DANIEL
HWECH EETLAND
WIDENER
HN NYGG X
Eden
Phillpottsplan datangani



Harvard College Library
AVARDI
HARVAS
-ACADES
CHRISTO
ECCLES
ESIAE
EIN.NO
COIS.
Bought with
Money received from
Library Fines





Daniel Sweetland





重量
​




PAREN
,
At the same moment Daniel saw a horse galloping hard three
hundred yards ahead of him. (Page 295)


By
DI: THILLPOTTS
whor of
"
Firmain," "T" Ring **
..!
.. Prp.0,1.4,.
. POPUL
..


93


Daniel Sweetland
By
EDEN PHILLPOTTS
Author of
“The Secret Woman,” “The River,”
“Children of the Mist,” “The Portreeve,"
“The American Prisoner," Etc.
Illustrated in Water Colors by Frank PARKER
THE POPULAR SHOP
SPECIAL EDITION,
Legerton's Book Store, CHARLESTON, s. C.
New York and LONDON
The AUTHORS AND NEWSPAPERS AssociaTION
1906


22 114818.15
PRVARD COLLERS
JUN 27 1919
LIBRARY
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY
EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
Entered at Stationers' Hall.
All rights reserved.
Composition and Electrotyping by
J. J. Little & Co.
Printed and bound by the
Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass.


CONTENTS
PAGE
.
·
.
·
.
·
.
·
.
·
.
·
·
·
·
·
CHAPTER
I. AT THE "WHITE HART"
II. HANGMAN's HUT .
III. GUNS IN THE NIGHT .
IV. THE WEDDING Day.
V. A GHOST OF A CHANCE
VI. THE WEDDING Night
VII. THE BAD SHIP “PEABODY". .
VIII. MR. SIM TELIS A LIE . .
IX. IN MIDDLECOTT LOWER HUNDRED
X. Dan's LETTER . . . . .
XI. THE LAST OF THE "PEABODY" . .
XII. HENRY VIVIAN TRIES TO DO HIS DUTY
XIII. THE OBI Man . . . .
XIV. JESSE's FINGER-NAIL . .
XV. DANIEL EXPLAINS
XVI. “OBI” at MORETON . .
XVII. THE CONFESSION
XVIII. A BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE . .
XIX. MR. SIM TELLS THE TRUTH .
XX. FIVE MILES IN FIVE MINUTES .
XXI. JOHNNY BEER's MASTERPIECE . .
·
.
170
·
.
187
·
.
205
·
.
.
220
·
235
.
·
.
.
2'8
·
257
·
275
·
290
·
.
04
·





ILLUSTRATIONS
At the same moment Daniel saw a horse galloping hard
three hundred yards ahead of him . . . Frontispiece
PAGE
58
V “Keep a stiff upper lip, my son,” he said, "us 'll do what
men can do" . . . . . . .
✓ "Sorry, Greg!” he cried, “but if I've got to swing it shall
be for something, not nothing" · · · ·
"Air — air — My God — Life!” he cried, and at the same
moment the Obi man leapt forward and hurled him-
self at his son's throat
84
218





(FACSIMILE PAGE OF MANUSCRIPT FROM DANIEL SWEETLAND)
"I'll give you another sovereign for the seent of
Jaoss looked at the doomed man with his load's
paid the secret no good what you gwaine,
massa you a dead gem'man, sar. Nulling
on God eary dark you now . Tive min fling
more and we take it yun Trings and put
you under Neoses la
in what the
ses on are gourd, sar."
dence she talking about?
began Xirian . Then his jaw tell and he
stared at
ho
the
face aber
them
Ford. Behina
blood Jacky, h in frunt, on the other
side of the table, the Oli Man quietly ipped
his rum punete a waited
- Pour now a thing unforeseen occurred.
The
occurred,
awful invitatea ing unforeseen
Auxed with Atmoy Vivians cup fill upon
another, a
Taber Ford it has who leapt to
his feet, criad a horse oathe a lumed upon
the neprobelined him.
Then he
ery -yu-yor! he began.
fall in a heap on the floor twisted
hombley like a onake, while his
fear beat the earth
hands a
' air air my god - lije! he cried,
a ahe same manent, who unter a
i wild free the orman least forward a
huuled himself athing suis throat. But the
Semplullautos
been





