the sunset for his lamp. These slowly faded into a sky of velvet blue, but he lingered long over his coffee looking northwards across the garden towards the row of trees that screened him from the house beyond. These were acacias, most graceful and feminine of all green things that grow, summer-plumaged now, yet still fresh of leaf. Below them ran a little raised terrace of turf and nearer the beds of the beloved garden; clumps of sweet peas made an inimitable fragrance, and the rose-beds were pink with Baroness Rothschild and La France, and copper-coloured with Beauté inconstante, and the Richardson rose. Then, nearer at hand, was the green trellis foaming with purple.

He was sitting there, hardly looking, but unconsciously drinking in this great festival of colour, when his eye was arrested by a dark slinking form that appeared among the roses, and suddenly turned two shining luminous orbs on him. At this he started up, but his movement caused no perturbation in the animal, which continued with back arched for stroking, and poker-like tail, to advance towards him, purring. As it came closer Dick felt that shuddering faintness, which often affected him in the presence of cats, come over him, and he stamped and clapped his hands. At this it turned tail quickly: a sort of dark shadow streaked the garden-wall for a moment, and it vanished. But its appearance had spoiled for him the sweet spell of the evening, and he went indoors.

The next morning was pellucid summer: a faint north wind blew, and a sun worthy to illumine the isles of Greece flooded the sky. Dick’s dreamless and (for him) long sleep had banished from his mind that rather disquieting incident of the cat, and he set up his canvas facing the trellis-work and purple clematis with a huge sense of imminent ecstasy. Also the garden, which at present he had only seen in the magic of sunset, was gloriously rewarding, and glowed with colour, and though life—this was present to his mind for the first time for months—in the shape of Lady Madingley had not been very propitious, yet a man, he argued to himself, must be a very poor hand at living if, with a passion for plants and a passion for art, he cannot fashion a life that shall be full of content. So breakfast being finished, and his model ready and glowing with beauty, he quickly sketched in the broad lines of flowers and foliage and began to paint.

Purple and green, green and purple: was there ever such a feast for the eye? Gourmet like and greedy as well, he was utterly absorbed in it. He was right too: as soon as he put on the first brush of colour he knew he was right. It was just those divine and violent colours which would cause his figure to step out from the picture, it was just that pale strip of sky above which would focus her again, it was just that strip of grey-green grass below her feet that would prevent her, so it seemed, from actually leaving the canvas. And with swift eager sweeps of the brush which never paused and never hurried, he lost himself in his work.

He stopped at length with a sense of breathlessness, feeling too as if he had been suddenly called back from some immense distance off. He must have been working some three hours, for his man was already laying the table for lunch, yet it seemed to him that the morning had gone by in one flash. The progress he had made was extraordinary, and he looked long at his picture. Then his eye wandered from the brightness of the canvas to the brightness of the garden-beds. There, just in front of the bed of sweet-peas, not two yards from him, stood a very large grey cat, watching him.

Now the presence of a cat was a thing that usually produced in Dick a feeling of deadly faintness, yet, at this moment, as he looked at the cat and the cat at him, he was conscious of no such feeling, and put down the absence of it, in so far as he consciously thought about it, to the fact that he was in the open air, not in the atmosphere of a closed room. Yet, last night out here, the cat had made him feel faint. But he hardly gave a thought to this, for what filled his mind was that he saw in the rather friendly interested look of the beast that expression in the eye which had so baffled him in his portrait of Lady Madingley. So, slowly, and without any sudden movement that might startle the cat, he reached out his hand for the palette he had just put down, and in a corner of the canvas not yet painted over, recorded in half a dozen swift intuitive touches, what he wanted. Even in the broad sunlight where the animal stood, its eyes looked as if they were internally smouldering as well as being lit from without: it was just so that Lady Madingley looked. He would have to lay colour very thinly over white....

For five minutes or so he painted them with quiet eager strokes, drawing the colour thinly over the background of white, and then looked long at that sketch of the eye to see if he had got what he wanted. Then he looked back at the cat which had stood so charmingly for him. But there was no cat there. That, however, since he detested them, and this one had served his purpose, was no matter for regret, and he merely wondered a little at the suddenness of its disappearance. But the legacy it had left on the canvas could not vanish thus, it was his own, a possession, an achievement. Truly this was to be a portrait which would altogether out-distance all he had ever done before. A woman, real, alive, wearing her soul in her eyes, should stand there, and summer riot round her.

An extraordinary clearness of vision was his all day, and towards sunset an empty whisky-bottle. But this evening he was conscious for the first time of two feelings, one physical, one mental, altogether strange to him: the first an impression that he had drunk as much as was good for him, the second a sort of echo in his mind of those tortures he had undergone in the autumn, when he had been tossed aside by the girl, to whom he had given his soul, like a soiled glove. Neither were at all acutely felt, but both were present to him.

The evening altogether belied the brilliance of the day, and about six o’clock thick clouds had driven up over the sky, and the clear heat of summer had given place to a heat no less intense, but full of the menace of storm. A few big hot drops, too, of rain warned him further, and he pulled his easel into shelter, and gave orders that he would dine indoors. As was usual with him when he was at work, he shunned the distracting influence of any companionship, and he dined alone. Dinner finished, he went into his sitting-room prepared to enjoy his solitary evening. His servant had brought him in the tray, and till he went to bed he would be undisturbed. Outside the storm was moving nearer, the reverberation of the thunder, though not yet close, kept up a continual growl: any moment it might move up and burst above in riot of fire and sound.

Dick read a book for a while, but his thoughts wandered. The poignancy of his trouble last autumn, which he thought had passed away from him for ever, grew suddenly and strangely more acute, also his head was heavy, perhaps with the storm, but possibly with what he had drunk. So, intending to go to bed and sleep off his disquietude, he closed his book, and went across to the window to close that also. But, half-way towards it, he stopped. There on the sofa below it sat a large grey cat with yellow gleaming eyes. In its mouth it held a young thrush, still alive.

Then horror woke in him: his feeling of sick-faintness was there, and he loathed and was terrified at this dreadful feline glee in the torture of its prey, a glee so great that it preferred the postponement of its meal to a shortening of the other. More than all, the resemblance of the eyes of this cat to those of his portrait suddenly struck him as something hellish. For one moment this all held him bound, as if with paralysis, the next his physical shuddering could be withstood no longer, and he threw the glass he carried at the cat, missing it. For one second the animal paused there glaring at him with an intense and dreadful hostility, then it made one spring of it out of the open window. Dick shut it with a bang that startled himself, and then searched on the sofa and the floor for the bird which he thought the cat had dropped. Once or twice he thought he heard it feebly fluttering, but this must have been an illusion, for he could not find it.

All this was rather shaky business, so before going to bed he steadied himself, as his unspoken phrase ran, with a final drink. Outside the thunder had ceased, but the rain beat hissing on to the grass. Then another sound mingled with it, the mewing of a cat, not the long drawn screeches and cries that are usual, but the plaintive calls of the beast that wants to be admitted into its own home. The blind was down, but after a while he could not resist peeping out. There on the window-sill was seated the large grey cat. Though it was raining heavily its fur seemed dry, for it was standing stiffly away from its body. But when it saw him it spat at him, scratching angrily at the glass, and vanished.

Lady Madingley... heavens, how he had loved her! And, infernally as she had treated him, how passionately he wanted her now. Was all his trouble then to begin over again? Had that nightmare dawned anew on him? It was the cat’s fault: the eyes of the cat had done it. Yet just now all his desire was blurred by this dullness of brain that was as unaccountable as the re-awakening of his desire. For months now he had drunk far more than he had drunk to-day, yet evening had seen him clear-headed, acute, master of himself, and revelling in the liberty that had come to him, and in the cool joy of creative vision. But to-night he stumbled and groped across the room.

The neutral-coloured light of dawn awoke him, and he got up at once, feeling still very drowsy, but in answer to some silent imperative call. The storm had altogether passed away, and a jewel of a morning star hung in a pale heaven. His room looked strangely unfamiliar to him, his own sensations were unfamiliar, there was a vagueness about things, a barrier between him and the world. One desire alone possessed him, to finish the portrait. All else, so he felt, he left to chance, or whatever laws regulate the world, those laws which choose that a certain thrush shall be caught by a certain cat, and choose one scapegoat out of a thousand, and let the rest go free.

Two hours later his servant called him, and found him gone from his room. So as the morning was so fair, he went out to lay breakfast in the shelter. The portrait was there, it had been dragged back into position by the clematis, but it was covered with strange scratches, as if the claws of some enraged animal or the nails perhaps of a man had furiously attacked it. Dick Alingham was there, too, lying very still in front of the disfigured canvas. Claws, also, or nails had attacked him, his throat was horribly mangled by them. But his hands were covered with paint, the nails of his fingers too were choked with it.

____________

11: The Vampire

Sydney Horler

1888-1954

Collected in: The Screaming Skull and Other Stories, 1930

UNTIL HIS DEATH, quite recently, I used to visit at least once a week a Roman Catholic priest. The fact that I am a Protestant did nothing to shake our friendship. Father R— was one of the finest characters I have ever known; he was capable of the broadest sympathies, and was, in the te sense of that frequently-abused term, 'a man of the world.' He was good enough to and take considerable interest in my work as a novelist, I often discussed plots and situations with him.

The story I am about to relate occurred about eighteen months ago— ten months before his illness. I was then writing my novel The Curse of Doone. In this story I made the villain take advantage of a ghastly legend attached to an old manor-house in Devonshire and use it for his own ends.

Father R— listened while I outlined the surprise plot I had in mind, and then said, to my great surprise:

"Certain people may scoff because they will not allow themselves to believe that there is any credence in the vampire tradition."

"Yes, that is so," I parried; "but, all the same, Bram Stoker stirred the public imagination with his Dracula— one of the most horrible and yet fascinating books ever written— and I am hoping that my public will extend to me the customary 'author's licence.' "

My friend nodded. "Quite," he replied. "As a matter of fact," he went on to say, "I believe in vampires myself."

"You do?" I felt the hair on the back of my neck commence to irritate. It is one thing to write about a horror, but quite another to begin to see it assume definite shape.

"Yes," said Father R—, "I am forced believe in vampires for the very good but terrible reason that I have met one!"

I half-rose in my chair. There could be no questioning R—'s word, and yet—

"That, no doubt, my dear fellow," he continued, "may appear a very extraordinary statement to have made, and yet I assure you it is the truth. It happened many years ago and in another part of the country—exactly where I do not think I had better tell you."

"But this is amazing—you say you actually met a vampire face to face?"

"And talked to him. Until now I have never mentioned the matter to a living soul apart from a brother priest."

It was clearly an invitation to listen; I crammed tobacco into my pipe and leaned back in the chair on the opposite side of the crackling fire. I had heard that Truth was said to be stranger than fiction— but here I was about to have, seemed, the strange experience of listening to my own most sensational imagining being hopelessly out-done by FACT!

THE NAME of the small town does not matter (Father R— started); let it suffice it was in the West of England and was inhabited by a a good many people of superior means. There was large city seventy-five miles away and business men, when they retired, often came to— to wind up their lives. I was young and very happy there in my work until— But I am a little previous.

I was on very friendly terms with a local doctor; he often used to come-in and have a chat when he could spare the time. We used to try to thresh out many problems which later experience has convinced me are insoluble— in this world, at least.

One night, he looked at me rather curiously I thought. "What do you think of that man, Farington?" he asked.

Now, it was a curious fact that he should have made that inquiry at that exact moment, for by some subconscious means I happened to be thinking of this very person myself. The man to who called himself "Joseph Farington" was a stranger who had recently come settle in ——.

That circumstance alone would have caused comment, but when I say that he had bought the largest house on the hill overlooking the town on the south side (representing the best residential quarter) and had had it furnished apparently regardless of cost by one of the famous London houses, that one he sought to entertain a great deal but that no seemed anxious to go twice to "The Gables".

Well, there was "something funny" about Farington, it was whispered.

I knew this, of course— the smallest fragment of gossip comes to a priest's ears— and so I hesitated before replying to the doctor's question direct.

'Confess now, Father," said my companion, "you are like all the rest of us— you don't like the man! He has made me his medical attendant, but I wish to goodness he had chosen someone else. There's something funny about him."

"Something funny"— there it was again.

As the doctor's words sounded in my ears I remembered Farington as I had last seen him walking up the main street with every other eye half-turned in his direction. He was a big-framed man, the essence of masculinity. He looked so robust that the thought came instinctively: This man will never die. He had a florid complexion; he walked with the elasticity of youth and his hair was jet-black. Yet from remarks he had made the impression in was that Farington must be at least sixty years of age.

"Well, there's one thing, Sanders," I replied; "if appearances are anything to go by, Farington will not be giving you much trouble. The fellow looks as strong as an ox."

"You haven't answered my question," persisted the doctor. "Forget your cloth, Father, and tell me exactly what you think of Joseph Farington. Don't you agree that he is a man to give you the shudders?"

"You— a doctor— talking about getting the shudders!" I gently scoffed because I did not want to give my real opinion of Joseph Farington.

"I can't help it—I have an instinctive horror of the fellow. This afternoon I was called up to 'The Gables.' Farington, like ever so many of his ox-like kind, is really a bit of a hypochondriac. He thought there was something wrong with his heart, he said."

"And was there?"

"The man ought to live to a hundred! fellow, But, I tell you, Father, I hated having to be near the there's something uncanny about him. I felt frightened—yes, frightened— all the time I was in the house. I had to talk to someone about it and as you are the safest person in I dropped in.... You haven't said anything yourself, I notice."

"I prefer to wait," I replied. It seemed the safest answer.

TWO MONTHS after that conversation with Sanders, not only —— but the whole of the country was startled and horrified by a terrible crime. A girl of eighteen, the belle the district, was found dead in a field. Her face, in life so beautiful, was revolting in death because of the expression of dreadful horror it held. The poor girl had been murdered— but in a manner which sent shudders of fear racing up and down people's spines.... There was a great hole in the throat, as though a beast of the jungle had attacked....

It is not difficult to say how suspicion for this fiendish crime first started to fasten itself on Joseph Farington, preposterous as the statement may seem. Although he had gone out of his way to become sociable, the man had made no real friends. Sanders, although a clever doctor, was not the most tactful of men and there is no doubt that his refusal to visit Farington professionally— he had hinted as much on the night of his visit to me, you will remember— got noised about.

In any case, public opinion was strongly roused; without a shred of direct evidence to go upon, people began to talk of Farington as being the actual murderer. There was some talk among the wild young spirits of setting fire to "The Gables" one night, and burning Farington in his bed. It was whilst this feeling was at its height that, very unwillingly, as you may imagine, I was brought into the affair. I received a note from Farington asking me to dine with him one night.

"I have something on my mind which I wish to talk over with you; so please do not fail me."

These were the concluding words of the letter. Such an appeal could not be ignored by a man of religion and so I replied accepting. Farington was a good host; the food was excellent; on the surface there was nothing wrong. But— and here is the curious part— from the moment I faced the man I knew there was something wrong. I had the same uneasiness as Sanders, the doctor: I felt afraid. The man had an aura of evil; he was possessed of some devilish force or quality which chilled me to the marrow.

I did my best to hide my discomfiture, but when, after dinner, Farington began to speak about the murder of that poor, innocent girl, this feeling increased. And at once the terrible truth leaped into my mind: I knew it was Farington who had done this crime: the man was a monster ! a upon all my strength, I challenged him 'You wished to see me to-night for the role of easing your soul of a terrible burden," said; "you cannot deny that it was you who killed that unfortunate girl."

"Yes," he replied slowly, "that is the truth. I killed the girl. The demon which possesses me forced me to do it. But you, as a priest, must hold this confession sacred— you must preserve it as a secret. Give me a few more hours; then I will decide myself what to do."

I left shortly afterwards. The man would not say anything more.

"Give me a few hours," he repeated.

THAT NIGHT I had a horrible dream.  I felt I was suffocating. Scarcely able to breathe, I rushed to the window, pulled it open— and then fell senseless to the floor. The next thing I remember was Dr. Sanders— who had been summoned by my faithful housekeeper— bending over me.

"What happened?" he asked. "You had a look on your face as though you had been staring into hell."

"So I had," I replied.

"Had it anything to do with Farington?" he asked bluntly.

"Sanders," and I clutched him by the arm in the intensity of my feeling, "does such a monstrosity as a vampire exist nowadays? Tell me, I implore you!' The good fellow forced me to take another brandy before he would reply. Then he put a question himself.

"Why do you ask that?" he said. "It sounds incredible—and I hope I really dreamed it—but I fainted to-night because saw— or imagined I saw—the man Farington flying past the window that I had just opened."

"I am not surprised," he nodded. Ever since I examined the mutilated body of that poor girl I came to the conclusion that she had come to her death through some terrible abnormality.

"Although we hear practically nothing about vampirism nowadays," he continued, " that is not to say that ghoulish spirits do not still take up their abode in a living man or woman, thus conferring upon them supernatural powers."

"What form was the shape you thought you saw?"

"It was like a huge bat," I replied, shuddering.

"To-morrow," said Sanders determinedly,  "I'm going to London to see Scotland Yard. They may laugh at me at first, but—"

Scotland Yard did not laugh. But criminals with supernatural powers were rather out of their line, and, besides, as they told Sanders, they had to have proof before they could convict Farington. Even my testimony— had I dared to break my priestly pledge, which, of course, I couldn't in any circumstances do— would not have been sufficient. Farington solved the terrible problem by committing suicide. He was found in bed with a bullet wound in his head. But, according to Sanders, only the body is dead— the vile spirit is roaming free, looking for another human habitation. God help its luckless victim.

__________

12: The Blue-Nosed Vampire

James Francis Dwyer

1874-1952

Blue Book Magazine, July 1935

The vampire literature is enormous and still growing exponentially. After processing the previous story, I entered "vampire" in the Internet Archive search box, and there were thousands of entries. I filtered for "text" and progressively down to 1935. There I found 4 newspaper movie reviews of a Bela Lugosi Vampire movie, one scientific article about the central American vampire bat, and one short story. This one.

THE night, heavy, thick, and strangely personal, shouldered the lonely bungalow of Jan Kromhout, the big Dutch naturalist. Far off, beyond the thirty-mile stretch of jungle, sheet-lightning played over the Sawah Mountains, suggesting the attempts of astral photographers to take flashlights of celebrities on the low-swinging planets.

There was no wind. It was the last week of October; the east monsoon had died down, and the west monsoon that ushers in the rainy season was overdue. In this transitional period—known locally as the "canting" of the monsoons—there are strange irregularities in Javanese weather.

From the bungalow there filtered out into the listening night the protesting litany of imprisoned things: The weird cry of the wou-wou, the dry cough of the lutung, the teeth-grating swish of restless lizards and snakes that were compulsory guests of the big naturalist. And with the low chorus of the captives came a pathetic undernote: A little maroon-tinted hanuman monkey had lost her baby that afternoon, and now she cried pitifully in the darkness.

Jan Kromhout sprawled in his big chair on the veranda, a bottle of schnapps and a tumbler resting in the circular openings specially cut in the arm-rests. The night, by its rather aggressive and eavesdropping quality, forced him to be unusually talkative.

"There are countries that look nice and beautiful and friendly, but they feed on men who are not born to them," he said slowly. "They are eaters of flesh. Ja! They are eaters of souls. They are cannibals that consume the flesh and the spirit. This country, Java, is one of them."

Jan Kromhout had a peculiar manner of expressing himself. He thrust an assertion into the conversational ring, so to speak; then, after waiting for a few minutes, as if hoping for contradictions, he proceeded to back up the introductory statement by an amazing narrative. If the slightest doubt was hurled at the affirmation, one never heard the story.