DANIEL SWEETLAND
CHAPTER I
AT THE "WHITE HART”
THE bar of the “ White Hart,” Moretonhampa
stead, was full, and, in the atmosphere of smoke
and beer, a buzz of sound went up from many
throats.
In one corner, round a table, men sat and
laughed, but the object of their amusement did
not share the fun. He was a powerful, bull-necked
man with a clean-shorn face, gray whiskers and
dark eyes, that shone brightly under pent-house
brows, bushy and streaked with gray.
Mr. Matthew Sweetland heard the chaff of his
companions and looked grim. He was head game-
keeper at Middlecott Court, and no man had a
worthier reputation. From his master to his sub-
ordinates, all spoke well of him. His life pros-
pered ; his autumn“ tips" were a splendid secret


10
DANIEL SWEETLAND
known only to himself and his wife. He looked
forward presently to retiring from the severe busi-
ness of a gamekeeper and spending the fag end
of life in peace. One thorn alone pricked Mat-
thew, and from that there was no escape. His
only son, Daniel Sweetland, had disappointed him.
The keeper's wife strove to make her husband
more sanguine; neighbors all foretold pleasant
things concerning Daniel; but the lad's reputation
was not good. His knowledge of sport and his
passion for sport had taken a sinister turn. They
were spiced with a love of adventure and very
vague ideas on the law of property. Flogging had
not eradicated these instincts. When the time
came to make choice of a trade, Daniel decided
against gamekeeping
“I be too fond of sport,” he said.
And now he worked at Vitifer Mine on Dart-
moor and was known to be the cleverest poacher
in the district.
On coming of age, the youth made his position
clear to his parents.
“I don't think same as you, father, because
I've larned my lessons at the Board School, an'
ideas be larger now than they was in your time.
I must have my bit o' sport; an' when they catches
me, 'twill be time enough to pull a long face about


12
DANIEL SWEETLAND
A handsome, fair man was speaking. He looked
pale for a country-dweller, and, indeed, his busi-
ness kept him within doors, for he was a footman
at Middlecott Court. His eyes were blue, his face
was long and his features regular. He spoke slowly
and with little accent, for he had copied his mas-
ter's guests carefully and so mended the local pe-
culiarities of his speech.
" 'Tis said without doubt, Sweetland, that the
burglars must have been helped by somebody-
man or maid-who knew the house and grounds.
What did Bartley here think when first he heard
about it?"
The footman turned to a thin, weak-faced, mid-
dle-aged person who sat next to him. Luke Bartley
was a policeman, at present off duty, and a recent
burglary of valuable plate was the subject they
now discussed.
Mr. Bartley had a feeble mouth and shifty eye.
He avoided the gamekeeper's scowling glance and
answered the footman.
"Well, we must judge of folks by their records.
I don't say Dan Sweetland's ever been afore the
Bench ; but that's thanks to his own wicked clever-
ness. His father may flash his eyes at me; but I
will say that taking into account Dan's character
an' plack an' cheek, I ban't going to rule him out


DANIEL SWEETLAND
13
of this job. He might have helped to do it very eas-
ily. He knows Westcombe so well as anybody, and
his young woman was under-housemaid in the
house till a week afore the burglary. Well, I won't
say no more. Only 'tis my business as a police
constable to put two and two together, which I
shall do, by the help of God, until I be promoted.
Besides, where was Daniel that night ?”.
“He was fishing up 'pon the Moor in Dart,"
said another young man, a young and humble ad-
mirer of Daniel Sweetland.
“So he may have told you; but what's his word
worth q”
Then the youth, who was called Prowse, spoke
again and turned to the footman.
“ Anyway, it ban't a very seemly thing of you,
Titus Sim, to say a word against Dan; for 'tis well
known that you was after Minnie Marshall your-
self."
Titus Sim grew paler than usual and turned
roughly on the youngster.
“ What a fool! And impertinent with it! You
ought to go back to school, Samuel Prowse. 'Tis-
n't right that you should talk an' drink with
grown men, for you're too young to see a joke ap-
parently. D’you think I don't know Daniel better
than you? D’you think I'd breathe a word against


14
DANIEL SWEETLAND
him—the best friend I've got in the world? Of
course he had no hand in the burglary at West-
combe. If I thought he had-but it's a mad idea.
He's got his own sense of honor, and a straighter
man don't walk this earth. As to Miss Marshall-
she liked him better than she liked me; and there's
an end to that."
“I'm sorry I spoke then,” said Dan's young
champion. “I beg your pardon, Titus Sim.”
“Granted-granted. Only remember this:, I'm
Dan's first friend, and best and truest friend, and
he's mine. We'm closer than brothers-him an'
me ; an' if I make a joke against him now an'
then, to score against Bartley here, it's friend-
ship's right. But I'll not let any other man do it."
The policeman nodded.
“There was the three of you," he said. “ Dan,
an' you, an' Sir Reginald's son, Mr. Henry.
When you were all boys, 'twas a saying in More-
ton that one was never seed without t'others. But
rare rascals all three in them days! You've made
my legs tired a many times, chasing of 'e out of
the orchards."
“ Such friendships ought to last for ever," de-
clared Titus thoughtfully. “Mister Henry's a
good friend to me yet. When I got weakly about
the breathing, 'twas him that made Sir Reginald


16
DANIEL SWEETLAND
nearly eight mile by road from the nearest sta-
tion."
"They think the thieves had a motor car," said
the youngest of the party, Daniel's admirer, the
lad Prowse. “ 'Twas your son himself, Mr.
Sweetland, who thought of that ; for I heard him
tell the inspector so last week at the Warren
Inn'; an' the inspector—Mr. Gregory, I mean-
slapped his leg an' said 'twas the likeliest thing
he'd heard."
They talked at length and the glasses were filled
again.
“ As to Dan," summed up Mr. Bartley, “ come
a few weeks more an' he'll be married. There's
nought like marriage for pulling a man together ;
an' she'm a very nice maiden by all accounts.
Ban't I right, gamekeper?”
"You are," answered Sweetland. “Though I
say it, Minnie Marshall's too good for my son.
I never met a girl made of properer stuff-so quiet
and thoughtful. Many ladies I've seen in the
sporting field weren't a patch on her for sense an'
dignity. God He knows what she seed in Daniel. I
sliould have thought that Sim here, with his nice
speech, an' pale face, an' in-door manners, was
much more like to suit her.”
Under the table Titus Sim clinched his hands


DANIEL SWEETLAND
17
until the knuckles grew white. But on his face
was a resigned smile.
“ Thank you for that word, Sweetland. 'Twas
a knock-down blow; but of course my only wish is
her happiness now. I pray an’hope that Dan will
make a good husband for her.”
“She've got a power over him as I never
thought no female could get over Dan," said
Prowse.
“That's because you'm a green boy an' don't
know what the power of the female be yet," an-
swered Bartley. " There he is !” he added.
“ He'm sitting in the trap outside, an' Mr. Henry's
speaking to him.”
Sweetland and the rest turned their eyes to the
window.
“ He's borrowed the trap from Butcher Smart,"
said Daniel's father. “He's going to drive Minnie
out to the Warren Inn'on Dartmoor this evening.
There's a cottage there, within two miles from
Vitifer Mine; an’ if she likes it, he's going to take
her there to dwell after they'm married.”
At the door of the “White Hart” stood a horse
and trap. A young woman held the reins and be-
side the vehicle two men talked and walked up
and down. The threads of their lives were inex-
tricably interwoven, though neither guessed it.


18
DANIEL SWEETLAND
Birth, education, position separated them widely ;
it had seemed improbable that circumstances could
bring them more closely together ; but chance
willed otherwise, and time was to see the friend-
ship of their boyhood followed by strange and ter-
rible tests and hazards involving the lives of both.
Young Henry Vivian had just come down from
Oxford. His career was represented by a first
class in classics and a “ blue" for Rugby football.
He thought well of himself and had a right to do
so. He had imbibed the old-fashioned, crusted
opinions of his race, and his own genius and incli-
nations echoed them. He was honorable, and up-
right, and proud. He recognized his duty to his
ancestors and to those who should follow him.
Time had not tried him and, lacking any gift of
imagination, he was powerless to put himself
in the place of those who might have stronger pas-
sions, greater temptations, and fewer advantages
than himself. Thus his error was to be censorious
and uncharitable. Eton had also made him con-
ceited. He was a brown, trim, small-featured man,
with pride of race in the turn of his head and
haughty mouth. His small mustache was curled
up at the ends ; his eyes were quick and hard. He
placed his hand on Daniel Sweetland's shoulder as
they walked together; and he had to raise his el-