"There are many clean countries in this world," he began. "There is North America from the Bering Sea down to the Rio Grande. And there is Europe, and the southern part of Australia. A little bit of Africa around the Cape, perhaps. The rest is not too clean; but it is the East, and particularly the Malay, that is bad. Ja, particularly the Malay.

"You have seen those plants that botanists call Drosera, but which ordinary folk call sundew? They are flesh-eaters. They are short of hydrogen, so they catch flies and small insects. They put nice syrup on their tentacles, and when a fool fly takes a sip, he goes on the menu. It is the same with the Malay. Just the same. But often in this place the human fly does not know that he is being consumed. Very often.

"I will tell you a strange story. It is one that you cannot tell on Broadway or Fifth Avenue, because you must have the atmosphere. It would be unbelievable without the things that are around us tonight—the odors and the heaviness and the mystery. The air of your United States is too thin, too clean, too— What is that word that you say about everything American? Ja, that is it. It is too hygienic. Everything is so hygienic in your country. That is good, very good. Here the filth of the centuries is sitting on the doorstep. The place has the quality of the Drosera. It is flesh-eating.

"Belief is a matter of finding things to act as mental digestives. When you see water that is supposed to run uphill, because Krishna wanted a drink and was too lazy to go down to the stream, it helps a little in this business of believing. When you see a tiger that was turned into bronze as he was springing upon Buddha, it helps a little. And when you see native women taking offerings to the Sacred Cannon at the Penang Gateway because they think it will bring them children, you are getting ready to swallow a lot. You are cultivating the digestion of the East....

"Five years ago I was trapping at a place beyond Papandagen. It was a lonely place. Sometimes in the hush of noon I would think that all the peoples of the world had died suddenly, and that I was alone. It was frightening. The loneliness was a thing that walked with you. Ja, it did. It breathed; it whispered; it touched you with fingers that were the fingers of the dead.

"While I was trapping in that place, there came up the valley an American. He was from Richmond, Virginia, and his name was Kenyon: Jefferson Lee Kenyon. He was a rich sportsman, and he had been all over the world with his guns and his rifles. He had shot everything that walked or flew, from the white rhinoceros to the big bats of Java that we call Kalongs.

"This Kenyon was the finest-looking man I have ever seen. Six feet and a bit, with broad shoulders and the waist of a woman; and he was so hard and so tough that he did not know fatigue. Neen. He would tramp fifty miles through the jungle in a day; then, after he had his supper he would say: 'I must have a little exercise before I go to sleep. It is bad, Kromhout, for a man to go to bed without a little exercise.'

"'But you have walked fifty miles!' I would snap.

"'Oh, that is nothing,' he would laugh. 'I feel funny unless I stretch my legs.'

"Kenyon had a white servant who waited on him. And he had a Chinese cook, and he had five native servants. Three of those natives were Sundanese, and the two others Madoerese.

"Those five natives did nothing but talk about the strength of that American. They would argue about it amongst themselves. They thought it was not right, that it was queer. To them, it was the strength of a god. When they were so fatigued that they could hardly pull their legs along, that American would say: 'Let's walk a little faster. We are moving like sore-footed lemurs.'

"Those five looked for an explanation for Kenyon. Ja, and they found it. In a ruined temple, about a mile from the camp of that American, the five found a stone statue that was the statue of a hunting god. A terrible fellow, nine feet high, a big spear in his right hand, and the left hand raised and turned outward in what is called the abhaya mudra pose, which means: Fear not, all is well.

"The five thought that Kenyon was the god born again. They were certain that he was. It was a simple way of explaining his strength; it also made excuses for their laziness. How were they to keep up with a god who would not get tired if he walked a thousand miles?

"I heard of that belief. One day I went into that ruined temple to get out of the heat of the sun, and I took a look at that stone god. I was surprised. Ja, I was much surprised. No one had taken any notice of that god for hundreds of years; but now, suddenly, he was what you call popular. Mighty popular! There were little heaps of rice-powder and tapioca, and packets of cinchona, around his stone toes; and there were blossoms of the Rafflesia and the ylang-ylang hanging on his arms. I knew what they were. They were offerings of the native women to the god whom they believed had come to life in the person of that American—possibly from childless women who were in disgrace because they had no children.

"At times I thought I would tell Kenyon about that business, but I stopped myself with the words on my lips. I thought he might be worried if he knew of the offerings, and so I kept quiet. Three times I went into the temple and hid behind the stone pillars. In the gloom I saw half a dozen native women slip in, one after the other, lay their little offerings at the feet of the god, and glide away noiselessly. Some of the women I recognized ; others I had never seen before.

"It was three weeks after I had first seen the offerings that Kenyon came over to my little bungalow. He sat around for a while without speaking, but I knew that he had come to tell me something. He had the look of a man who is ashamed to confess. He looked like a little boy who has stolen some plums.

" 'Kromhout,' he began at last, 'you have been out here a long time, haven't you?'

" 'Ja,' I said. 'I have been out here so long that sometimes it is hard work to make myself believe that I am a Dutch cheese-head born in the shadow of the Oude Kerk at Amsterdam.'

"He did not speak for some minutes; then, with his face turned away from me, he said: 'I have come to ask your advice.'

" 'You can have it,' I said. 'Have some of the boys been stealing food?'

"He swung round on me and snapped out his answer. 'Some one is stealing the food, all right,' he cried; 'but the food is me!'

"I did not understand what he meant by that, so I waited. 'Listen,' he said, 'some one—who the devil it is I don't know—is feeding on me! Feeding on me! Oh, damn! It seems silly to tell you, but I've got to. You are the only white man except my fool valet, and I've got to speak about it. Some one is feeding on me while I sleep! Taking the strength out of me!'

" 'It is a touch of malaria,' I said.

" 'Rot!' he cried. 'Do you think that I don't know what malaria is like? This —this is human! Something—something of the vampire order!'

"I looked at him as he sat in the sunshine: A big man in shorts and khaki shirt, sun-helmet, and boots of porpoise hide. He was a fine man, that Kenyon.

There is a painting of one of De Ruyter's captains in the Rijksmuseum at Amsterdam. A big fearless man. Always when I looked at Kenyon, I thought of that fellow that had sailed with De Ruyter. They were much alike. They were men who spat in the eye of the world, and laughed as they did it.

" 'Tell me,' I said to him.

"He started to speak quietly to me. His temper had passed. He was facing that business as he would face a tiger. He had nerves of steel, and although he was puzzled, he was not scared. No, he was not scared.

"HIS story was very strange. For seven nights he had been wakened just after midnight with a sharp pain in the left shoulder. When he grabbed his torch, there was nothing in his tent; but he had a feeling that some one or some thing had been sucking the strength out of him while he slept. Sucking the force out of him—the vigor that puzzled those natives.

" 'It is the most terrible feeling in the world,' he said. 'The most damnable feeling. It is like a creeping death. I have to crawl back to life when I wake—crawl back like something newborn.'

" 'Do you hear anything?' I asked.

" 'It's funny,' he said. 'Each time as I'm crawling back to life, I have heard the tinkling of a little bell—faint, very faint. It is gone before I am fully awake.'

" 'Let me see your shoulder,' I said.

"Kenyon stripped back his shirt. Just beneath his left shoulder-blade were seven marks of a faint scarlet color. They were in a straight line, about one inch apart, and it was easy to tell the new ones, because they were of a more brilliant color.

"I got a magnifying-glass and examined those spots. I was interested. Ja, I was very much interested. Each one of those marks was the size of a man's thumbnail, scarlet, as I said, with the center a deeper tint. And that central spot looked like the thrust of a single tooth. A single tooth! That was funny—damned funny.

"Now, I did not believe in human vampires. I knew much about the bloodsucking bats. Desmodus rufus and Diphylla ecaudata, that we call vampire bats. Darwin has written of that fellow Diphylla ecaudata. He is bad, very bad. His teeth are built so that he can pare off a piece of skin the way you do when you shave too close, and then he sucks at the small capillary vessels that are exposed. He is clever. He has to have blood, that fellow. His gullet is so small that nothing solid can pass through it, and he has no money to buy milk or schnapps to keep him alive. So he must get blood, or starve to death. But those marks on Kenyon's back were not made by bats. Neen.

" 'You have been bitten by something,' I said, 'but I do not know what that something is.'

" 'It is human,' said Kenyon, looking me squarely in the face.

"I shrugged my shoulders. What could I say? I had no explanation to offer. There were seven marks where something had bitten him seven nights running; and if he thought they were made by a human being, why should I contradict him? Around us were leagues and leagues of country in which funny things were happening every day. Very funny things! This Malay is the mortar in which the devil mixes his drugs. Ja, I know.

"We sat there in the hush of noonday, and my mind went over all the tricks of the Malay pawangs. Those medicinemen, after tney have doped themselves with drugs, become possessed of the tiger spirit. I have seen them do things that I could not explain, but those marks on Kenyon's shoulder did not look like the work of a pawang. Not much. The thing that was biting the American wanted strength; it wanted force. It wanted the vitality that allowed that fellow to walk fifty miles without tiring.

"I thought of the stone statue in the ruined temple—of the childless native women slipping into the gloomy place with their little offerings. I thought of all that, as I looked at Kenyon, so big, so strong, so splendid. And I was a little afraid—just a little afraid.

" 'Why don't you sleep here tonight?' I said.

" 'I'd like to, if you have room,' he answered.

" 'I'll make room,' I told him. 'But don't let any of your boys know that you are sleeping here. Slip out quietly after you have had your dinner.'

"He came over to my bungalow about nine o'clock. He was just a little solemn when he arrived. He did not like those bites. They made him mad. It is not nice for something to nip you like that when you are asleep.

"I fixed him up a cot in a small room where I kept my specimens. The window was screened, and there was a bolt on the door. 'Nothing will bite you here,' I told him. 'You will sleep well.' "

JAN KROMHOUT paused in his recital, lifted himself from his chair and entered the bungalow. He spoke softly to the little hanuman monkey that had lost her baby, and when her moanings died down, he returned to the veranda.

"I must have been asleep for two hours or more," said Kromhout, again taking up the tale. "It was noises in Kenyon's room that roused me. He was moving about, and I saw the flash of his torch beneath the door. I jumped up quick and called out to him. He flung back the bolt, and I stepped inside the room.

" 'I've been found, Kromhout,' he said quietly. 'Got nipped again. Look at the window.'

"He held up the torch, and I saw the window. The wire screen had been torn away at one corner, so that there was a hole big enough for a good-sized dog to get through. The tacks had not been pulled out. The wire had been torn.

" 'Didn't you hear the tearing of the screen?' I asked.

" 'No,' said Kenyon. 'I heard nothing but the faint tinkling of a bell as I tried to wake. I found then that I had been bitten. Look at my shoulder, will you?'

"I swore softly as I looked at his shoulder. Ja, he had been bitten. There was a fresh mark exactly in line with the others. Exactly in line.

"IT was a queer business, very queer. We Dutch have a proverb that says: 'Geen ding met der haast dan vlooijen te vangen.' It means that you should not do anything in a hurry except catching fleas; but there was something bigger than a flea biting Kenyon, so he would not listen to me when I told him to move slowly. Ach, he was raging!

"He grabbed his revolver and charged out into the dark night. He was so angry that he would have fought all the devils in the Malay. Devils and tigers and vampires! Never have I seen a man as angry as that American.

"I chased him as he ran around the bungalow. I was a little scared. I could not understand that torn screen. It was in my mind as I followed that fellow through the darkness. The darkness that had a laugh in it! Do you understand? The Malay was laughing at Kenyon and myself—laughing like the flesh-eating plants when they are eating up the fool flies that are clutched by their tentacles.

"Kenyon circled the bungalow twice; then he started for his own camp. I followed him through the black night. Lawyer-vines tripped me up a dozen times, but I was close to him when we got to his tents.

"Those servants of his were asleep, but he dragged them out so that he could feel the bedding to see if it was warm. It would have been bad for one of those boys if that American had found cold blankets. He was insane with temper. He wanted to kill some one to cool himself off. He just hoped one of those natives would give him an excuse to strangle him....

"When it was daylight, I brought him back to my bungalow. I was afraid to leave him alone. His pride was hurt. I thought to tell him about the stone statue in the temple, and the little offerings that the women brought to it because they thought the god had come alive again in the person of Kenyon, but I was afraid to tell him. I think he would have gone to the temple and smashed that god into a million pieces if I had told him.

"He could not eat; he could not drink; and he would not sit five minutes in the same place. And around us was the Malay, breathing quietly as it is breathing tonight, watching the human flies that are tricked by the nice syrup it spreads for them. It is a giant Drosera, this Malay. It is the cannibal land.

"I begged Kenyon to stay with me. I was afraid that he would do something silly, if he went back to his camp. 'The thing knows that you are staying with me,' I told him, 'so you can shoot it as easily here as you could at your camp. And it is just as well to have a white witness. It is silly to kill without having a friend to swear that you did it in self-defense.'

' "Listen, Kromhout,' he cried: 'I'll never close my eyes again till I fill that thing with lead. No more sleep for me till I get it, whatever it is, man or beast.'

"I had a madman on my hands. Ja, a fine madman. The best specimen of an angry man I have ever met. For five days and five nights he did not sleep one wink. He would lie in the dark on his cot, waiting for that something that wanted some of his fine strength. In the dark, but with his eyes open and his gun in his fist.

"Twenty times in those five nights I crept to the door of his room, but he heard me. 'All right, Kromhout,' he would say. 'I'm awake. Nothing doing yet.'

"His pride and his anger kept sleep away. I wanted him to sleep during the day while I stood guard, but he wouldn't. He was pig-headed. He wanted to be the one who would catch that bloodsucker when he made another call.

"I went to that ruined temple three times. I thought I might find out something. I crouched in the gloom and watched those soft-footed women sneak in with their little offerings. They were like ghosts in the half-darkness of that place. Ja, like brown ghosts. They made no noise. They slipped up to the statue that they thought was Kenyon in his godlike state, placed their rice powder, cinchona, or flowers, at his feet—and then padded away.

"There was one woman, slim and supple and beautiful. I saw her in the temple twice. She made little prayers when she brought presents—little whispered prayers to the stone god. I thought she was complaining about something.

"THE afternoon of the sixth day of Kenyon's watch I was in the temple when that slim woman came in. I was hiding behind a big stone pillar—quite close to her when she knelt. I heard her prayers: She wanted a child, a man child. She wanted one that was strong and beautiful. She told all this to the god. In the silence of the place you could hear her faintest whisper.

"She was rising from her knees when she said something that startled me—startled me a lot. She looked at the god with her big black eyes, and she said in the softest whisper: 'But you do not sleep! O Holy One, you do not sleep!' "

AGAIN Jan Kromhout heaved himself out of his chair and entered the bungalow. The whimpering of the little hanuman monkey that had lost her baby disturbed him. In a few minutes he returned with the small mother in his arms. He stroked her and talked to her, and when he seated himself, the monkey curled up on his lap and fell asleep.

Kromhout took up his tale.

"When she left that temple, I followed her," he said, his voice lowered as if a little afraid lest the listening night might not approve of his conduct. "Followed her through the jungle! She did not know that I was on her trail. Neen. I am good at that work. She slipped through little paths that were not paths at all. Twice I lost her, but I picked her up again. I was excited, much excited. Those words about sleep had stirred me. I would not have lost ner for a million gulden. Curiosity made my throat dry.

"I must have followed her six miles, perhaps more. We came to a clearing in the jungle, and in the middle of that clearing was a hut fenced around with split bamboos. She slipped through the fence and into the hut.

"I crept up to the bamboos and waited. There was something that was not nice about that hut, not nice at all. It was very silent in that patch in the jungle. It had the weird expectancy that dries up your mouth and makes your throat like a lime-kiln. It cannot be explained. It is the reaction of nature against matters that are not normal. Ja, that is it. The hut or the persons in the hut were a little over the edge. They were queer, and the jungle that watched them knew that they were queer.

"I kept my eye to a hole in that bamboo fence. The words the woman had whispered to the stone god were running round in my brain like little red beetles. Those words, 'Holy One, you do not sleep!' were startling.

"An hour went by—two hours. The silence was choking. Not a sound came from the hut. It was then about two o'clock in the afternoon. For the first time in many years I was scared—scared of nothing! I was scared because it was too quiet in that little clearing—too damned quiet.

"It was nearly three o'clock when that place woke up—suddenly. The woman came out of the hut at a trot, carrying a dishful of red coals. She placed the coals in a circle on a piece of ground that had been beaten flat—in a circle that was about six feet in diameter. She was in a great hurry. She was acting as if they had suddenly got news of great importance.

"Then I saw the man. He was her husband. He came out of the hut on all Jours; he was crippled so that he could not stand upright, and as he crawled, he pulled behind him a blue-nosed ape. An ape with a little tinkling bell on his neck!

"That ape was not in a hurry. Not much! When he saw the smoke rising from the hot coals, he hung back, and the man cursed him. Cursed him a lot. They were in a great hurry to do something. The woman kicked the ape to make him move, and I did not blink my eyes as I watched. I knew that I was going to see some business that was out of the ordinary. My skin told me that—my skin and the watching, listening jungle. Bad stuff was in the making, in that place.

"When they got the ape close to the circle of coals, they lifted him up and tossed him into the ring. He was pretty mad, was that ape. He spat some ape curses at that pair as he sat in the circle with the saliva running from his mouth. He did not like that business.

"The crippled man tossed something on the hot coals. A blue smoke went up, like the incense smoke that the pawangs use. It was so thick that I could not see the ape. The man lowered his head so that his forehead touched the ground, and he commenced to chant in a dialect that I did not know. The woman covered her eyes with a corner of her sarong.

"After about five minutes the smoke cleared away, and I looked at the circle within the coals.... Now, you must have that belief I spoke of, the belief that is necessary in the East. That circle was empty! The ape had disappeared!"

KROMHOUT paused and leaned forward, listening to the chorus of imprisoned things. A new note had come into the protests of the captives, a note that suggested fear on the part of the monkeys.

Kromhout, holding the sleeping hanuman in his arms, entered the bungalow, swung a torch over the cages, listened to the chattering for a few minutes, then returned to his chair.

"They think they smell something," he said. "Something that is prowling around. A panther, perhaps. They know so much, and they are sure that I know very little. And they may be right....

"I told you that the ape had gone. Ja. I tried to figure out how he had gone, but I could not. The loop of green-hide that had been around his neck was in the circle, but he was not there. I wet my Hps and waited. The silence hurt my head. The man had his face on the ground; the woman stood like a statue, her eyes covered.

"An hour went by; then the man made a quick clucking noise to the woman. She dashed into the hut and brought fresh coals. They were in a hurry now, the way they were before. She spread the coals in a circle, and the man sprinkled the powder on them. Up went the smoke, and the man chanted.

"I was watching close then, watching the smoke drift away. I expected something. Ja, ja. I expected that ape to come back, and I was right in thinking that he would. When the smoke cleared away, he was there in the center of the ring—lying down in the center of the ring.

"He was a mighty tired-looking ape. He was wet with sweat, and he was gasping for breath. He looked as if he had run all the way to Batavia and back during the hour that he was absent. He was all in, was that ape.

"The man and the woman lifted him out of the circle and carried him into the hut. They shut the door, and I knew that the business was over. I squatted at the fence for a while; then I felt that I should hurry back to the bungalow. Do you know why? Those words that the woman had whispered to the stone god were pricking me. Those funny words: 'But you do not sleep! O Holy One, you do not sleep!'

"Those words were whips that flogged my legs as I ran back along that jungle path. Whips that hurt me! I knew that I had been a fool. I cursed my stupid Dutch brain as I ran through the trees, the creepers clawing at my face and hands. I had heard, and I had not understood. 'O Holy One, you do not sleep!' And I knew that the natives thought Kenyon was that stone god who had come to life. The French call us Dutchmen, têtes-de-fromage. Just then I thought the French were right in giving us that name. Ja, I did.

"I came in sight of my bungalow, and I ran faster. What had that ape been doing while he was away? I was sweating with fear.

"Kenyon was sitting on the veranda of the bungalow. As I ran. I saw that he was asleep. Asleep! His chin was on his chest, and his revolver had dropped from his hand to the ground.

" 'Kenyon!'I cried. 'Kenyon! Wake up!'

"I shook him by the shoulder. That was the first doze that he had had for six days, and it was a hard business to rouse him. He came out of his sleep as a man would come back after being knocked unconscious.

"He opened his eyes and looked at me —looked at me as if he did not know me; then with a little yelp of terror, he flung his right hand around to his left shoulder-blade. His face was not nice to see at that moment, not nice to see at all.

"I knew before he spoke, before he unloosed the curses that he flung at himself for being so foolish as to go to sleep.

" 'He got me again, Kromhout!' he cried. 'The swine has bitten me again!' "

THE mother monkey whimpered in her sleep as memories of her little one came into her dreams. The big hands of the naturalist stroked her gently. The ceaseless thresh of the lizards and snakes suggested emery paper applied to a rough surface.

"That afternoon I was in charge of a madman," continued Kromhout. "I had to do something. Toward dusk I gave Kenyon a sleeping-draft. Neen, he did not know. I slipped it into a peg of whisky. It was strong enough to make him sleep twelve hours.

"When he had dropped on his cot, I pulled down his shirt so that the bites showed. I made a paste of strychnine crystals. Because strychnine is bitter, I put in some sugar—a lot of sugar. Then I put that paste on Kenyon's shoulder, in line with the other bites. That is what I did. And I said a little prayer for myself, asking the Almighty to forgive me for what I was doing. After that I went to bed....

"Ja, he was bitten. I looked at him before daylight while he was still asleep. And before the effects of that sleeping-draft had worn off, I washed his shoulder and put some iodide of potassium on the new bite. Then I waited, wondering what I would hear.

"About eight o'clock I heard the news. A native running by my bungalow called out to me: The crippled fellow in the hut who played tricks with the blue-nosed ape was dead. He had eaten something, so they thought; and he had died in great pain. The blue-nosed ape was dead too. The native thought the ape had died of grief.

"Kenyon woke up an hour later. He was mad when he found he had been bitten again, but I quieted him. 'It is the last time,' I said. 'Nothing will touch you again.'

" 'Why do you say that?' he snapped.

" 'Just because I know,' I answered.

"And I was right. He stayed around there for five months, but he was not troubled again. Not once!

"The wife of that cripple married again—married a big strong man. She had lots of babies; and when I saw her with them, I did not worry so much about that strychnine paste that I had put on Kenyon's shoulder. I thought I had done something that the Almighty approved of. I had that feeling in my heart...."

Kromhout gathered up the sleeping hanuman and rose from his chair. At the door of the bungalow he paused and looked at the thick darkness. "That is a small matter when compared to the things that have happened here," he said quietly. "The Malay is bad. Always when I think of it, I remember the Drosera that eats the little flies. We who live here are the little flies too. Now I go to bed."

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Two Reviews by Terry Walker:

13: The Colossus of Arcadia (E. Phillips Oppenheim) 1938

In: A Century of Senational Fiction, 2013

Placed in the public domain in 2013 by the author.

I have used this review, and the review that immediately follows, to highlight the dramatic difference between the works a thriller writer born in the 1860s, and another born in 1913, even though the two books were published just 2 years apart.

DURING THE twenty years between the two World Wars the name E. Phillips Oppenheim was synonymous with best-selling spy thrillers of the tuxedo-and-title variety. He was the Ian Fleming of his day.

Oppy (1866-1946) published his first book in 1887 and his last in 1943, but he didn't really hit his stride until about 1920, after which he never looked back. Yet today you are hard pressed to find a new copy of any of his one hundred and twenty or so best-selling novels; not even his masterpiece, The Great Impersonation. The descent from best seller to non-seller was swift. By the late 1950s, at about the time I deserted Richmal Crompton and Capt W E Johns in favour of Leslie Charteris, Hammond Innes and Arthur C Clarke, Oppenheim novels had all but vanished from the bookshops.

I had heard of him, though. The name conjured up images of the Orient Express, glamorous resorts sizzling with international intrigue, clattering roulette wheels, monocled aristocrats in tuxedos, and haggardly beautiful ladies with Zsa Zsa Gabor accents smoking Balkan Sobranie cigarettes in long cigarette holders.

Until 1997 I had never actually seen an Oppenheim novel in the flesh, so to speak. Then I bumped into one lurking furtively on the bottom shelf of a second-hand book shop, and the lingering Oppenheim glamour prodded me into shelling out $8 for it. It was The Colossus of Arcadia, a Hodder & Stoughton hardback published in 1938, and a first edition, no less. The title, more evocative of ancient Greece than Sobranies in long cigarette holders, gave absolutely no hint of the book's content.

Glancing at the long list of Oppenheim's other books opposite the title page, I suddenly understood at least part of the reason for his sales decline. The poor old boy didn't have a clue when it came to inventing exciting, evocative titles for his novels. What ever possessed him to offer such up eye-glazing titles as Curious Happenings to the Rooke Legatees,  or The Terrible Hobby of Sir Joseph Londe, Bart.?  Other equally prolix, not to say soporific, titles included Mr Billingham, the Marquis and Madelon  (one book, not three), and General Besserley's Second Puzzle Box.

Tuxedo and Title

DESPITE THIS CLEAR HINT of literary ineptitude, I sat back in an armchair with my feet up, a cold drink and a bowl of salted peanuts at hand, opened the book, and prepared to be entertained. I enjoyed it enormously; but not quite the way Oppenheim intended.

In his later years the author had a comfortable routine for working up his spy novels. He would choose a suitably glamorous city, select its most colourful locations, visit its plushest hotels and chat with their maitre's d  and chefs, and assemble an elegant cast of wealthy and titled characters. Then he would dream up several vivid action set-pieces to set the tale in motion, after which he more or less made the rest up as he went along. He was also one of those novelists (like Erle Stanley Gardner, Edgar Wallace, and even Henry James later in his career) who dictated their books to secretaries or into dictating machines, rather than writing them by hand or typing them.

International thrillers, of course, pre-suppose at least a modest working knowledge of international politics on the part of the author. Oppy, I soon discovered as I buried myself in The Colossus of Arcadia,  was as ignorant of international politics and diplomacy as was Agatha Christie at her daffiest. His allegedly well-informed protagonists discuss their behind-the-scenes knowledge of high-level politics at about the "Pete and Dud" level. To make matters worse, his characters were cut from the thinnest possible cardboard, his dialogue was as wooden as a Sheraton sideboard but less elegant, and as for his style— Despite over thirty years experience as a novelist, at the end of his career Oppy was even klutzier a writer than he was the day he started.

A good deal of plot exposition is carried out by that most time-worn of devices, characters laboriously telling each other what they already know, so that we can overhear them. Here, for example, two sinister bad guys discuss their quest for a McGuffin thought to be concealed on the luxury steam yacht they are in the process of burgling:

"... what has become of the papers your master took from the man he shot in Marseilles harbour? We all know that amongst them was an account of the meeting of the secret session of the Cercle Rouge and a copy of the resolutions passed by the secret committee of the sixth division of the frontier army."

And here's a second example of pure, unadulterated klutz. One of the characters, an allegedly famous 1930s international jet-setter, or rather steam-yacht-setter, purportedly as much a household name in his time as Bill Gates or Brad Pitt in ours, is formally introduced to a group of fellow members of the steam-yacht set:

"My young friend here you know by name, I expect— Rudolph Sagastrada— famous polo player, owner of the most successful racing stable at Chantilly and what counts for much these days, alas, a world renowned banker and a great industrialist."

Dammit all, if he's world renowned, then the people he's being introduced to already know all about him. This sort of stilted, unnatural speech is pretty standard in Oppy's books. As a master of dialogue, he was no George V Higgins or Elmore Leonard. He wasn't even Carter Brown.

Oppy doubtless wrote his novels with a well-thumbed Roget's Thesaurus open beside him. His characters seldom "said" anything. They declared, assured, acknowledged, begged, insisted, and exclaimed; they pointed out, observed, pleaded, remarked, admitted, reflected and whispered; they directed, scoffed, murmured, inquired, muttered, enjoined and complained; and they laughed, cried, offered and sighed. And that is a mere sample of dialogue tags culled from just ten pages chosen at random.

These writing tics give the narrative an engaging period clunkiness, a clunkiness greatly enhanced by the eccentricities and inanities of the plot and action.

Glittering Cast

OPPENHEIM opens The Colossus of Arcadia  by gathering the glittering cast of characters together in sunny Monte Carlo and its French Riviera environs, and he establishes some local colour by means of a brief opening travelogue and a blizzard of italicised French.

Reading from the O.P. to the Prompt side, the glittering cast comprised the enigmatic Stephen Ardrossen, toting a sinister steel satchel and manifestly a spy; Miss Joan Haskell, a beautiful young American lady with Washington connections and obviously destined to be the love interest; Sir Philip Townleyes, a baronet apparently in the British Foreign Office; Baron Domiloff, a bigwig in Monaco politics; Lord Henry Maitland Lancaster, "son of a genuine Duke", who appears to be an ornamental extra; Foxley Brent, who begins sentences with "Say—", regularly exclaims "Gee!" and is obviously meant to be an American; Prince Leon de Hochpierre de Martelle, an aristocratic idler accompanied by his American- born missus, Lucille (both destined to be decorative extras); and finally that incredibly good looking (and famous) polo player, banker, etc., Rudolph Sagastrada, who is currently on the run from "his country" and staying in a hotel at Beaulieu, a resort on the French Riviera a few miles from Monte Carlo.

Oppy is very coy, by the way, about Sagastrada's country, which is never named. Without exception, it is referred to by circumlocutions such as "his country", or "my country", and once by the jaw-breaking formula, "that country of which Rudolph Sagastrada is a citizen." This is something of a handicap to the narrative, since Sagastrada's country is central to the plot.

A close reading of the text in conjunction with an atlas makes it clear that "his country" is Germany; and since there is a passing mention of the then-current Spanish Civil War in the text, it is obviously Hitler's Germany. Sagastrada, we learn, is persona non grata because he financed an anti-government magazine, and he and the dissident editor, one Herr Rothman, have fled their country one jump ahead of, presumably, the Gestapo.

Baron Domiloff and a few cronies are busily concluding a peaceful Fascist takeover of Monaco, with the Grimaldi dynasty to give up power and retire to the Palace. The takeover is not yet formally concluded, and the enabling Charter, agreed between the French Government, the Societe des Bains de Mer, and the Domiloff set, seems to be the novel's principal McGuffin (although this is far from clear; the book has more McGuffins than a Hitchcock film festival). The enigmatic Ardrossen, a freelance secret agent, has been commissioned to get his mitts on a copy of this charter to further some as-yet unrevealed but clearly nefarious plot.

Following hard on Sagastrada and Rothman's heels come two sinister assassins from Sagastrada's country's secret police, assigned the task of rubbing them both out. The killers successfully knife Rothman to death in his Beaulieu hotel and then set off in pursuit of Sagastrada. Domiloff organises passage for the beseiged Sagastrada, by disguising him as a tourist and shipping him out on a tourist ship standing in the harbour.

The Plot Thickens

THERE IS a feebly twitching blowfly stuck in the margarine of this slippery scheme. Sagastrada, a crashing snob, would infinitely prefer to be propped up against a wall and shot that mingle with the bourgeoisie on a (faugh!) tourist ship. The ever-resourceful Domiloff tries to sweeten this deal by giving Miss Joan Haskell to him as a mistress to entertain him on the voyage (I kid you not). La Haskell is deeply unimpressed and declines the honour with indignation. She is not that kind of girl. So Sagastrada is not on the ship when it sails.

Impasse.

Sagastrada's country has failed to assassinate him directly, and has failed to force him home by threat of war; so now a certain Prince Anselm of Herm, reputedly the head of Sagastrada's country's Chancellor's personal bodyguard (let's hear you say that three times quickly), turns up and challenges Sagastrada to a duel. And still meanwhile Townleyes Bt. has flown off to some unspecified destination in a private plane (we really must check his travel expense claims), flown back again, jumped on his steam yacht (we've definitely got to check those expense sheets!), and sailed off over the horizon. Why? Who knows?

By this time the back cover is about 25 pages away, and nothing makes the slightest sense to anyone in the story, much less to the reader. Nor, one suspects, to the author. Oppy hastily rolls the whole ball of wax into an untidy lump with lots of loose ends hanging out.

Sagastrada fights the duel with the egregious Herm and wins, much to Herm's (terminal) surprise. He then decides to cut the Gordian knot by nobly returning to "his country" to face the music, or more probably the firing squad. It looks like curtains for Sagastrada. This leaves La Haskell, who has just discovered that she is in love with the wet dork, disconsolate. She sails back home to Boston, New York or wherever, her tiny cardboard heart breaking.

It is now revealed that the enigmatic Ardrossen was being paid by France (yes, France!) to start a war with Sagastrada's country, i.e., Hitler's Germany, as though Hitler's Germany needed anybody's help to start a war. How? By engineering an international brawl between Monaco, France, and Sagastrada's country, using that convenient fugitive Sagastrada as a casus belli. The McGuffin on Townleyes' steam yacht turned out to be the record of an agreement by a large part of the French army (all Cercle Rouge Commies, of course!) to let the troops of Sagastrada's country roll over the Maginot Line unchallenged once the war starts. Then Townleyes Bt. is reported dead, his corpse having been fished from the harbour; and then he is discovered to be alive again, for no known reason or plot purpose. At this stage I was goggle-eyed with incredulity and holding the book at arms' length to avoid being splashed by flying flapdoodle.

A Limp Denouement

A YEAR PASSES. Domiloff, the de Hochpierres and the other titled and tuxedoed extras gather to meet the Blue Train, which is bearing Joan Haskell back to Monaco. She greets them bravely.

But soft! What light from yonder window breaks?

It is Sagastrada no less, a graver, wiser man. His country, which had devoted a significant sum of money, several lives, and near-war to secure his extermination, simply prosecuted him for a misdemeanour, gave him six months in the bastille, and let him go. This has to be a very strong candidate for the "Most Footling Climax in Spy Literature" award.

Released, Sagastrada has returned to Monaco in his tuxedo and stiff shirt. He sweeps Joan Haskell, his one true love, into his arms. Violins up and over; roll end titles.

The Colossus

WHO, THEN, was the Colossus of Arcadia? Who, come to think of it, was the hero? Certainly not the snobbish and insipid Sagastrada, who was as passive as a post-hole throughout the novel, nor yet the ubiquitous Townleyes, Bt., who was inept to say the very least. And not Ardrossen, the spy who failed.

Could it have been...?

Yes, it was. Paul Domiloff, the new Fascist dictator of Monaco, was both the hero and the eponymous Colossus! Well, what do you expect from a 1930s spy novel by an upper-middle-class English author?

I have to say it. Compared with this admittedly random example of Oppy's oeuvre, Agatha Christie's occasional hilarious forays into the international spy thriller look grittily realistic, and Ian Fleming's novels are literary works on the level of War and Peace.

My disillusionment was complete when I encountered a photograph of E Phillips Oppenheim in his later years. Forget the tall slim man in tuxedo and monocle. He looked exactly like Kenneth Graham's Toad of Toad Hall in The Wind in the Willows, as immortalised by illustrator E H Shepard.

To be fair, Oppy could do rather better than Colossus, and some of his best work was earlier in his career. The Great Impersonation  (1920), set in early 1914, has a really nifty central idea. A dissolute English aristocrat in self-imposed exile in Africa has an identical double in the form of a fanatically patriotic German, who by incredible coincidence was actually at Eton with said dissolute aristocrat. The German forms the plan of bumping off the Englishman and impersonating him in England to promote pro-German thought in the English upper classes. In due course a fit, tanned, dynamic aristocrat arrives back in England, with an unobtrusive German "minder", and the story goes on from there. In the end of course, it turns out that the aristocrat really is the Englishman, who then impersonated the German impersonating himself!

For devotees of bad movies, by the way, Impersonation  was made into a movie in the 1930s. Although the movie was explicitly set in 1914, the characters all wore smart 1930s fashions and drove around in sleek 1930s cars!

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14: Wreckers Must Breathe, Hammond Innes (1940)

Terry Walker

1944-

In: A Century of Senational Fiction, 2013

Placed in the public domain in 2013 by the author.

"I WAS ONCE AGAIN conscious of the eeriness of the place. There were men everywhere but not a soul stirred. It was like a place of the dead."

IT STILL SEEMS quite incredible to me that just two years lie between E. Phillips Oppenheim's thriller The Colossus of Arcadia and Hammond Innes' thriller Wreckers Must Breathe. If you read them one after the other it feels more like half a century. Hammond Innes' novel features no titled extras, no superspies, no tuxedos, no 300-ton steam yachts, no Balkans Sobranies in long cigarette holders, and no cocktails on the terrace at Monte Carlo.

I first read Wreckers Must Breathe when I was about sixteen or seventeen. It was the first Hammond Innes (1913-1998) novel I had ever read, possibly one of the first modern adult thrillers I ever read, and I was riveted. I have been something of a Hammond Innes fan ever since, and I still have very fond memories of The Killer Mine (1947), Campbell's Kingdom (1952), The Wreck of the Mary Deare (1956),  Atlantic Fury (1962), and several others. But Wreckers Must Breathe (what a great title!) has lingered in my memory with a particularly warm glow. Recently I blew $3.50 on a rather ratty second-hand 1965 Fontana edition and enjoyed a marvellous reunion with an old friend.

The central idea— a secret German U-boat base in Cornwall— was fascinating, and the explanation of its creation was plausible and even possible, if not very likely. The picturesque, rocky coast of Cornwall is littered with abandoned tin mines. Their derelict engine houses and chimneys are a notable feature of the landscape, and I have cautiously poked around one or two of them myself. Many of these mines followed the ore lodes out under the ocean floor, and Hammond Innes imagined one of these mines having the undersea adits opened into the sea and enlarged enough to allow submarines to slip in and out on dark nights. Deep inside the rocky cliffs is a large cavern with submarine pens, repair workshops and a substantial work force.

Innes was very familiar with the west of Cornwall, and all of the villages, cliffs, bays, abandoned tin mines and other locations which appear so vividly in the book are real ones. The sole exception is the Wheal Garth, the mine in question. If, like me, you have a detailed Ordnance Survey map of the area, you can even pinpoint that. It's supposedly between the mining villages of Botallack and Levant, a few miles north of Land's End.

The cast of leading characters is quite small. There is Walter Craig, a newspaper theatre critic, taking his two-weeks' annual holiday in Cornwall during the Polish crisis in late 1939, and Big Logan, a giant, bearded, piratical-looking fisherman he meets in the pub at Cadgwith on The Lizard. These two nosy parkers are captured by German agents early in the novel, taken into a submarine, and wind up in the secret submarine base. Considerably later in the story we meet Maureen Weston, a small, feisty former Fleet-street hackette and one-time newspaper colleague of Walter Craig, who is now writing novels in her cottage at St Mawes, Cornwall. There are several small parts, such as the German submarine base commander, a rather nasty Gestapo operative, Davies the miner, Detective Inspector Fuller and several others. There is also a significant crowd of walk-on extras and cannon fodder.