DANIEL SWEETLAND
19
bow pretty high, for Dan stood six feet tall, while
young Vivian was several inches shorter.
“We're old friends, Daniel, and I owe you more
than you'd admit-to shoot straight and to ride
straight too, for that matter. So it's a sorrow to
me to hear these bad reports.”
“ Us don't think alike, your honor,” said Daniel.
“But for you I'd do all a man might. There's
few I'd trouble about ; but 'twould be a real bad
day for me if I thought as you was angry with
me.”
“ Go straight then-in word and deed. With
such a father as Matthew, there's no excuse for
you. An' such a wife too. For I'll wager that
young woman there will be a godsend, Daniel.
My mother tells me that Lady Giffard at West-
combe says she never had a better servant.”
Daniel's eyes clouded at a recollection.
“ Her ladyship tells true,” he said ; "and yet
there be knaves here and there go about saying
that Minnie had a hand in the burglary a fort-
night since, and that she helped me to know the
ways of the house. I knocked Saul Pratt down in
the public street last Wednesday for saying it,
an' broke loose two of his front teeth."
“I'd have done the same, for I know that rumor
is a lie, Dan; an' so does every other man who


20
DANIEL SWEETLAND
knows you. By the way, I've got something for
you. It will show you that I'm going to forget the
poaching stories against you. If you'll come up to-
morrow night at nine and ask for me, I'll tell them
to bring you to my study, and we'll have a yarn
about old times. It's a gun I have for you-a real
good one as a wedding present. And well I know
you'll never put it to a dishonest use, Daniel.”
Young Sweetland grinned and grew hot with
pleasure. He was a fine, powerful man, very like
his father, but with some magic in his face the
parent lacked. Dan's deep jaw was underhung a
trifle; his forehead sloped back rather sharply and
his neck was thin and sinewy. Every line of him
spoke the fighter, but he was bull-dog in temper as
well as in build. Good-nature dwelt in his counte-
pance, and he never tired of laughing. Strong nat-
ural sense of right and honor marked him. He
was clever, observant, and well educated. Only in
the matter of game Dan's attitude puzzled his
friends and made them mistrust him. Women
liked him well, for there was that in his face, and
black eyes, and curly hair, that made them his
friends. Children loved him better than he loved
them. As for his sweetheart, she trusted him and
trusted herself to cure Dan's errors very swiftly
after they should be married.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
21
ca
“ I'm sure I'm terrible obliged to you; an' I'll
walk up to-morrow night, if you please; an' every
time I pull trigger, I'll think kindly of you, Mister
Henry, sir. Out by Vitifer, where I be going to
live if my young woman likes it, there's scores of
rabbits, an'a good few golden plover an' crested
plover in winter, not to name the snipe.”
“I'll come out occasionally,” said Henry Viv-
ian, “ and when you can get a day off, you shall
show me some sport.”
“Sport, I warrant you. An' you'll be riding
that way to hounds often, no doubt. There'll al-
ways be a welcome for 'e an' a drop of drink to
my cottage, your honor.”
6 To-morrow night then. But don't keep your
young woman waiting any longer.”
Dan touched his hat and turned to the dog-cart,
while his friend nodded and entered the “White
Hart."
There Henry Vivian found his father and two
other Justices of the Peace at their luncheon in a
private room. Sir Reginald and his friends were
full of the burglary at Westcombe. All knew Lady
Giffard, a wealthy widow, and all sympathized
with her grave loss. But no theory of the crime
seemed plausible, and the police were at fault.
The subject was presently dismissed, for August


22
DANIEL SWEETLAND
had nearly run its course and partridges was the
theme proper to the time.
“I shall have some fun with them,” said young
Vivian ;“ but I'm afraid the pheasants won't see
much of me this year."
His father explained.
“My son is going to visit our West Indian
estates this winter. I want to be rid of them, for
though they made my grandfather's fortune before
the days of the Emancipation, they've been rather
a white elephant in our family for the last half-cen-
tury and more. The returns go from bad to worse.
Indeed, there is more in it than meets the eye. But
Hal's no dunce at figures, and they'll not hoodwink
him out there, even if they attempt it.” .


CHAPTER II
HANGMAN'S HUT
MINNIE MARSHALL was a quiet, brown girl, with
a manner very reserved. Her parents were dead;
her years, since the age of sixteen, had been spent
in service. Now marriage approached for her and,
at twenty, she contemplated without fear or mis-
trust a husband and a home. Of immediate rela-
tions the girl possessed none, save an old aunt at
Moreton, who kept a little shop there. Minnie was
a beauty and well experienced in the matter of
suitors, but Daniel Sweetland's romance ran
smooth and she left him not long in doubt. That
young Titus Sim had been a better match, most
folks declared; and even Daniel, from the strong
position of success, often asked Minnie why she
had put him before his friend.
Now, as the lad drove his sweetheart to inspect a
cottage near his work on Dartmoor, they overtook
Mr. Sim returning to Middlecott Court.
“Jump up, Titus, an' I'll give 'e a lift to the
lodge,” said Daniel.