Three Acts

LIKE A PLAY, the novel is divided into three acts. They are "The Disappearance of Walter Craig", "The Disappearance of Maureen Weston", and "The Wheal Garth Closes Down". It was a long time since I had last read the book, so I had forgotten the unusual second act, which consists of a collection of telegrams, letters, and newspaper articles. Just about the time you thought the epistolary novel was dead, the form pops up again.

There's a sound reason for this epistolary interlude. The book is written in the first person, with Walter Craig as the narrator. It follows that the reader can only know what Walter Craig knows, which is confined to what he learns while a prisoner in the submarine base with Logan. Innes is a conscientious writer, and he had to answer a couple of the readers' unspoken questions. How on earth did the Germans manage to build a submarine base in Cornwall without anyone noticing? And, since the cavalry eventually comes to the rescue right at the very end of the book, how did the cavalry find the location of the base, and a way in?

I doubt if Buchan, Oppenheim or "Sapper" would have bothered answering these questions, but Innes is not one to diddle his customers. Those documents in the second act cover the questions very neatly, specially two very long letters Maureen Weston wrote to her Fleet Street boss describing her investigations. Maureen, coaxed back into harness as an investigative reporter by her former editor, finds links between the disappearance of Walter Craig and Big Logan near Cadgwith and an abandoned tin mine named the Wheal Garth near Lands End. In doing so, she discovers how the old mine was reopened three years before, how a great deal of expensive development work was done underground allegedly in pursuit of a possible tin lode, and how the mining company then folded its tents and departed. And she discovers that the mining company had hidden German links. With Det. Insp. Fuller following the same investigatory trail close behind, Maureen and three miners enter the old Wheal Garth workings, and the three of them, like Water Craig and Big Logan, are captured by the Germans.

The battle of Wheal Garth

THE MEAT of the story is in the prisoners' endeavours either to escape, or to sabotage the submarine base, or better yet both. The technique Walter Craig devises to sabotage the base highly plausible, and even possible. The Germans are naturally caught by surprise. How could they have imagined that their prisoners, comprising a theatre critic, a fisherman, a lady novelist and three miners, would escape from their cells and launch a full-on attack on their naval base?

The third Act, "The Wheal Garth Closes Down", tells of that climactic, claustrophobic, action-packed battle for the base. It sees Walter Craig bring into play his extremely clever, very simple and perfectly legitimate "secret weapon" which disables the Germans long enough for the Brits to head for the only escape route: the dank, treacherous underground maze of the Wheal Garth's old workings, where they are eventually met by the Army coming down from the surface. Walter Craig's deadly weapon, by the way, gives great point to the title, Wreckers Must Breathe.

This was a good, lively and enjoyable yarn when first it appeared in 1940, and over sixty years later neither the narrative nor the characters have developed any unsightly literary crows-feet or double chins. The good guys are not square-jawed dimple-chinned super heroes, but fairly ordinary people. And remarkably for an British novel published in 1940, the Germans in the submarine base are neither evil fanatical heel-clicking Nazi schweiner, nor Hogan's Heroes style blockheads, but ordinary military types: a harried base commander, a brave and competent U-boat captain, a conscientious doctor, and numerous dockyard workers and assorted submariners. The only stereotypical German is the base's Gestapo officer, who is a sadistic thug; but that may well be no more than simple realism. You would have to have been pretty sadistic to think that joining the Gestapo was a good career move.

A departure from cliché is that Walter Craig, the narrator and notional hero, doesn't "get the girl". There are a couple of very brief suggestions during the action that Big Logan finds Maureen interesting, and that Maureen finds Logan interesting, but it is left at that. Another departure is that Walter Craig is not exactly the story's hero. At first you think he is; then Logan seems to dominate, specially in the action scenes; finally, you dimly realise that Craig and Logan are an excellent team, with Craig full of bright ideas and Big Logan having the expertise and skill to make them work. They are in fact joint heroes. And Maureen is no shrinking violet, either.

This was the action thriller of the future in prototype, far removed from the fantasy worlds of E. Phillips Oppenheim or "Sapper". Innes laid down the pattern followed to this day by a chain of British thriller writers such as Alistair Maclean, Desmond Bagley, Andrew Garve, Duncan Kyle, Dick Francis and others: tight plotting, colourful and realistic backgrounds, fast moving action and resourceful but otherwise ordinary heroes who usually tell the story in their own words.

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15: Fear

Stephen French Whitman

1880-1948

Harper's Magazine, Oct 1919

The Queenslander  15 Jan 1927

THE WOMAN and the man, the antagonists who had not met for three years, faced each other in her little living-room. A lamp illuminated their faces; for it was a January evening. The window curtains were drawn; in this cottage, high in a canyon above Hollywood, she always closed them at sunset. Life had made her timorous, even in the apparent security of a new, smiling land. And now, in the country where such things couldn't happen, her enemy had tracked her down.

They had walked up the canyon for the sake of secrecy.

"Have you anything to drink?" he asked, "My heart's not as good as it was."

This then was why his blond Lettish countenance looked wet and drawn, why his breath still came so fast.

"Some cognac?" she suggested, and went into the kitchen. With a sigh he sat down quickly in the nearest chair. She returned bearing two liqueur glasses full to the brim.

"I feel a bit faint myself," she murmured.

He took the glass she offered him, then paused. A crafty look appeared in the eyes of this man, still young, who had learned in Russia so much about treachery. He reached out for the glass in her hand. A pale smile touched her lips. Disdainful, almost haughty, she resembled an exiled princess, her hair so pallid a gold, her features so delicate, her slender body so fine.

"You suspect my hospitality? Then choose for yourself."

She turned her back. Swiftly he changed the glasses in his hands, drank from hers, held out the other. Sipping the cognac, she inquired:—

"How did you find me, Elduk?"

He had come from Russia on a secret mission. In San Francisco he had seen her face on the screen. His Helena Feodorovna a cinema actress.

"So little of one. Elduk. In fact, a failure at it."

"But not a failure with the gentleman, eh?" He touched a framed photograph on the table, the likeness of a serious looking young American.

"It is my fiancé."

"Of course, you've told him everything?" grinned the Lett, leaning forward to enjoy the effect of that taunt.

She nodded almost joyously. Baffled he demanded: "You know why I've come?"

"For the jewels, I suppose."

Helena Feodorovna went slowly into her bedroom.

As site took the jewels from their hiding place, the terrible past reappeared. She saw the revolutionists bursting into the country house, her father, the general, slaughtered, her mother fainting away. Suddenly, timid that pandemonium, Elduk had appeared, young, bullet-headed, dominant. He had looked into her eyes— had shouted a command. From that moment, for three years, she had belonged to him.

She was then only eighteen.

An old family servant had sheltered her mother on his tiny farm; Elduk had vouched for her safety as long as the daughter was docile. Now and then he let Helena write a note to her mother saying that she was safe. From mother to daughter he allowed no communication. As commissar in the military Cheka, the Lett dragged with him everywhere this youthful and beautiful aristocrat, who never dared to escape or kill herself. But sometimes in private, to redouble his sense of malicious triumph and her preciousness, he bedecked her with her mother's jewels, which he had managed to steal on that day of tragedy. These were the jewels, impregnated with a thousand hateful memories, that she spread out under the lamp.

The Lett protested: "Where the devil are all the rest?"

Her blanched lips hardly moving, she retorted: "Do you think it cost me nothing to give you the slip and get here?" She added, clenching her fists, "When I found out that my mother had already been dead two years!"

He shrugged his shoulders, stared at her young face. Gradually his eyes took on the familiar look of malice.

"Did you expect the broad-minded fiancé to-night?"

"Perhaps."

"If you care for his health, telephone him not to come." Drawing back his lapel, he revealed the butt of a pistol.

Helena Feodorovna considered the implication impassively, though she became, if possible, paler than before. She regarded with a veiled intensity of thought this foe so strangely debilitated, except in his relentlessness. But a startling smile changed her bleakness as she answered:

"That is hardly necessary. I think that in three of four minute either you or I will be dead."

His amazed glance followed hers to the two empty little glasses on the table.

"I don't know which you drank," she reminded him. "You had your choice, the odds were equal. I only know that in one of us death is working. Now, either way, I'm free from you forever. Above all, this honourable love I've found here"— she pointed towards the photograph— "will never be debased."

"Poison!" he whispered, his forehead glistening. He pressed his hand to his heart; he could hardly catch his breath.

"Ah!" she triumphed, like a young avenging angel, "Do you feel it, Elduk? Did you really change the glasses? I thought you would!"

Panting faster and faster, he saw her erect, unharmed, transfigured by icy derision; for those who have felt the lash of the Revolution know neither scruple nor pity.

Ten minutes later, when, there appeared in the doorway a tall American, with steady grey eyes, Helena Feodorovna stood awaiting her sentence. She said gently in English:

"To-night, poor dear, you must take this repulsive thing in your car to some deserted place."

The American gazed at the dead body; the jewels, the two glasses. He came to her, took her hands, asked her compassionately:

"Who was he? The one you told me of?"

She nodded.

"Did you kill him, Helena?"

She laughed hysterically: "There was no poison. Imagine: The man. who amused himself by watching so many die, died simply of fear."

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16: Otto Dotso's Trouble

Anonymous

Melbourne Punch  4 Dec 1879

OTTO DOTSO, it need hardly be remarked, was a German by birth, and, as the historian Gibbon would put it, "consequently a musician by profession."

Leaving home, and coming to Victoria to seek his fortune, he tracked the fickle goddess to her ever-receding lair by teaching the pianoforte at so much per lesson, and accompanying amateur vocalists or private dancers at so much per night. What with pupils, concerts, and parties, Otto seemed in a fair way to "aggumulade de goins,'' as he phrased it, until the recent hard times enveloped in their all-overshadowing clouds the form and fortunes of the hopeful German.

The pupils faded from his eyes, parties departed, and thin tenors and budding bassos declined to tune themselves up to amateur concert pitch. Otto Dotso found his occupation gone.

"Wenn man leben muss darf man nicht zu genau sein Woher de mittel kommen,"* ruminated Dotso, recognising the necessity of living somehow or other.

* We are not going to insult the intelligence of our readers by telling them that this sentence means—" Those who have to live cannot be too particular as to their mode of living." They knew that just as well as we did— before our friend Hans Schwartz translated it for us.—Ed.

Every morning, at daybreak, our hero rose and went down to the newspaper office to read the list of "Wanteds."

One day his eyes were gladdened with a notice that a pianist was required at an hotel at Williamstown— permanent employment. Delighted, he set out for the "fishing village," and was disgusted to find that he was expected to play for the edification of half-drunken customers (Boosey's music, he presumed) from eight until twelve in the evening, for the magnificent remuneration of ten shillings per week.

"Den shillings per veeg!" he cried, "Vy id vos imbossible to live on dot sum."

" Oh, I can find lots of girls to play at that figure," said the landlord, " and play just as loud as a German professor, too. Besides, girls are a better draw than men. I don't think you'd suit."

With empty stomach he toiled back to Melbourne, and made Barmecide's feasts that day by looking in the windows at the succulent sausages of his dear old Vaterland.

Temporarily forgetting his hunger in slumber, he woke next morning so famished that he determined to apply for the first vacancy that he discovered— be it the post of Chief Secretary, book canvasser, or editor of a daily paper; anything would do for him— all his finer gentlemanly feelings were degraded and deadened ; he would even become a school-inspector in preference to starving. He was not, however, pushed lo such an extremity, for in the morning's paper he beheld—

WANTED— An assistant-cook at once. Apply at the "Three- Courses- for- a-Tanner Restaurant.

He sought the restaurant, and as he entered its savory atmosphere, the cheering odours revived his drooping spirits and toned his appetite. Fortune favored him, he was engaged and sent to the kitchen.

"Oh, you're the new assistant-cook, are you?" said the head cook, " well, where's your cap and apron?"

These were articles of cooking furniture that Otto Dotso had not dreamt of. He reluctantly confessed that all the wardrobe he possessed was that which he displayed to the public gaze.

"Poor devil!" murmured the boss-cook, sympathisingly. "Never mind, set to work and cut up these onions at once."

Otto did as he was bid, and unbidden tears started to his eyes as he cut the onions towards him in even, regular slices. He was proceeding with his work in the calm, methodical fashion of a boy carving a cake of tobacco, while the head cook regarded him with looks of culinary horror.

"Soul of the immortal Soyer!" cried the boss. " Is that the way you cut up onions for a living? Look at me." Taking the knife from Otto, the head cook went whish-ish-ish-ish! like a well-oiled chaff-cutter, and before the astonished German could look round him a dozen onions were sliced.

"Gott in Himmel!" said Otto "you vurk by steam. You gut onions like I blay fantasias, very quig and mit shpirit! I gould never do dot!"

"No, I'm afraid not," rejoined the boss, "you had better stand at the window of the room and take the waiters' orders."

Otto Dotso felt that he was all right now. He had only to repeat in the kitchen the names of the dishes required by various customers. There was no difficulty in doing that— a child would be a success as a dining-room crier. As he took up his position, a radiant smile of confidence beamed on his face, but when he had listened for five minutes, the smile had given place to a look of troubled perplexity.

"Well, well," said the cook, "what are the orders? Quick—out with them!"

Poor Otto paused for a few minutes to collect his English, then pulling himself together with a strong effort, he rattled forth—

"Von blum pudding mit anjovy soss— Muddon brought mitout baste— Boached eggs gut fat— Shdood bodadoes underdone— Shdake mit, und shdake mitout— Rice budding mit higgled bork— Shdood hairs und higgled valnuts—Shandy-gaff, under-gut mitout gravy!"

"Fiend!" screamed the head cook, seizing the terrified waiter by the throat and flourishing a carving knife. "MonsterI Dare to breathe another German translation of plain, honest English dishes, and this floor shall be saturated with Germanic gore."

The proprietor came in to hear the cause of the disturbance. Upon learning the circumstances, he glanced at Otto's hungry face.

"Give him a good feed," he said. The feed was given and greedily accepted. "Now," said the proprietor, "it is quite evident that eating-houses are not in your line. There is at present a vacancy for Villiers and Heytesbury, and I should advise you to contest the seat. Your talent for muddling things would render you a great success in the Assembly. Go into Parliament— go to Jericho— go anywhere, but get out of here."

And Otto Dotso got.

__________

17: The Afterglow

Frank Reid

Alexander Vindex Vennard (1884-1947)

Queenslander 9 July 1931

BOB CAREY pulled aside the lawn window-drapes and stood looking out into the gathering spring twilight. Below him lay a garden where tender green things were eagerly making their way up through the fresh earth. Shrubs and trees fairly glowed with their promise of future blossoms. A new birth shone in everything.

He wondered as he looked down upon them if there would ever be a new birth for him. He felt prematurely old and inadequate— a useless tool thrown suddenly upon society with all the duties of a married man towards a wife who no longer loved him. For he had sensed keenly the indifference of the girl who, but a short time before, he had held in his arms and kissed so tenderly. There had been no response to his greeting— just a quiet submission.

Theirs had been a romance of the great war— one of those affairs so in keeping with the spirit of the times. He had met Anne in Enoggera training camp, where she and her father had been visitors. They had known each other but a short time, when orders came for his battalion to proceed overseas. Being young and very much in love, he had wasted no time in confessing his feelings to the girl— and they had been married.

"Don't worry, dear," he had confidently said at parting, "the war can't possibly last much longer now, and I will soon be back."

Anne had bravely fought back her tears. He had been so tall and splendid in his uniform of khaki, with all the dash and fearlessness of youth. In him Anne seemingly found the answer to all her girlish dreams and romancing. But the war had not ended as soon as he had anticipated, and he had known many a bitter experience before the guns had finally ceased. Twice he had been badly wounded, and there had been many times when he had despaired of ever seeing his girl-bride again.

WHEN the first Australian soldiers had gladly wended their way home he had not been among them. There had followed weary days of waiting, in which he had contracted a serious illness which brought back trouble from his recent wounds. He was taken from hospital to hospital, and operation followed operation, until finally he became a mere wreck of his former self.

But now, at last, he was back— yes, after all those months of strife and bitterness he was back. And the girl— to her he was apparently a stranger, unloved and unwanted. Time, some how, had built a strange barrier between them.

Yet how could he expect her to realise and appreciate the big change in him— for changed he was, undeniably so. One could not go through the hell he had been through and be otherwise. How could a girl of Anne's type, who had known the love and protection of a comfortable home all the time, understand? How could she?

UNDOUBTEDLY his place in the office which he had held prior to the war had long since been most adequately filled. He could expect no opening there. Neither could he expect any help or encouragement from the thousands who, on every hand, had passed him by so thoughtlessly— seemingly forgetful of the soldier now and of all he had sacrificed for them.

He had sensed their indifference even as he had that of the girl, whose very existence had been the one bright star on his otherwise dark and cheerless horizon. In each instance it had hurt— hurt terribly, cruelly. But it was life, and the soldier was no exception. Held high for a time on the pedestal of public sentiment— feted, cheered, honoured, glorified. Then— oblivion and forgetfulness as other newer interests crowd into the background the idol of the hour.

He left the room finally with the slight limp which war had left him as a lasting reminder of its fury. Anne watched him coming from where she sat. How changed he was ! In him she could recall no semblance to the boy she had married. The hair above his temples was noticeably gray. His lips had lost their humour, and his eyes no longer smiled. There were deep lines about his face which made him appear years and years older than the boy who had so blithely sailed away that golden day in 1915. Somehow she felt cheated. War had taken from her a youth, carefree and happy. It had sent her back a man, aged and blighted by the relentlessness of its fury.

Then— there was Terry— Terry, whose love she had fought for the sake of this man now standing before her. She looked into the dancing flames, and her mind's eye fashioned there a face, young and buoyant, whose eyes smiled back at her with keen affection— and her heart cried out maddeningly—"He is back, Terry. He is back.'

BOB sat down beside her, but made no attempt to touch her— not even to take her hand. It was going to be very hard to say what he wanted to, but he had made up his mind, and— well— a mind once made up must be satisfied. Then, too, he must act honorably. War might have sapped his youth and strength but it had not quenched his manhood.

"Anne," he said at last, "I have been thinking of many things; among them, just what my coming home like this must mean to you. I fully realise what a stranger I must seem to you now. I did wrong in taking advantage of your mood at the time and binding you to me before I went away. I should have waited—"

He paused as though to pick his words discreetly. Anne's heart pounded madly. She felt that he must surely hear it as she waited tensely for him to continue.

"I was unfair of me," he went on finally, "very unfair. But I loved you, Anne. That is the only excuse I have to offer. Because of that I am going to ask you to give me a chance to prove my worth. Should I fail, or, on the other hand, should you find that you can no longer care for me in that way— why— well— there is a way out. I can disappear, anything— that will give you freedom."

Anne felt stunned, amazed. She hardly knew what to say. He was at least being fair with her. Ought she to be fair with him? Ought she tell him of Terry? Somehow her tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth. The words just wouldn't come. Bob noticed her agitation.

"Anne," he said gently, "don't let a false idea of duty hinder you. Let's each take a sensible view of things. Let's think only of ourselves in this matter."

FINALLY Anne found her voice.

"Very well, Bob," she said, "it shall be as you say. I have always tried to play fairly, and now you shall have your chance. But please remember that sometimes the odds are against us, no matter how hard we try. The war has left its mark upon us all— even those of us who have been forced to remain at home and wait. We have been merely the playthings of circumstances, tossed about at life's whim."

Bob, of course, could hardly comprehend the meaning of her words. But he felt an infinite relief that, at least, he was going to have his chance. Perhaps this knowledge would spur him on to unexpected endeavour, and, perhaps—achievement.

Anne saw his face light up, and she experienced a sudden pang of pity for him. For, after all, she told herself, she had married him. He was her husband, and she must respect him.

Anne's father had never quite approved of her early and hasty marriage.

"Now, dad," she had said, "I know you would like to give your only daughter all the frills and furbelows of a big wedding. However, there isn't time— besides"— she had smiled optimistically— "the war will soon be over, and one can have a wedding almost any time."

Her father had made no reply to these remarks, for he fully realised that far greater things were at stake than the mere giving up of all the frills and furbelows of a big wedding. So he had later watched the growing friendship between his daughter and his newly made young business partner with keen apprehension. It wasn't that he didn't trust them. He just felt what a tragedy it would be should Anne learn too late that she had married the wrong man.

He threw them together as little as possible, but mere politeness demanded that he offer his business associate the hospitality of his home occasionally. If there were times when he wished deep down in his heart that this smart, clever young man might have been Anne's husband, he never by word or deed admitted it, even to himself.

So it was he who took the news to Terry the following morning.

"I expect him down here some time to-day," he said. "Pretty well used up, poor chap, and discouraged, of course. I thought, perhaps, we might help him out for Anne's sake, and give him work in the office."

"Why— yes— of course," Terry answered.

The older man looked in vain for some effect of the news on his young partner. Terry's calm outward mien wholly belied the tumult that was going on within. He hadn't held him self in check during the past months without result. But when later Anne's father left the office for a time, he flung aside his pen and gave himself up to the problem of the moment. So he was back, this husband of Anne's— this man to whom belonged the only girl he had ever loved or ever could love. It was a funny, funny world yes, and a cruel one, too! He hadn't meant to love Anne any more than Anne had meant to love him. Whenever he had forgotten and overstepped his bounds she had always held up her slim white finger with its tell-tale band, and said, "I'm married, Terry, you know."

To which he had always answered, "Forgive me, Anne, but I wish you were not."

But it had been such a useless fight— this unsought attraction of two lonely young people for each other— and then the inevitable. Wrong, perhaps, Terry told himself— yet, meant to be.

"A MAN to see Mr. Morris," the pert office boy's loud voice broke harshly in upon his dreaming.

"Show him in," Terry said, abruptly. A tall man entered with a slight limp to his, walk, and grey hair above his temples. There was weariness in his manner, and a strange resignation upon his face.

Terry eyed him closely. Intuitively he knew this to be Anne's husband.

"Mr. Morris expected me ?" Bob said as he saw a stranger at the desk.

"Yes, come in," Terry replied, and at nearer range he eyed Bob still more closely. Then he arose from his chair, and coming over to him put two strong hands on his shoulder and suddenly, without warning, wheeled him about to the strong light of the windows. Then he uttered a hoarse cry—yet a cry jubilant with feeling:

"My God— Carey— Carey of the 9th Battalion."

It was the other's turn now to scan his face.

"Why— why, old Dig." came the answering cry of recognition— and then two pairs of hands met in a long, fierce grip. Tears stood in the eyes of Bob Carey, great, big tears of gratitude. At least he was remembered— tribute was being paid the soldier in him. And for these two standing thus the office, with all its fine equipment, faded for a time into a vast expanse of barren wasteland, covered with heaps of tangled wire and strewn with war's horrible debris. The usual city din in the street below became entirely obliterated by the roar of guns, the bursting of shells, and all the terrific noises of those bygone days, whose memory time would never wholly eradicate.

TERRY was the first to speak.

"Rather tough on you, Dig.," he said, "to be just returning now that all the cheering is over. I was more fortunate than you. I was among the first to return. After you saved me from 'Fritz' that night I never saw the front line trenches again. But— but I never expected to see you again, either. I thought you went West that night."

"No, not quite," Bob said wearily, "but just look at me." He flung his arms wide with a gesture of hopelessness. "Can you wonder that there have been times since when I wished that I had got my issue that night?"

Terry never realised more than at that moment how much he owed the man standing before him.

"I'm so sorry the way things happened for you," he said. "Why— l— l— owe my life to you, and I am going to help you all I can."

"Don't think for a moment," Bob broke in sharply, "that I regret the service I was able to render you. You were a great pal, and would have done the same for me, I know."

"Why, of course," Terry assured him as he lay his hand comfortingly upon the drooping shoulders.

"But it isn't my broken body or spirit so much now," Bob continued, "or the apparent indifference of my people. I could have stood all these things if only— it's the girl— my wife. Old chap. I fear I have lost her."

Of a sudden Terry's heart smote him. The girl— Anne, of course. He had almost forgotten. But he understood— for did he not love Anne, too? He recalled quite vividly now a mud spattered photo held close in a soldier's grimy hand. The features had been hardly distinguishable to him, yet plainly visible to his friend who tenderly viewed them with love-filled eyes in the dim light of the miserable dugout.

"My wife," he had repeated over and over to himself.

IT was a very white-faced but determined Terry who entered the Morris home more than a month later. Anne hadn't set eyes on him since her husband's coming, though she had longed, yet feared, to see him. She was just coming down the staircase, becomingly clad in grey, with a scarf like a pale blue cloud floating about her. She paused at sight of him.

"Anne," he muttered miserably, as he looked up at her, "I have come to tell you I am leaving. Your father and I are dissolving partnership."

Anne grasped the stair railing— a little grey bird with wings all aflutter.

"Why—why, what has happened, Terry?"

"Come down, and I'll tell you," he said. It was an uncommon story that Terry told Anne as he sat beside her— a story of how, when a soldier had been left for dead on the battlefield, a companion had returned, and, at the risk of his own life, dragged him to safety, being severely wounded in the act.

No, it was not an uncommon story. It had quite often happened, and as often been told. But Terry painted his version in such glowing colours that Anne's eyes fairly gleamed with the telling of it.

"But— but Terry," she faltered when he had finished, "I can't see what this story could possibly have to do with your leaving dad."

"Just this, Anne," he said; "the soldier who was left on the battle field in this instance was myself. My pal was your own husband— Bob Carey."

ANNE looked at him with wide, incredulous eyes. "Terry!" was all she could say.

"Yes, Anne," he said, "your husband. I had never in any way connected him with my wartime mate. There were always countless Blacks, Whites, Careys, and the like in all battalions, and, in fact. I thought the enemy got him that night. I never expected to see him again. I am leaving, Anne, because I feel that my place should be his. In time he will make good. He has the stuff in him. You have never told him about— about us, Anne?"

"Not yet," she replied.

"Then don't ever," he said. "He loves you still. Anne, very dearly, and news of that sort would break him entirely. Just be good to him, and try to forget this mad infatuation of ours. He would have given his life once for me, so why shouldn't I give mine now for him? I'm going away to try to forget you, Anne— not that I ever really can," he ended brokenly.

Anne by this time was sobbing pathetically. Poignant memories were surging about her. Her mind became a chaos of conflicting emotions. She could scarcely grasp the meaning of this great loyalty of one Digger towards another, yet it touched her deeply with its immensity.

LONG after Terry had left her she sat staring into space, his good-bye still ringing in her ears. She lived over again the story he had told her, and for the first time saw her husband in a new light, as Terry had hoped she would. Born of sudden inspiration, he became to her the hero of a tale which, somehow, stood out glowingly from others of its kind. The years in between faded away. Once again she was the girl standing there amid that cheering, crying, laughing mob, as a big ship slowly made its way outward. Once again she fought back those tears which persisted in coming as a tall Khaki-clad figure waved back at her, and a young voice called: "Good-bye, Anne, till we meet again."

Somewhere deep down within her something was stirring, something sweet and undefinable— like a faint, warm afterglow, and though she hardly realised it herself Bob Carey was coming into his own again. How long he had stood there or just when he had come, she never knew, but she looked up suddenly to see him standing beside her — the husband for whom she had thought her love long since dead.

"I hope I didn't startle you," he said as he saw the surprised expression which came into the violet eyes, still wet with their recently-shed tears. He couldn't help noticing that she had been crying, and he wondered if possibly he might be the cause of her unhappiness. No doubt his presence was beginning to wear upon her. No doubt she wished he had not come back.

"ANNE," he said, as she did not answer, "I have come home early purposely to talk with you. I didn't want to bring up this subject again so soon, but certain things that have happened make me feel that I should. I wonder if you know that Mr. Lane, your father's business partner, was a digger-mate of mine over the other side?"

"Why haven't you, yourself, told me this before?"

Anne evaded the question by asking one herself.

"Because I didn't think you would be interested," he answered. "You always seemed so indifferent whenever I mentioned anything about the war."

Anne could not dispute his words, for she knew them to be quite true. She had been indifferent.

"But to get to the point of what I want to say," he went on, "the short time we were together I had the opportunity of doing a slight service for him, so he feels indebted to me, and thinks he must repay me. He is leaving your father so that I may have his place. Now, I don't want him to— for, don't you see, Anne, if your agreement and mine does not work out well— if you decided to send me away— l will have gained nothing, while he will have lost a position worth while. It wouldn't be right— unless—"

Anne wanted to cry out— to tell him that he must accept this opportunity made possible by Terry's going— that, for her sake, he must stay with her always. But somehow her courage failed her. The words refused to pass her lips. The walls of doubt and indifference which she had been building about herself seemed falling in upon her and crushing her with their mocking emptiness.

Bob, of course, misconstrued her whole attitude. To him, her silence meant but one thing— his own defeat.

ANNE couldn't sleep that night. She felt troubled and ill at ease. She finally arose and dressed hastily. All seemed quiet in the room beyond. Evidently her husband was soundly sleeping. Drawing a wrap about her, she crept cautiously out of her room and down the staircase. It was midnight. The hall clock was still striking the hour as she passed it and went into the library. She stepped out on to the veranda, but stopped suddenly.

What was that? Suddenly a foreign sound had broken the stillness of the quiet night— a sound as of a key being turned stealthily in a lock. Anne's first impulse was to scream, but she wisely, restrained herself. Slowly the door farther along the veranda opened, and the figure of a man stepped out. Anne's heart gave a sudden bound as the bright moon light revealed her husband, fully dressed, and carrying a suitcase in his hand.

"Bob!" she exclaimed, and calmly faced him, like some sprite of the night out of whose glory she seemed suddenly transformed.

Utterly confused, Bob dropped the suitcase on to the veranda floor.

"What on earth are you doing out here at this hour, Anne?" he asked.

"I couldn't sleep," she answered truthfully, "so I came out to— well— I just come out, that's all."

BOB noted her hesitating tone and wondered.

"Neither could I sleep, Anne," he told her. "I've been thinking— and have finally decided that it is about time I ceased being the cause of sacrifices on the part of others. So I'm going away. I couldn't bear to say good-bye to you Anne."

He finished with almost a sob. Each took a step nearer the other. Anne unconsciously flung out her hand in a silent appeal, and before either realised what was happening they were in each other's arms.

Bob Carey understood at last. Tears of happiness streamed down his face, and Anne sobbed quietly. No word was spoken, for there seemed no need for any. The night wore on. Down among the trees a night bird called plaintively. But the pair clinging to each other there in the moonlight gave no heed to time. To them it was eternal.

___________

18: All Gold Cañon

Jack London

1876-1916

The Century Magazine Nov 1905

IT WAS THE GREEN HEART of the cañon, where the walls swerved back from the rigid plan and relieved their harshness of line by making a little sheltered nook and filling it to the brim with sweetness and roundness and softness. Here all things rested. Even the narrow stream ceased its turbulent down-rush long enough to form a quiet pool. Knee-deep in the water, with drooping head and half-shut eyes, drowsed a red-coated, many-antlered buck.

On one side, beginning at the very lip of the pool, was a tiny meadow, a cool, resilient surface of green that extended to the base of the frowning wall. Beyond the pool a gentle slope of earth ran up and up to meet the opposing wall. Fine grass covered the slope— grass that was spangled with flowers, with here and there patches of color, orange and purple and golden. Below, the cañon was shut in. There was no view. The walls leaned together abruptly and the cañon ended in a chaos of rocks, moss-covered and hidden by a green screen of vines and creepers and boughs of trees. Up the cañon rose far hills and peaks, the big foothills, pine-covered and remote. And far beyond, like clouds upon the border of the sky, towered minarets of white, where the Sierra's eternal snows flashed austerely the blazes of the sun.

There was no dust in the cañon. The leaves and flowers were clean and virginal. The grass was young velvet. Over the pool three cottonwoods sent their snowy fluffs fluttering down the quiet air. On the slope the blossoms of the wine-wooded manzanita filled the air with springtime odors, while the leaves, wise with experience, were already beginning their vertical twist against the coming aridity of summer. In the open spaces on the slope, beyond the farthest shadow-reach of the manzanita, poised the mariposa lilies, like so many flights of jewelled moths suddenly arrested and on the verge of trembling into flight again. Here and there that woods harlequin, the madrone, permitting itself to be caught in the act of changing its pea-green trunk to madder-red, breathed its fragrance into the air from great clusters of waxen bells. Creamy white were these bells, shaped like lilies-of-the-valley, with the sweetness of perfume that is of the springtime.

There was not a sigh of wind. The air was drowsy with its weight of perfume. It was a sweetness that would have been cloying had the air been heavy and humid. But the air was sharp and thin. It was as starlight transmuted into atmosphere, shot through and warmed by sunshine, and flower-drenched with sweetness.

An occasional butterfly drifted in and out through the patches of light and shade. And from all about rose the low and sleepy hum of mountain bees— feasting Sybarites that jostled one another good-naturedly at the board, nor found time for rough discourtesy. So quietly did the little stream drip and ripple its way through the cañon that it spoke only in faint and occasional gurgles. The voice of the stream was as a drowsy whisper, ever interrupted by dozings and silences, ever lifted again in the awakenings.

The motion of all things was a drifting in the heart of the cañon. Sunshine and butterflies drifted in and out among the trees. The hum of the bees and the whisper of the stream were a drifting of sound. And the drifting sound and drifting color seemed to weave together in the making of a delicate and intangible fabric which was the spirit of the place. It was a spirit of peace that was not of death, but of smooth-pulsing life, of quietude that was not silence, of movement that was not action, of repose that was quick with existence without being violent with struggle and travail. The spirit of the place was the spirit of the peace of the living, somnolent with the easement and content of prosperity, and undisturbed by rumors of far wars.

The red-coated, many-antlered buck acknowledged the lordship of the spirit of the place and dozed knee-deep in the cool, shaded pool. There seemed no flies to vex him and he was languid with rest. Sometimes his ears moved when the stream awoke and whispered; but they moved lazily, with foreknowledge that it was merely the stream grown garrulous at discovery that it had slept.

But there came a time when the buck's ears lifted and tensed with swift eagerness for sound. His head was turned down the cañon. His sensitive, quivering nostrils scented the air. His eyes could not pierce the green screen through which the stream rippled away, but to his ears came the voice of a man. It was a steady, monotonous, singsong voice. Once the buck heard the harsh clash of metal upon rock. At the sound he snorted with a sudden start that jerked him through the air from water to meadow, and his feet sank into the young velvet, while he pricked his ears and again scented the air. Then he stole across the tiny meadow, pausing once and again to listen, and faded away out of the cañon like a wraith, soft-footed and without sound.

The clash of steel-shod soles against the rocks began to be heard, and the man's voice grew louder. It was raised in a sort of chant and became distinct with nearness, so that the words could be heard:

Tu'n around an' tu'n yo' face

Untoe them sweet hills of grace

(D' pow'rs of sin yo' am scornin'!).

Look about an' look aroun'

Fling yo' sin-pack on d' groun'

(Yo' will meet wid d' Lord in d' mornin'!).

A sound of scrambling accompanied the song, and the spirit of the place fled away on the heels of the red-coated buck. The green screen was burst asunder, and a man peered out at the meadow and the pool and the sloping side-hill. He was a deliberate sort of man. He took in the scene with one embracing glance, then ran his eyes over the details to verify the general impression. Then, and not until then, did he open his mouth in vivid and solemn approval:

"Smoke of life an' snakes of purgatory! Will you just look at that! Wood an' water an' grass an' a side-hill! A pocket-hunter's delight an' a cayuse's paradise! Cool green for tired eyes! Pink pills for pale people ain't in it. A secret pasture for prospectors and a resting-place for tired burros. It's just booful!"

He was a sandy-complexioned man in whose face geniality and humor seemed the salient characteristics. It was a mobile face, quick-changing to inward mood and thought. Thinking was in him a visible process. Ideas chased across his face like wind-flaws across the surface of a lake. His hair, sparse and unkempt of growth, was as indeterminate and colorless as his complexion. It would seem that all the color of his frame had gone into his eyes, for they were startlingly blue. Also, they were laughing and merry eyes, within them much of the naiveté and wonder of the child; and yet, in an unassertive way, they contained much of calm self-reliance and strength of purpose founded upon self-experience and experience of the world.

From out the screen of vines and creepers he flung ahead of him a miner's pick and shovel and gold-pan. Then he crawled out himself into the open. He was clad in faded overalls and black cotton shirt, with hobnailed brogans on his feet, and on his head a hat whose shapelessness and stains advertised the rough usage of wind and rain and sun and camp-smoke. He stood erect, seeing wide-eyed the secrecy of the scene and sensuously inhaling the warm, sweet breath of the cañon-garden through nostrils that dilated and quivered with delight. His eyes narrowed to laughing slits of blue, his face wreathed itself in joy, and his mouth curled in a smile as he cried aloud:

"Jumping dandelions and happy hollyhocks, but that smells good to me! Talk about your attar o' roses an' cologne factories! They ain't in it!"

He had the habit of soliloquy. His quick-changing facial expressions might tell every thought and mood, but the tongue, perforce, ran hard after, repeating, like a second Boswell.

The man lay down on the lip of the pool and drank long and deep of its water. "Tastes good to me," he murmured, lifting his head and gazing across the pool at the side-hill, while he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The side-hill attracted his attention. Still lying on his stomach, he studied the hill formation long and carefully. It was a practised eye that traveled up the slope to the crumbling cañon-wall and back and down again to the edge of the pool. He scrambled to his feet and favored the side-hill with a second survey.

"Looks good to me," he concluded, picking up his pick and shovel and gold-pan.

He crossed the stream below the pool, stepping agilely from stone to stone. Where the side-hill touched the water he dug up a shovelful of dirt and put it into the gold-pan. He squatted down, holding the pan in his two hands, and partly immersing it in the stream. Then he imparted to the pan a deft circular motion that sent the water sluicing in and out through the dirt and gravel. The larger and the lighter particles worked to the surface, and these, by a skilful dipping movement of the pan, he spilled out and over the edge. Occasionally, to expedite matters, he rested the pan and with his fingers raked out the large pebbles and pieces of rock.

The contents of the pan diminished rapidly until only fine dirt and the smallest bits of gravel remained. At this stage he began to work very deliberately and carefully. It was fine washing, and he washed fine and finer, with a keen scrutiny and delicate and fastidious touch. At last the pan seemed empty of everything but water; but with a quick semi-circular flirt that sent the water flying over the shallow rim into the stream, he disclosed a layer of black sand on the bottom of the pan. So thin was this layer that it was like a streak of paint. He examined it closely. In the midst of it was a tiny golden speck. He dribbled a little water in over the depressed edge of the pan. With a quick flirt he sent the water sluicing across the bottom, turning the grains of black sand over and over. A second tiny golden speck rewarded his effort.

The washing had now become very fine— fine beyond all need of ordinary placer-mining. He worked the black sand, a small portion at a time, up the shallow rim of the pan. Each small portion he examined sharply, so that his eyes saw every grain of it before he allowed it to slide over the edge and away. Jealously, bit by bit, he let the black sand slip away. A golden speck, no larger than a pin-point, appeared on the rim, and by his manipulation of the water it returned to the bottom of the pan. And in such fashion another speck was disclosed, and another. Great was his care of them. Like a shepherd he herded his flock of golden specks so that not one should be lost. At last, of the pan of dirt nothing remained but his golden herd. He counted it, and then, after all his labor, sent it flying out of the pan with one final swirl of water.

But his blue eyes were shining with desire as he rose to his feet. "Seven," he muttered aloud, asserting the sum of the specks for which he had toiled so hard and which he had so wantonly thrown away. "Seven," he repeated, with the emphasis of one trying to impress a number on his memory.

He stood still a long while, surveying the hillside. In his eyes was a curiosity, new-aroused and burning. There was an exultance about his bearing and a keenness like that of a hunting animal catching the fresh scent of game.

He moved down the stream a few steps and took a second panful of dirt.

Again came the careful washing, the jealous herding of the golden specks, and the wantonness with which he sent them flying into the stream.

"Five," he muttered, and repeated, "five."

He could not forbear another survey of the hill before filling the pan farther down the stream. His golden herds diminished. "Four, three, two, two, one," were his memory tabulations as he moved down the stream. When but one speck of gold rewarded his washing, he stopped and built a fire of dry twigs. Into this he thrust the gold-pan and burned it till it was blue-black. He held up the pan and examined it critically. Then he nodded approbation. Against such a color-background he could defy the tiniest yellow speck to elude him.

Still moving down the stream, he panned again. A single speck was his reward. A third pan contained no gold at all. Not satisfied with this, he panned three times again, taking his shovels of dirt within a foot of one another. Each pan proved empty of gold, and the fact, instead of discouraging him, seemed to give him satisfaction. His elation increased with each barren washing, until he arose, exclaiming jubilantly:

"If it ain't the real thing, may God knock off my head with sour apples!"

Returning to where he had started operations, he began to pan up the stream. At first his golden herds increased— increased prodigiously. "Fourteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-six," ran his memory tabulations. Just above the pool he struck his richest pan— thirty-five colors.

"Almost enough to save," he remarked regretfully as he allowed the water to sweep them away.

The sun climbed to the top of the sky. The man worked on. Pan by pan, he went up the stream, the tally of results steadily decreasing.

"It's just booful, the way it peters out," he exulted when a shovelful of dirt contained no more than a single speck of gold. And when no specks at all were found in several pans, he straightened up and favored the hillside with a confident glance.

"Ah, ha! Mr. Pocket!" he cried out, as though to an auditor hidden somewhere above him beneath the surface of the slope. "Ah, ha! Mr. Pocket! I'm a-comin', I'm a-comin', an' I'm shorely gwine to get yer! You heah me, Mr. Pocket? I'm gwine to get yer as shore as punkins ain't cauliflowers!"

He turned and flung a measuring glance at the sun poised above him in the azure of the cloudless sky. Then he went down the cañon, following the line of shovel-holes he had made in filling the pans. He crossed the stream below the pool and disappeared through the green screen. There was little opportunity for the spirit of the place to return with its quietude and repose, for the man's voice, raised in ragtime song, still dominated the cañon with possession.

After a time, with a greater clashing of steel-shod feet on rock, he returned. The green screen was tremendously agitated. It surged back and forth in the throes of a struggle. There was a loud grating and clanging of metal. The man's voice leaped to a higher pitch and was sharp with imperativeness. A large body plunged and panted. There was a snapping and ripping and rending, and amid a shower of falling leaves a horse burst through the screen. On its back was a pack, and from this trailed broken vines and torn creepers. The animal gazed with astonished eyes at the scene into which it had been precipitated, then dropped its head to the grass and began contentedly to graze. A second horse scrambled into view, slipping once on the mossy rocks and regaining equilibrium when its hoofs sank into the yielding surface of the meadow. It was riderless, though on its back was a high-horned Mexican saddle, scarred and discolored by long usage.

The man brought up the rear. He threw off pack and saddle, with an eye to camp location, and gave the animals their freedom to graze. He unpacked his food and got out frying-pan and coffee-pot. He gathered an armful of dry wood, and with a few stones made a place for his fire.

"My!" he said, "but I've got an appetite. I could scoff iron-filings an' horseshoe nails an' thank you kindly, ma'am, for a second helpin'."

He straightened up, and, while he reached for matches in the pocket of his overalls, his eyes traveled across the pool to the side-hill. His fingers had clutched the match-box, but they relaxed their hold and the hand came out empty. The man wavered perceptibly. He looked at his preparations for cooking and he looked at the hill.

"Guess I'll take another whack at her," he concluded, starting to cross the stream.

"They ain't no sense in it, I know," he mumbled apologetically. "But keepin' grub back an hour ain't go in' to hurt none, I reckon."

A few feet back from his first line of test-pans he started a second line. The sun dropped down the western sky, the shadows lengthened, but the man worked on. He began a third line of test-pans. He was cross-cutting the hillside, line by line, as he ascended. The center of each line produced the richest pans, while the ends came where no colors showed in the pan. And as he ascended the hillside the lines grew perceptibly shorter. The regularity with which their length diminished served to indicate that somewhere up the slope the last line would be so short as to have scarcely length at all, and that beyond could come only a point. The design was growing into an inverted "V." The converging sides of this "V" marked the boundaries of the gold-bearing dirt.

The apex of the "V" was evidently the man's goal. Often he ran his eye along the converging sides and on up the hill, trying to divine the apex, the point where the gold-bearing dirt must cease. Here resided "Mr. Pocket"— for so the man familiarly addressed the imaginary point above him on the slope, crying out:

"Come down out o' that, Mr. Pocket! Be right smart an' agreeable, an' come down!"

"All right," he would add later, in a voice resigned to determination. "All right, Mr. Pocket. It's plain to me I got to come right up an' snatch you out bald-headed. An' I'll do it! I'll do it!" he would threaten still later.

Each pan he carried down to the water to wash, and as he went higher up the hill the pans grew richer, until he began to save the gold in an empty baking powder can which he carried carelessly in his hip-pocket. So engrossed was he in his toil that he did not notice the long twilight of oncoming night. It was not until he tried vainly to see the gold colors in the bottom of the pan that he realized the passage of time. He straightened up abruptly. An expression of whimsical wonderment and awe overspread his face as he drawled:

"Gosh darn my buttons! if I didn't plumb forget dinner!"

He stumbled across the stream in the darkness and lighted his long-delayed fire. Flapjacks and bacon and warmed-over beans constituted his supper. Then he smoked a pipe by the smouldering coals, listening to the night noises and watching the moonlight stream through the cañon. After that he unrolled his bed, took off his heavy shoes, and pulled the blankets up to his chin. His face showed white in the moonlight, like the face of a corpse. But it was a corpse that knew its resurrection, for the man rose suddenly on one elbow and gazed across at his hillside.

"Good night, Mr. Pocket," he called sleepily. "Goodnight."

He slept through the early gray of morning until the direct rays of the sun smote his closed eyelids, when he awoke with a start and looked about him until he had established the continuity of his existence and identified his present self with the days previously lived.

To dress, he had merely to buckle on his shoes. He glanced at his fireplace and at his hillside, wavered, but fought down the temptation and started the fire.

"Keep yer shirt on, Bill; keep yer shirt on," he admonished himself. "What's the good of rushin'? No use in gettin' all het up an' sweaty. Mr. Pocket'll wait for you. He ain't a-runnin' away before you can get your breakfast. Now, what you want, Bill, is something fresh in yer bill o' fare. So it's up to you to go an' get it."

He cut a short pole at the water's edge and drew from one of his pockets a bit of line and a draggled fly that had once been a royal coachman.

"Mebbe they'll bite in the early morning," he muttered, as he made his first cast into the pool. And a moment later he was gleefully crying: "What'd I tell you, eh? What'd I tell you?"

He had no reel, nor any inclination to waste time, and by main strength, and swiftly, he drew out of the water a flashing ten-inch trout. Three more, caught in rapid succession, furnished his breakfast. When he came to the stepping-stones on his way to his hillside, he was struck by a sudden thought, and paused.

"I'd just better take a hike down-stream a ways," he said. "There's no tellin' who may be snoopin' around."

But he crossed over on the stones, and with a "I really oughter take that hike," the need of the precaution passed out of his mind and he fell to work.

At nightfall he straightened up. The small of his back was stiff from stooping toil, and as he put his hand behind him to soothe the protesting muscles, he said:

"Now what d'ye think of that? I clean forgot my dinner again! If I don't watch out, I'll sure be degeneratin' into a two-meal-a-day crank."

"Pockets is the hangedest things I ever see for makin' a man absent-minded," he communed that night, as he crawled into his blankets. Nor did he forget to call up the hillside, "Good night, Mr. Pocket! Good night!"

Rising with the sun, and snatching a hasty breakfast, he was early at work. A fever seemed to be growing in him, nor did the increasing richness of the test-pans allay this fever. There was a flush in his cheek other than that made by the heat of the sun, and he was oblivious to fatigue and the passage of time. When he filled a pan with dirt, he ran down the hill to wash it; nor could he forbear running up the hill again, panting and stumbling profanely, to refill the pan.

He was now a hundred yards from the water, and the inverted "V" was assuming definite proportions. The width of the pay-dirt steadily decreased, and the man extended in his mind's eye the sides of the "V" to their meeting place far up the hill. This was his goal, the apex of the "V," and he panned many times to locate it.

"Just about two yards above that manzanita bush an' a yard to the right," he finally concluded.

Then the temptation seized him. "As plain as the nose on your face," he said, as he abandoned his laborious cross-cutting and climbed to the indicated apex. He filled a pan and carried it down the hill to wash. It contained no trace of gold. He dug deep, and he dug shallow, filling and washing a dozen pans, and was unrewarded even by the tiniest golden speck. He was enraged at having yielded to the temptation, and berated himself blasphemously and pridelessly. Then he went down the hill and took up the cross-cutting.

"Slow an' certain, Bill; slow an' certain," he crooned. "Short-cuts to fortune ain't in your line, an' it's about time you know it. Get wise, Bill; get wise. Slow an' certain's the only hand you can play; so go to it, an' keep to it, too."

As the cross-cuts decreased, showing that the sides of the "V" were converging, the depth of the "V" increased. The gold-trace was dipping into the hill. It was only at thirty inches beneath the surface that he could get colors in his pan. The dirt he found at twenty-five inches from the surface, and at thirty-five inches yielded barren pans. At the base of the "V," by the water's edge, he had found the gold colors at the grass roots. The higher he went up the hill, the deeper the gold dipped. To dig a hole three feet deep in order to get one test-pan was a task of no mean magnitude; while between the man and the apex intervened an untold number of such holes to be dug. "An' there's no tellin' how much deeper it'll pitch," he sighed, in a moment's pause, while his fingers soothed his aching back.

Feverish with desire, with aching back and stiffening muscles, with pick and shovel gouging and mauling the soft brown earth, the man toiled up the hill. Before him was the smooth slope, spangled with flowers and made sweet with their breath. Behind him was devastation. It looked like some terrible eruption breaking out on the smooth skin of the hill. His slow progress was like that of a slug, befouling beauty with a monstrous trail.

Though the dipping gold-trace increased the man's work, he found consolation in the increasing richness of the pans. Twenty cents, thirty cents, fifty cents, sixty cents, were the values of the gold found in the pans, and at nightfall he washed his banner pan, which gave him a dollar's worth of gold-dust from a shovelful of dirt.

"I'll just bet it's my luck to have some inquisitive one come buttin' in here on my pasture," he mumbled sleepily that night as he pulled the blankets up to his chin.

Suddenly he sat upright. "Bill!" he called sharply. "Now, listen to me, Bill; d'ye hear! It's up to you, to-morrow mornin', to mosey round an' see what you can see. Understand? To-morrow morning, an' don't you forget it!"

He yawned and glanced across at his side-hill. "Good night, Mr. Pocket," he called.

In the morning he stole a march on the sun, for he had finished breakfast when its first rays caught him, and he was climbing the wall of the cañon where it crumbled away and gave footing. From the outlook at the top he found himself in the midst of loneliness. As far as he could see, chain after chain of mountains heaved themselves into his vision. To the east his eyes, leaping the miles between range and range and between many ranges, brought up at last against the white-peaked Sierras— the main crest, where the backbone of the Western world reared itself against the sky. To the north and south he could see more distinctly the cross-systems that broke through the main trend of the sea of mountains. To the west the ranges fell away, one behind the other, diminishing and fading into the gentle foothills that, in turn, descended into the great valley which he could not see.

And in all that mighty sweep of earth he saw no sign of man nor of the handiwork of man— save only the torn bosom of the hillside at his feet. The man looked long and carefully. Once, far down his own cañon, he thought he saw in the air a faint hint of smoke. He looked again and decided that it was the purple haze of the hills made dark by a convolution of the cañon wall at its back.

"Hey, you, Mr. Pocket!" he called down into the cañon. "Stand out from under! I'm a-comin', Mr. Pocket! I'm a-comin'!"

The heavy brogans on the man's feet made him appear clumsy-footed, but he swung down from the giddy height as lightly and airily as a mountain goat. A rock, turning under his foot on the edge of the precipice, did not disconcert him. He seemed to know the precise time required for the turn to culminate in disaster, and in the meantime he utilized the false footing itself for the momentary earth-contact necessary to carry him on into safety. Where the earth sloped so steeply that it was impossible to stand for a second upright, the man did not hesitate. His foot pressed the impossible surface for but a fraction of the fatal second and gave him the bound that carried him onward. Again, where even the fraction of a second's footing was out of the question, he would swing his body past by a moment's hand-grip on a jutting knob of rock, a crevice, or a precariously rooted shrub. At last, with a wild leap and yell, he exchanged the face of the wall for an earth-slide and finished the descent in the midst of several tons of sliding earth and gravel.

His first pan of the morning washed out over two dollars in coarse gold. It was from the centre of the "V." To either side the diminution in the values of the pans was swift. His lines of cross-cutting holes were growing very short. The converging sides of the inverted "V" were only a few yards apart. Their meeting-point was only a few yards above him. But the pay-streak was dipping deeper and deeper into the earth. By early afternoon he was sinking the test-holes five feet before the pans could show the gold-trace.

For that matter, the gold-trace had become something more than a trace; it was a placer mine in itself, and the man resolved to come back after he had found the pocket and work over the ground. But the increasing richness of the pans began to worry him. By late afternoon the worth of the pans had grown to three and four dollars. The man scratched his head perplexedly and looked a few feet up the hill at the manzanita bush that marked approximately the apex of the "V." He nodded his head and said oracularly:

"It's one o' two things, Bill: one o' two things. Either Mr. Pocket's spilled himself all out an' down the hill, or else Mr. Pocket's so rich you maybe won't be able to carry him all away with you. And that'd be an awful shame, wouldn't it, now?" He chuckled at contemplation of so pleasant a dilemma.

Nightfall found him by the edge of the stream, his eyes wrestling with the gathering darkness over the washing of a five-dollar pan.

"Wisht I had an electric light to go on working," he said.

He found sleep difficult that night. Many times he composed himself and closed his eyes for slumber to overtake him; but his blood pounded with too strong desire, and as many times his eyes opened and he murmured wearily, "Wisht it was sun-up."

Sleep came to him in the end, but his eyes were open with the first paling of the stars, and the gray of dawn caught him with breakfast finished and climbing the hillside in the direction of the secret abiding-place of Mr. Pocket.

The first cross-cut the man made, there was space for only three holes, so narrow had become the pay-streak and so close was he to the fountainhead of the golden stream he had been following for four days.

"Be ca'm, Bill; be ca'm," he admonished himself, as he broke ground for the final hole where the sides of the "V" had at last come together in a point.

"I've got the almighty cinch on you, Mr. Pocket, an' you can't lose me," he said many times as he sank the hole deeper and deeper.

Four feet, five feet, six feet, he dug his way down into the earth. The digging grew harder. His pick grated on broken rock. He examined the rock. "Rotten quartz," was his conclusion as, with the shovel, he cleared the bottom of the hole of loose dirt. He attacked the crumbling quartz with the pick, bursting the disintegrating rock asunder with every stroke.

He thrust his shovel into the loose mass. His eye caught a gleam of yellow. He dropped the shovel and squatted suddenly on his heels. As a farmer rubs the clinging earth from fresh-dug potatoes, so the man, a piece of rotten quartz held in both hands, rubbed the dirt away.

"Sufferin' Sardanopolis!" he cried. "Lumps an' chunks of it! Lumps an' chunks of it!"

It was only half rock he held in his hand. The other half was virgin gold. He dropped it into his pan and examined another piece. Little yellow was to be seen, but with his strong fingers he crumbled the rotten quartz away till both hands were filled with glowing yellow. He rubbed the dirt away from fragment after fragment, tossing them into the gold-pan. It was a treasure-hole. So much had the quartz rotted away that there was less of it than there was of gold. Now and again he found a piece to which no rock clung— a piece that was all gold. A chunk, where the pick had laid open the heart of the gold, glittered like a handful of yellow jewels, and he cocked his head at it and slowly turned it around and over to observe the rich play of the light upon it.

"Talk about yer Too Much Gold diggin's!" the man snorted contemptuously. "Why, this diggin' 'd make it look like thirty cents. This diggin' is All Gold. An' right here an' now I name this yere cañon 'All Gold Cañon,' b' gosh!"

Still squatting on his heels, he continued examining the fragments and tossing them into the pan. Suddenly there came to him a premonition of danger. It seemed a shadow had fallen upon him. But there was no shadow. His heart had given a great jump up into his throat and was choking him. Then his blood slowly chilled and he felt the sweat of his shirt cold against his flesh.

He did not spring up nor look around. He did not move. He was considering the nature of the premonition he had received, trying to locate the source of the mysterious force that had warned him, striving to sense the imperative presence of the unseen thing that threatened him. There is an aura of things hostile, made manifest by messengers too refined for the senses to know; and this aura he felt, but knew not how he felt it. His was the feeling as when a cloud passes over the sun. It seemed that between him and life had passed something dark and smothering and menacing; a gloom, as it were, that swallowed up life and made for death— his death.

Every force of his being impelled him to spring up and confront the unseen danger, but his soul dominated the panic, and he remained squatting on his heels, in his hands a chunk of gold. He did not dare to look around, but he knew by now that there was something behind him and above him. He made believe to be interested in the gold in his hand. He examined it critically, turned it over and over, and rubbed the dirt from it. And all the time he knew that something behind him was looking at the gold over his shoulder.

Still feigning interest in the chunk of gold in his hand, he listened intently and he heard the breathing of the thing behind him. His eyes searched the ground in front of him for a weapon, but they saw only the uprooted gold, worthless to him now in his extremity. There was his pick, a handy weapon on occasion; but this was not such an occasion. The man realized his predicament. He was in a narrow hole that was seven feet deep. His head did not come to the surface of the ground. He was in a trap.

He remained squatting on his heels. He was quite cool and collected; but his mind, considering every factor, showed him only his helplessness. He continued rubbing the dirt from the quartz fragments and throwing the gold into the pan. There was nothing else for him to do. Yet he knew that he would have to rise up, sooner or later, and face the danger that breathed at his back. The minutes passed, and with the passage of each minute he knew that by so much he was nearer the time when he must stand up, or else— and his wet shirt went cold against his flesh again at the thought— or else he might receive death as he stooped there over his treasure.

Still he squatted on his heels, rubbing dirt from gold and debating in just what manner he should rise up. He might rise up with a rush and claw his way out of the hole to meet whatever threatened on the even footing above ground. Or he might rise up slowly and carelessly, and feign casually to discover the thing that breathed at his back. His instinct and every fighting fibre of his body favored the mad, clawing rush to the surface. His intellect, and the craft thereof, favored the slow and cautious meeting with the thing that menaced and which he could not see. And while he debated, a loud, crashing noise burst on his ear. At the same instant he received a stunning blow on the left side of the back, and from the point of impact felt a rush of flame through his flesh. He sprang up in the air, but halfway to his feet collapsed. His body crumpled in like a leaf withered in sudden heat, and he came down, his chest across his pan of gold, his face in the dirt and rock, his legs tangled and twisted because of the restricted space at the bottom of the hole. His legs twitched convulsively several times. His body was shaken as with a mighty ague. There was a slow expansion of the lungs, accompanied by a deep sigh. Then the air was slowly, very slowly, exhaled, and his body as slowly flattened itself down into inertness.

Above, revolver in hand, a man was peering down over the edge of the hole. He peered for a long time at the prone and motionless body beneath him. After a while the stranger sat down on the edge of the hole so that he could see into it, and rested the revolver on his knee. Reaching his hand into a pocket, he drew out a wisp of brown paper. Into this he dropped a few crumbs of tobacco. The combination became a cigarette, brown and squat, with the ends turned in. Not once did he take his eyes from the body at the bottom of the hole. He lighted the cigarette and drew its smoke into his lungs with a caressing intake of the breath. He smoked slowly. Once the cigarette went out and he relighted it. And all the while he studied the body beneath him.

In the end he tossed the cigarette stub away and rose to his feet. He moved to the edge of the hole. Spanning it, a hand resting on each edge, and with the revolver still in the right hand, he muscled his body down into the hole. While his feet were yet a yard from the bottom he released his hands and dropped down.

At the instant his feet struck bottom he saw the pocket-miner's arm leap out, and his own legs knew a swift, jerking grip that overthrew him. In the nature of the jump his revolver hand was above his head. Swiftly as the grip had flashed about his legs, just as swiftly he brought the revolver down. He was still in the air, his fall in process of completion, when he pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening in the confined space. The smoke filled the hole so that he could see nothing. He struck the bottom on his back, and like a cat's the pocket-miner's body was on top of him. Even as the miner's body passed on top, the stranger crooked in his right arm to fire; and even in that instant the miner, with a quick thrust of elbow, struck his wrist. The muzzle was thrown up and the bullet thudded into the dirt of the side of the hole.

The next instant the stranger felt the miner's hand grip his wrist. The struggle was now for the revolver. Each man strove to turn it against the other's body. The smoke in the hole was clearing. The stranger, lying on his back, was beginning to see dimly. But suddenly he was blinded by a handful of dirt deliberately flung into his eyes by his antagonist. In that moment of shock his grip on the revolver was broken. In the next moment he felt a smashing darkness descend upon his brain, and in the midst of the darkness even the darkness ceased.

But the pocket-miner fired again and again, until the revolver was empty. Then he tossed it from him and, breathing heavily, sat down on the dead man's legs.

The miner was sobbing and struggling for breath. "Measly skunk!" he panted; "a-campin' on my trail an' lettin' me do the work, an' then shootin' me in the back!"

He was half crying from anger and exhaustion. He peered at the face of the dead man. It was sprinkled with loose dirt and gravel, and it was difficult to distinguish the features.

"Never laid eyes on him before," the miner concluded his scrutiny. "Just a common an' ordinary thief, hang him! An' he shot me in the back! He shot me in the back!"

He opened his shirt and felt himself, front and back, on his left side.

"Went clean through, and no harm done!" he cried jubilantly. "I'll bet he aimed all right all right; but he drew the gun over when he pulled the trigger— the cur! But I fixed 'm! Oh, I fixed 'm!"

His fingers were investigating the bullet-hole in his side, and a shade of regret passed over his face. "It's goin' to be stiffer'n hell," he said. "An' it's up to me to get mended an' get out o'here."

He crawled out of the hole and went down the hill to his camp. Half an hour later he returned, leading his pack-horse. His open shirt disclosed the rude bandages with which he had dressed his wound. He was slow and awkward with his left-hand movements, but that did not prevent his using the arm.

The bight of the pack-rope under the dead man's shoulders enabled him to heave the body out of the hole. Then he set to work gathering up his gold. He worked steadily for several hours, pausing often to rest his stiffening shoulder and to exclaim:

"He shot me in the back, the measly skunk! He shot me in the back!"

When his treasure was quite cleaned up and wrapped securely into a number of blanket-covered parcels, he made an estimate of its value.

"Four hundred pounds, or I'm a Hottentot," he concluded. "Say two hundred in quartz an' dirt— that leaves two hundred pounds of gold. Bill! Wake up! Two hundred pounds of gold! Forty thousand dollars! An' it's yourn— all yourn!"

He scratched his head delightedly and his fingers blundered into an unfamiliar groove. They quested along it for several inches. It was a crease through his scalp where the second bullet had ploughed.

He walked angrily over to the dead man.

"You would, would you!" he bullied. "You would, eh? Well, I fixed you good an' plenty, an' I'll give you decent burial, too. That's more'n you'd have done for me."

He dragged the body to the edge of the hole and toppled it in. It struck the bottom with a dull crash, on its side, the face twisted up to the light. The miner peered down at it.

"An' you shot me in the back!" he said accusingly.

With pick and shovel he filled the hole. Then he loaded the gold on his horse. It was too great a load for the animal, and when he had gained his camp he transferred part of it to his saddle-horse. Even so, he was compelled to abandon a portion of his outfit— pick and shovel and gold-pan, extra food and cooking utensils, and divers odds and ends.

The sun was at the zenith when the man forced the horses at the screen of vines and creepers. To climb the huge boulders the animals were compelled to uprear and struggle blindly through the tangled mass of vegetation. Once the saddle-horse fell heavily and the man removed the pack to get the animal on its feet. After it started on its way again the man thrust his head out from among the leaves and peered up at the hillside.

"The measly skunk!" he said, and disappeared.

There was a ripping and tearing of vines and boughs. The trees surged back and forth, marking the passage of the animals through the midst of them. There was a clashing of steel-shod hoofs on stone, and now and again a sharp cry of command. Then the voice of the man was raised in song:—

Tu'n around an' tu'n yo' face

Untoe them sweet hills of grace

(D' pow'rs of sin yo' am scornin'!).

Look about an' look aroun'

Fling yo' sin-pack on d' groun'

(Yo'-will meet wid d' Lord in d' mornin'!).

The song grew faint and fainter, and through the silence crept back the spirit of the place. The stream once more drowsed and whispered; the hum of the mountain bees rose sleepily. Down through the perfume-weighted air fluttered the snowy fluffs of the cottonwoods. The butterflies drifted in and out among the trees, and over all blazed the quiet sunshine. Only remained the hoof-marks in the meadow and the torn hillside to mark the boisterous trail of the life that had broken the peace of the place and passed on.

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19: The Fads of David Dadd

And how he was cured of them.

John Arthur Barry

1850-1911

Australian Town and Country Journal, 13 Dec 1905

THE DADDS had been married twelve months, and lived very happily together, until Mr. Dadd began to develop fads.

He was a Civil servant, a post-office employee, with a salary of £250 per annum. While staying at a farm near Goulburn, on the occasion of his yearly holiday, he had met his wife— a hearty, jolly, sensible, young countrywoman, who, when the smart clerk asked her to share his fortunes with her, could hardly bring herself to believe that he was in earnest. They lived now in a comfortable cottage in one of the remoter marine suburbs of Sydney; and until David commenced his course of fads his wife was accustomed to think herself a very lucky woman.

Mr. Dadd, although scarcely thirty years of age, was a person who took himself very seriously. Still, on the whole, he was what his acquaintances called him— "a very decent chap;" and one who, while not liable to astonish the world by any outbursts of exceptional ability, could, it might be imagined, be depended upon to abjure all experiments of the kind he presently began to make a trial of.

"There's a nice bit of fillet for dinner to-night, dear," remarked his wife, as David, having got himself into his house clothes, came into the dining room.

"I'm afraid you'll have to eat it yourself, then, Georgie" (Mrs. Dadd had been christened Georgina), replied her husband. "No more meat for me. I'm convinced that it's the source of half the social mischief in this country. I've been reading the subject up lately, and I find that vegetarianism is the one thing needful for the betterment of both mind and body. Will you see, dear, that there always are plenty of them on the table,"

"But surely, Dave," asked Mrs. Dadd, in amazement, "not at every meal?"

"Certainly," replied, her husband. "I don't expect to ever touch meat again, in any shape or form. Some more peas and potatoes, please."

"Just a spoonful of gravy, then," implored his wife, almost in tears.

"Not even a suspicion," said David, as he heroically munched his vegetables. "And, presently, dear, when you see how well the new diet agrees with me, I hope you will follow my example."

But, somehow, as time passed, David, neither in health nor temper, showed the expected advantage to be derived from the new departure. His wife, being a sensible woman, made no remarks. On the contrary, she tried to vary his diet as much as possible, and learned to cook no less than a dozen different sorts of vegetables, each in as many fashions. Even when Mr. Dadd allowed his hair to grow longer than is usual with the majority of sane citizens, she forbore to remonstrate. She, however, firmly resisted all David's persuasion to join him in his obsession, and contented herself with preparing appetising little dishes for herself, careless, apparently, that, the savour of these reaching her husband— as he sat forcing his appetite to a compote of carrots, a fraudulent imitation of a mutton chop, constructed out of peas, cauliflowers, and potatoes; or a beefsteak whose foundation consisted mainly of turnips and tomatoes— seemed to make him unhappy, not to say morose.

Always spare of body, David presently began to get so fine that his friends nicknamed him "Radish." Thereupon he added apples and nuts to his dietary, consuming enormous quantities of those fruits. But to no purpose. David was of all men one adapted by Nature for a generous diet; and daily he grew visibly more miserable, while the grateful fumes from Georgie's side of the table at times tried his self-control almost beyond the limits of endurance. And at last came the psychological moment, not entirely unexpected by the wife. Before her was a dish of stewed tripe, cooked as few women but herself could cook it. Aforetime David's favourite dish, the appetising odour titillated his tortured nostrils with a very frenzy of desire. All at once there sprang up in his stomach an irresistible loathing towards the mess before him; and, suddenly, in angry, almost savage, accents, he shouted, "For heaven's sake, Georgie, give a man something fit to eat!"

FOR A FEW MONTHS David, having cut his hair and abjured vegetarianism, put on flesh, and leavened his somewhat didactic temperament with a cheeriness born of good living, let well alone, and essayed no new experiments or divagations.

Presently, however, he took to studying "the effect of clothing on the human frame in connection with climatic environment;" at least, that is how he put it to Georgie. It was then about the middle of summer, and as a result of his cogitations he took to "white," and bore with equanimity the salutes of the small boys who yelled "Hokey-pokey!" after him, as well as with the notable increase in the laundry bills.

"There cannot be a doubt," remarked David, "that in a semi-tropical climate such as ours is drill or some equally suitable material is the rational dress for men. The only wonder is that the garb has not long ere now become universal. All through this torrid weather I am enabled to keep my body cool and my brain in good working order, while my colleagues at the office, in their heavy tweeds, perspire and indulge in irritable growlings."

Presently he left off wearing woollen underclothing and took to cotton, having become thoroughly convinced that cotton was not only lighter but warmer, to say nothing of the question of economy. To all his wife's suggestions that colds and chills would probably be the outcome of the business, David turned a deaf ear. The weather continued fine and hot, and he marvelled that nobody else followed his example. Then, one day, happening to be working overtime, he was caught on his way home by a bitter "southerly," and chilled to the very marrow of his bones. A sharp attack of pneumonia followed, which the doctor brutally told him served him right, and when David was able to get about again— although never tired of inveighing against "the treachery of the climate"— he gave up "rational dress" once and for all.

But to an inquiring mind like his inaction was impossible. And one evening he arrived at his home carrying an electric battery under his arm. He had been "reading up" certain medical treatises recommending electricity as a cure for most human ailments, and he now proceeded to fill himself up with what he called the "vital spark." He attempted to induce his wife to join him in the experiment; but after the first shock, Mrs. Dadd said she believed it did not agree with her, and she left him to pursue his latest fad alone. He would sit for hours at a time holding the handles of the machine, and declaring that he was being gradually permeated with the current, and that it was making "a new man of him." His wife, however, could discover no difference, and the eternal buzz became a decided nuisance.

Presently, however, he came across a book strongly recommending all people, whether well or ill, to live us much as possible in the open air. Doors and windows were to be kept open winter and summer, night and day, and thorough ventilation encouraged in every possible manner. The promised results were a practical immunity from every description of disease. The scheme tickled David's fancy mightily.

But Georgie was strong in protest.

"It's like offering a premium to burglars," she said. "Besides, you know how susceptible to colds you are, and living in draughts will only mean another big doctor's bill."

"That's exactly the reason, dear," replied David, eagerly. "We ought to give the thing a trial. Dr. Smith, the great scientist, says that a course of such treatment, if persevered in, will so harden and improve our constitutions as to render them practically impenetrable to the attacks of hostile bacteria or bacilli. And, as for burglars, the last house they would dream of entering would be one thrown wide open. In such cases, they always suspect a trap."

By dint of much argument, David at last gained an unwilling assent to the new venture. The result could scarcely be called encouraging. Georgie was unable to sleep for fear of thieves; her husband was never free from coughs and colds. It was winter, and "Burleigh Cottage," standing on rather high ground, was simply enfiladed by the winds; the westerlies especially holding high revel along the passages, and in the rooms.

But David bore it all with the stoicism of a martyr. In spite of colds in the head and colds in the throat, of sneezings and hawkings and catarrhs, he declared that he felt himself perceptibly benefited. They had of late employed a "general;" but the fresh air supply was too plentiful for her, and she left, after calling David a raging lunatic, and prophesying that some night they would awake with their throats cut. So far as Mrs. Dadd was concerned, the position was becoming intolerable, and her husband seemed deaf to remonstrance or ridicule. She, therefore, determined, by hook or by crook, to end this worst fad of all; and presently she hit upon a scheme that she thought might answer.

"Burleigh Cottage" was in a very isolated position, and at the back of the garden was a clump of rocks, among which, in a sort of cave, lived an old Troglodyte, who now and again was called in to "do up" the paths, and cut the grass on the small lawn. The only name by which the Dadds knew the man was "Bill." And to "Bill" Mrs. Dadd applied for help in her extremity.

"Yes, lydy, I unnerstan's," he replied, as Georgie unfolded her plan, and a sly grin curled his thick lips as he repeated her instructions: "Everythin' o' the bosses— hats, boots, socks, all his wearin' togs— an' a few o' your dresses an' nickernacks. Yus, lydy, cert'nly. An' you a-goin' to stay the night at a fren's 'ouse? An', then, I'm to bring the swag to my camp, yonder, an' plant it. Then, bimeby, when the hue an' cry's all hover I'm to bring 'em back agen an' say as how I found 'em all stowed away in a cave where the burgellers hid 'em in, thinkin' as 'ow they was pursood."

"That's quite correct, Bill," replied poor Georgie, strong in her faith in the honesty of the Troglodyte, dirty of person and unprepossessing of feature though he might be, and little guessing that all the time he was hard put to it to keep from sniggering at the transparent simplicity of her scheme to give her husband a lesson; and to teach him for the future to keep a closed house o' nights.

"And you won't make a noise, Bill?" continued Georgie.

"Not me, lydy," said Bill with a scornful sniff; "I've been too long at— I means as I'm that light-footed a feller, you wouldn't believe. There ain't nothin' locked in the crib, is there, lydy?" he suddenly asked. "No," replied Georgie. "But, of course, everything you'll want will be in the wardrobe." "In coorse, lydy, in coorse," agreed Bill emphatically; "you may tyke yer sollum davy as nothin' else won't be touched."

ON THE APPOINTED NIGHT, as luck would have it, David, by way of enlarging his experiment, had determined to sleep on the verandah. The house, however; remained open as ever. Thus the Troglodyte's task was an absurdly easy one; and when Georgie arrived in time to get David's breakfast she found that her instructions had been exceeded to a preposterous extent. David greeted her in his sleeping suit; having been able to discover nothing else. That was all right, so far. But when she discovered, in addition, that she herself possessed only what clothes she carried on her back; that her jewellery as well as George's was missing, together with any of the wedding presents worth taking away, Mrs. Dadd simply collapsed, and hysterically wept.

Simple as she might have been in her estimate of the Troglodyte's character, she was quick enough to perceive that here was catastrophe and not pretence. David, who was hoarse to voicelessness from his night's sojourn on the verandah, gesticulated wildly, and made husky, grating sounds which were unintelligible, but none the less smacked of "language," as known in police courts.

The nearest neighbour was a mile away; to the nearest police station was three miles. Leaving poor Georgie to her own devices, David set off to the neighbour's house. In the tramp through the bush his slippers came off repeatedly; he cut his feet among the rocks; he also stubbed his toes. When at last he arrived, with a keen westerly playing all sorts of pranks among his pyjamas, two women— the only people at home— slammed the door in his face and shrieked at the top of their voices. In vain he waved his hands, and pointed, and shook his head, and tried by gestures to interpret his woes— there was a lunatic asylum not very far away. And presently a shotgun, wavering, but otherwise fairly direct, covered him from one of the windows. At this hint David departed, looking more like a maniac than ever. Later on he arrived, in a rainstorm, at a suburban railway station, and appearing on the crowded platform, was quickly hustled into a cloak-room, and there secured, pending the arrival of a constable. Having to some extent recovered his voice, he, tried to explain and expostulate. And in return the officials soothed him with promises; said they quite believed in his sanity; were sure that he could prove that he had not escaped from the asylum over yonder; was, indeed, a responsible Civil servant; and that they were only detaining him because he was wet, and might catch a dangerous cold if allowed to go any further in such violent weather. They also gave him a blanket and a cup of hot coffee.

Presently the police arrived, and haled poor protesting, shivering David off to the local lockup, where eventually he was detained on a magistrate's order for medical examination, and while inquiries were being made. And the various newspapers came out with announcements to the effect that an alleged escaped lunatic, calling himself the Postmaster-General, had been apprehended. It was added that, although exhibiting violent symptoms at first, the maniac appeared to be on the whole of a mild description.

MEANWHILE, at "Burleigh Cottage," Georgie had pulled herself together a little, and was endeavouring to make a more detailed inventory of their losses than had been possible in the first rush of despair. She never doubted that David would presently return with the police, to whom she had determined to make a clean breast of the whole business.

A letter that the afternoon post brought, however, completely altered this resolution. It contained news of a legacy, no great sum, certainly, but more than enough to cover the value of all the Troglodyte's plunder a hundred times over.

Thus, when later on, David arrived in a cart escorted by two constables, they heard only a curtailed story. But to David— after imparting to him the tidings of good fortune following fast on the heels of evil hap— to a limp, bedraggled, disgrunted, and ashamed David— his wife made full confession.

And David, somewhat rehabilitated thereby in his own esteem, but still suffering from successive shocks to both his self-conceit and to his physical system, rose to the occasion with all the magnanimity of the injured male, and said:

"There, there, dear. Don't say a word more about the wretched business. I freely forgive you for it all."

But there have been no more fads in the Dadds household since. And these matters were history years ago.

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20: The Brink of a Future

Frank H. Sweet

1856-1930

Short Stories, Feb 1899

BAT PINAUD stood on one of the hills which overlooked Portland. Behind him was the forest and his past; the little cabin by the river, with his dugout hauled up on the bank, his traps and fishing poles and battered muzzle-loading rifle. Before him— what? The afternoon sun flung its luminous arms into the city, while the forest behind was becoming dark with its own shadows. The future had come to him in the gold of his evening, but it was the future of his dreams. Already he had forgotten the past.

Of his possessions he had only brought his "feedle," and the letter which a passing trapper had left at his cabin. The one was to go with him into his future to be "educat, poleesh," the other was the magic key which would open the way.

This had been the one grief of his life, that he was "no educat, no poleesh." Music to him was only a common, natural thing, like breathing, without notes or science. What matter if he could wake the hermit thrush and oriole and bobolink to ecstasy, or bring moisture to the hardest eyes, or lightness to the most sluggish of feet, or gentleness to the heart that had bruised itself into callousness? It was only what came to him naturally, without effort. He was no musician, he would tell you with a deprecatory wave of his hand, "Non, non, M'sieur, nothing but a poor little Canuck, who love de feedle." He had had no time "for learn de true music."

But now it was all here in the letter which he held so tightly in his hand; and though white frost was stealing thickly into his hair, and rheumatism taking possession of his limbs, he went down the slope as eagerly and diffdently as a schoolboy on his first journey into the world of learning.

Only once before in his life had the unexpected come to him, a thousand dollars from the very estate that was responsible for this letter. Half of it had gone promptly as an incentive in a "feedle contest," and little Pierre who had carried off the popular vote, and so won the prize, was now at the Boston Conservatory of Music for his "educat, poleesh." Bat's thoughts reverted to him as he went on down the slope, and he resolved that some of this greater fortune should flow over into the future of the poor shoemaker's son.

When he reached the sidewalks of the great city he went more slowly, for he tried to take his hat off to every lady he met, and to smile at every child, and to assist all those he thought overloaded with bundles. When a woman happened to look at him he dropped his gaze to the sidewalk, and when a child, he stopped as though ready to enter into conversation. Once he patted a dog, and the dog turned and followed him. And at another time he picked up a dirty, barefooted child that was crying in a gutter, and the child turned and followed him also.

But at length he reached the place indicated by the letter, and was received with marked consideration by the lawyer who rose as he entered.

"I am glad you came so promptly," the lawyer said deferentially. "I suppose you understand what a large estate it is?"

"Two hun'r'd t'ousan', met'ink letter say."

"Yes; two— hundred— thousand," dwelling fondly on each word. "Here, suppose you take this chair while I explain the matter in deail."

Bat sat down diffidently, placing his hat upon the floor and the "feedle" across his knees; then, as the lawyer talked, his thoughts went straying out into the golden future, to the wonderful knowledge that was coming to him, and to little Pierre learning to play the "feedle" in the right way. Now and then a sentence of the lawyer drifted into his reverie, and suddenly he sprang to his feet with his eyes blazing.

"Wha' dat you say? Tell me 'g'in, quick!" he demanded.

"About the flaw in the will?" the lawyer said blandly. "Yes; that is what gives you the money. Lucky flaw, I say."

''Dat mean ol' man Tatro like money go to he Cousin Marie, on'y he make slip in de will. Me get him dat way, hey?"

"That's about it,'' dryly.

"Den you t'ink me t'ief?"

The lawyer looked surprised.

"Oh, come now," he urged hastily, "it's all right. The law says the money is yours. Everything is straight and above board."

Bat reached down and picked up his hat, which he placed squarely upon his head. Then he tucked the "feedle" under his arm.

"Who money 'long to?" he demanded so sharply that the lawyer moved back and placed a chair in front of him, "de law or ol' man Tatro? De law say gib him me; ol' man Tatro say gib him Marie. Huh!" and without stopping to parley further words Bat strode contemptuously into the street.

The sun was now behind the hills, and in place of its golden beckoning there was only dull universal shadow, pierced here and there by the electric lights of the city. In the woods the darkness was without break, but the trapper walked quietly into them and disappeared. Over yonder by the river was his cabin, with the dugout on the bank, and his traps and fishing poles, and the battered, muzzle-loading rifle. He would go back to them.

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21: The Birthday Pearl

John Arthur Barry

1850-1911

Chambers’s Journal, 1 Oct 1898

Warwick Argus (Qld) 31 Dec 1898

"IT'S my birthday," said Bob Panton, master and owner of the pearl-shell lugger Daisy, then lying at anchor off Somerset on her return from a trip about Torres Straits. "It's my birthday," repeated he, bringing out a "square-face" of Hollands. "We'll have a nip all round, and then we'll open a shell each, just for fun, and to see what sort of luck I'm to have this next year."

The five blacks and the one other white man that constituted the Daisy's crew duly drank the skipper's health in half-pints; and then, laughing, each man chose the biggest oyster he could find— all about the size of soup-plates.

Four were blanks, and they all watched Abdallah, the new hand, as he slowly opened the great bivalve. Then came a shout as he presently held up a pearl, pear-shaped, and almost as big as a hazel-nut, the finest gem on record yet found in those seas.

"Good luck indeed!" quoth Bob Panton as the chorus of admiration subsided, and, pulling out a bundle of ten dirty one-pound notes, he handed them over to Abdallah, saying:

"Take these for yourself, lad. I'll double it if this turns out as A I as it looks."

"And now I'll get up another square-face, and we'll wet the little stranger properly, and christen it the 'Birthday Pearl.' And they did so to such purpose that, bar Abdallah, there was no sober man on the Daisy by eight bells that night.

IN THE MORNING when Captain Bob Panton came on deck Abdallah was missing. So, as presently discovered, was the big pearl that Panton had left in a small wooden box in his birth. So was the Daisy's dingy that had been towing astern.

Bob Panton sold his shell, and offered a reward of £50 for the thief. But, though all the southern police were put on the "qui vive," nothing could be heard of the Birthday Pearl nor of Abdallah. And at last there were people found who did not scruple to hint at birthday hallucinations, bom of "square gin," on the part of Captain Bob and his crew.

But Panton took the matter to heart, and got on a spree; spent his shell-money and more; sold his boat, pulled himself together, and started off in pursuit of Abdallah, with ever before his vision the virgin sheen of the great pearl, his for a few hours only, convinced that until he recovered it luck for him, either in this world or the next, was out of the question.

WHEN old widower Wilhelm Itzig, the watchmaker and jeweler at Port Leichardt, died, his native-born son, Herman, came home from a wandering life of droving and working upon stations, and, returning to the trade he had been taught, mended the Leichardt clocks and watches with an indifferent measure of success, being at best but a botch.

The little shanty, dignified with the title of shop, stood apart from the rest of the township, and quite close to the beach. And but for an old tin sign, with upon it "Herman Itzig, working jeweler," and an old clock and three empty watchcases in the window, there was nothing to distinguish it from any of the other straggling "humpies" that went to make up the nearly deserted Queensland seaport.

"How much, John?" Hermann was asking of a half-starved, unkempt-looking black man, a fortnight after the finding and losing of the Birthday Pearl, shining mildly now in the gloom of the stuffy little inner room of the shop by the beach.

"Won 'undreed, two 'undreed-feefeetee, sar,' replied Abdallah, eyeing the gem as Hermann rolled it to and fro in the palm of his hand.

"Don't you wish you may get it, my boy," replied Hermann laughing. "Ask a thousand whilst you're about it, John. Why don't you?"

"Ver' fine pul, sar," replied Abdallah, cringing. "Some day get mooch more dan t'ousan' for 'im."

And young Hermann, although knowing little of such matters, thought, as he noted its soft lustre and flawless shape, that possibly his customer might be right.

His hand closed on the pearl. Said he: "I'll give you twenty. Haven't got another cent, anyhow"— which was the truth.

But Abdallah raised his eyes and hands to heaven in mute appeal at such an offer.

"You'll either take that or nothing," said Hermann, suddenly producing a revolver and pointing it straight at the other's head. "You stole it, you beggar; you know you did, up the coast somewhere— Thursday Island or Somerset, likely. Here, think yourself lucky to get so much." And Hermann handed over four five-pound notes.

"Take them," said he, seeing that the other made no motion, "or I'll have you up to the police barracks in a quarter less than no time!"

There was murder in Abdallah's eye. But he put out his hand

"Now clear straight out," said Hermann. "There's the Barcoo alongside the wharf. If you take my advice you'll get away in her. So long, old man!"

As he turned away, putting down the pistol, Abdallah sprang on him like a tiger, drawing his sheath-knife as he did so— for he was clad like any coasting sailor, in a suit of belted dungaree. Hermann reeled and fell, the knife descended again and again as Abdallah struck in his blind rage, and presently the body underneath him grew limp and motionless.

Rising and striking a match— for night was coming on, and the small room was nearly in darkness— Abdallah searched until he saw the Birthday Pearl lying near the bed, gleaming up at him out of a little pool of blood.

Wiping it on the blankets, also his knife, he turned and fled towards the long jetty where lay the steamship Barcoo, already clanging her second bell, a better man by twenty pounds than when he entered Leichardt that night, with a useless fortune in his pocket.

Next morning, somebody coming into the shop with a Waterbury to mend, found Hermann lying senseless and nearly dead from loss of blood. None of the wounds, however, had touched any vital part ; and a month in the local hospital restored him to health again. For reasons of his own, he had professed himself unable to give any description of the assassin. Illicit pearl-buyers on that coast were looked upon with great disfavor, for the reason that every inhabitant who could afford it had shares in some venture connected with the fishery— that is, the pearl-shell fleet. The pearls "themselves were but a by-blow of the industry— conspicuous more by their rarity, except in the shape of almost worthless "seed," than anything else.

But the glamor of the big gem had entered into Hermann's soul, as it had into Panton's and into Abdallah's: and presently, selling out his stock for a few pounds, he, too, moved on in pursuit, impelled, to boot, by a sharp feeling of revenge for loss of blood and money.

MEANWHILE Abdallah, journeying southward, made no more attempts to dispose of his treasure. But, sewing it in a little bag of black calico, he hid it away artistically in the meshes of his thick hair, where with a touch he could assure himself of its safety. He was a man who had traveled far, and knew many things— knew more than Panton or Itzig; but travel had not shut out inherent superstition. And he began to look upon the big pearl as a charm, an amulet, that, worn always, would protect him and bring him much good fortune. At various times, in the absence of any distinguishing marks of caste or dress, he had been taken for a Malay, a Hindu, and a Kanaka.

But Abdallah was none of these. He was an Arab from Muscat, who had in his time worked among the rotting oyster heaps of El Bouruk on the shores of the Persian Gulf, had seen big pearls, and possessed a fair notion of their value. Hence he was well aware that he had a prize that would make a sensation in the world, and one whose owner would be unable to hide his light under a bushel— so far as the police, at least, were concerned.

Nor did he imagine for a moment that Panton would sit down quietly under his loss. Of Hermann he thought no more— dead men tell no tales.

So he traveled round to Adelaide, thence by sea up Spencer's Gulf to Port Augusta, where he joined the camel-trains of Hafiz Khan, the rich Afghan who brought the wool down from the arid interior to the tall ships lying in the river.

INTO Sydney shortly came Hermann Itzig, with the desire for vengeance still hot, but purse low. His guarded inquiries soon let him into the knowledge that the police were on the watch, and had at least twenty men shadowed on suspicion, and waiting the arrival of Panton.

Seeing that so far as his own claim was concerned the case was hopeless, he gave it up. But not until he had satisfied himself that Abdallah was not in the city did he for a time relinquish the hope of getting even with him for that little matter of the knifing in the hut by the Leichardt beach.

Later, falling in with two of his countrymen bound for the West Australian gold fields, he joined them. The trio were lucky, and made each a fair pile. After a hurried visit to the Fatherland, which he left also hurriedly, convinced that for the Australian-born a military despotism was a most unsuitable form of government, Hermann Itzig, returning, bought a station "up north" in South Australia, and after a while began to prosper considerably. But often to him came dreams of the big pearl, shining with its mild and tender light as he had last seen it— an episode in his life that, but for certain pains of frosty mornings, he might have almost come to regard as apocryphal. A stern, resolute man, he was incapable of forgetting an injury; and ever and anon, principally in the winter, he sent agents to work to hunt up Abdallah, meaning, when found, to deal with him after his own fashion.

But when a black man, or a yellow, chooses to hide himself among others of his color, the search is apt to linger and become monotonous.

And so Bob Panton found it.

Received by the police with open arms and a whole tribe of dusky nomads— Manila-men, Kanakas, Javanese, men from the spurs of the Hindu Kush, others from the palm groves of Kandy and the plains of Central India— he could identify none of them. The police had done their best, stimulated by the reward. But the vagueness of the description baffled them. There were so many black men with sharp aquiline features and good teeth, who spoke very little English, and usually wore European clothes. And at last they gave it up as a bad job. So also did the authorities in Melbourne and Adelaide, whither Bob Panton journeyed on his quest, with hopes growing weaker and weaker.

Superstitious in his way as Abdallah, he had quite made up his mind that unless he recovered his Birthday Pearl, no luck would ever again cross his path in this world, nor possibly in the next; and, strong in his belief, he spent every penny he possessed in the fruitless seatch, finding himself at last 'on the wallaby' with a swag upon his back— he, Bob Pantbn, once master and owner ot the smartest little lugger in Torres Straits

Fain would he have returned once more to his old haunts on the Queensland coast; but ha well knew how useless that would be, penniless as he was. And he had seen enough of beach-combing in his day, so had no stomach for that game.

And he worked about from station to station under an assumed name, with the splendid memory of his loss abiding ever upon him, until what preachers oall the "finger of Providence," and lesser men "luck", brought him to Weetah, which was the name of Itzig's station, far to the northward of the Burra.

Here there was a drought prevailing, and men were sinking wells. Panton knew little about the business; but, falling in with a mate who did, he took a contract to put a well down on an out-of-the-way part of the run known as the Sandalwood Ridge.

They struck water at a shallow depth, much to Itzig's delight. Then they built a hut for the shepherd and yard for the sheep, laid troughing, and made everything ready. And, just as they finished, there came a rainfall measurable in feet.

But Panton, in place of leaving, took other work on the run; whilst at Sandalwood the water stood undisturbed, and tall grass grew about hut and troughs, and the yards fell to decay, for nobody ever went that way now feed and water were so plentiful everywhere.

MEANWHILE Abdallah, earning good wages as a first-class driver, made money on the camel train; and presently, leaving Hafiz Khan, he bought a tilted cart and two horses, and took out a license, and began life on his own account, secure in the strength and continuance of bis luck.

He wore the pearl, now in a little leather bag, hung ronnd his neck by a silver chain. And be worshipped it as his god. Nothing but good fortune had been his since the night he had sneaked into the Daisy's cabin whilst the drunken snores of her crew broke the still air, and taken the gem— his own: had he not found it?— from off the cabin table.

And ever since then had he not thriven-thriven until his outlandish signature was beginning to be known at the big bank in King William Street almost as well as that of Hafiz Khan?

And when at rare intervals he allowed his eyes to feast on the soft, lucent iridescence of the wanderful talisman, his belief grew stronger than ever that his Kinset was bound up therein; and that, compared to the power and magic of his treasure, Allah and all his works were as naught. And, indeed, Abdallah had long ago abjured the teachings of his Prophet, conforming to the demands of Australian inland civilisation in the matters of drinking rum, smoking, swearing, and eating flesh, both clean or unclean, with the utmost indifference, exactly the same as any Christian.

So utter was his faith in the efficacy of the gem that if any slight mishap befel, such as the losing of his horses or the breaking of a spoke, he ascribed it to his inconsiderate attempt at Leichardt to get rid of it to the young man whose body had made a sheath for his knife. It was a punishment meted out to him by his divinity.

Many months passed away; he made money, and travelled far and wide.

Then, in an evil hour for himself, he travelled still farther, and fell into a trap set, all unwittingly, for him by two men whom he had injured, and from which all the power of the Birthday Pearl was unable to save him.

One hot summer day, making for Weetah head station, he lost his bearings, and at sundown, he and his horses being parched with thirst, was very pleased to strike the Sandalwood Ridge, with its covered well of still water, sheltering hut, and abundance of feed.

"I THINK," remarked Hermann Itzig to his overseer a month or two afterwards, "that we may as well, perhaps, put a flock at the Sandalwood."

"Very well, sir," replied the overseer. "I'll send Bray here out to do up the hut and yards."

"I'll drive him out," said Hermann. "He's one of the men who worked there, isn't he? I want to have a look round. See that the big water-bag's on the buggy. I don't suppose the stuff in the well's any too good by this time."

"What's that?" asked Itzig of Bray, alias Panton, as, at the end of their twenty-mile drive, they caught sight of something white and round close to the well.

"Tilted cart, I should say," replied the other, peering under the flat of his hand.

As they drove up, two big eagle hawks and some crows flew off the carcasses of couple of dead horses.

Close to the door lay another corpse— that of a man a man with stripes of dry black flesh hanging from his bones.

"Great heaven!" exclaimed Itzig, "what's the matter here?" But Panton made no answer. He was staring intently at the shriveled features of the dead man. As he gazed he saw something shine from between the skeleton fingers of one clenched hand. Stooping, he drew out with a cry the great pearl, Abdallah's god, appealed to in vain during his last agony.

"My pearl!" exclaimed Hermann.

"No— mine!" said Panton. "My Birthday Pearl that Abdallah here stole from me!"

"Are you Panton, then?" asked Hermann.

"Yes," replied Bob, "I am. But what do you know about the matter?"

Then Hermann told his story, waiving all rights, if any belonged by reason of the wounds that ached yet in winter. He could afford to. But what had killed man and horses?

There was a little water left in the bottom of the well-bucket. Hermann tasted it, shook his head, and spat it out. Alongside the bucket lay a native cat, dead. At the troughs, dry now, were others; also crows, all dead.

"I prefer our own water," said he. "Empty the whisky out of that bottle in the buggy, and fill it from the well. I'll fix this stuff up when we get home. That pearl's worth a lot of money. A good day's work for you. And for me, too, perhaps, if my notion turns out correct. Copper's not so low as it was."

Analysis disclosed the secret. The well had been bottomed on a very rich vein of copper ore. The water had become so impregnated with the mineral as to become highly poisonous. A thirsty man and thirsty horses might as well have drunk a strong decoction of arsenic.

IT REQUIRED a deal of persuasion to make Panton part with his pearl. Even as Abdallah, he was minded to make a fetish of the thing— it was so pure-looking, and shone with such a mild graciousness, that it seemed very hard to relinquish possession of it.

But at last wiser counsels prevailed. Messrs. Storr & Mortimer gave £2,500 for it, and with this money Panton bought a partnership in Weetah. And what eventually became of the Birthday Pearl I know not. I note, however, that at the last London wool sales Messrs. Itzig & Panton's clip averaged the top prices of the season.

End

Table of Contents

1: Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom / Irvin S. Cobb

2: The Mysterious Occurrence in Piccadilly / Grant Allen

3: Preliminaries / Cornelia Atwood Comer

4: The Damned Thing / Ambrose Bierce

5: A Catspaw / Jack Rugby

6: Bread Upon The Waters / J. S. Fletcher

7: Almost Immortal / Austin Hall

8: The Failure / Harold Ward

9: Planned by the Stars / C. S. Montanye

10: The Cat / E. F. Benson

11: The Vampire / Sydney Horler

12: The Blue-Nosed Vampire / James Francis Dwyer

13: The Colossus of Arcadia (E Phillips Oppenheim) 1938

14: Wreckers Must Breathe (Hammond Innes) 1940

15: Fear / Stephen French Whitman

16: Otto Dotso's Trouble / Anonymous

17: The Afterglow / Frank Reid

18: All Gold Cañon / Jack London

19: The Fads of David Dadd / John Arthur Barry

20: The Brink of a Future / Frank H. Sweet

21: The Birthday Pearl / John Arthur Barry