24
DANIEL SWEETLAND
The footman took off his hat very politely to
Minnie, then he climbed into the vacant seat at the
back of the trap and the party drove forward.
Dan was full of the interview with Henry Viv-
ian, and the two young men both sang the praises
of their old companion.
“He's off to foreign parts in a few weeks, but
he hopes to be at my wedding,” said Dan. “He'd
be very sorry not to be there. But he've got to go
pretty soon to look after Sir Reginald's business,
by all accounts."
“There's been a lot of talk about the sugar
estates in the West Indies,” explained Sim. “I
overhear these things at table. Mr. Henry's going
out to look into affairs. There's an overseer-the
son of Sir Reginald's old overseer. But master
doubts whether his figures can be trusted, and
whether things are as bad as he says they are. So
Henry Vivian is going to run out without any
warning. He'll soon have the business ship-shape
and find out any crooked dealings-such a clever
man as he is."
“ Awful strict, sure enough,” said Dan with a
chuckle. “He'd heard I was a bit of a free-trader
in matters of sporting, an' he was short an'
sharp, I promise you. However, 'tis only the point
of view, an'all owing to me being a radical in poli-


DANIEL SWEETLAND
25
tics. He knows that I'd not do a dirty trick, else
he wouldn't have bought me a new gun for a wed-
ding present. I'll show him some sport on Darty-
moor come presently."
Sim changed the subject.
“I hope you'll like your home up-along, Miss
Marshall,” he said.
Her lips tightened a little ; she turned round
and her fearless eyes met the speaker's.
“ Thank you, Mr. Sim; and I hope so too."
Her voice was cold and indifferent.
“ An' no man will be welcomer there than you,
Titus,” said Sweetland. “You an' me will have
many a good bit of sporting up-along, I hope."
“You'll have something better to do than that,
Dan,” said Minnie.“ Sporting be very well for a
bachelor, but work an’ wages must be the first
thought come a man's got a wife.”
“No need to tell me that. I'll work for 'e as
hard as a horse; an’ well you know it.”.
A lodge rose beside them and Daniel pulled up
at the main entrance to Middlecott. Noble gates
of iron ascended here. Ancient leaden statues or-
namented the four posts of this entrance, and one
of them, a Diana, had a bullet wound under her left
breast. Others among these figures were also pep-
pered with small shot the folly of bygone sports-


26
DANIEL SWEETLAND
men of the Vivian clan. From the gates a wide
avenue of Spanish chestnuts extended, and half
a mile away, rising above the heads of stately con-
ifers, stood Middlecott Court. Behind it, ridge on
ridge, billowed the fringes of the Moor. The gate-
lodge was Daniel Sweetland's home, and the sound
of wheels brought his mother from the door. Mrs.
Sweetland smiled as she saw Minnie and came out
and kissed her.
“So you'm going up for to see the li'l house,
my pretty? I do hope you'll like it. 'Tis small
but weather-proof, an' all very nice an'. water-
sweet."
“I shall like it very well, mother, if Dan likes
it," answered the girl.
"Us will be back by eight o'clock or earlier,
an' Minnie will stay an' eat a bit with us,” re-
marked Daniel.
Then he drove on and left his mother looking
after them. Mr. Sim had already started upon his
way to the Hall.
“Poor old Titus,” said Dan, as he walked by the
trap presently to ease the horse at a stiff hill.
“However did you come to like me best, Min ?"
" Who can tell?”
“I wish, all the same, you thought kinder of
him. You'm awful cold to the man."


DANIEL SWEETLAND
27
“ He makes me cold. For my part, I wish you
didn't like him so well as you do."
Dan grew rather red.
“No man, nor woman neither, will ever stand
between me an' Titus Sim,” he said.
“You might think 'twas jealousy," she an-
swered quietly, “for you are sun, an' air, an’ life
to me, Daniel. 'Tis my love quickens my heart.
But I'm not jealous. Only I can't pretend to care
for him. I've got nought against him save a wom-
anly, nameless dread. An' why it's in my heart
I don't know, for I ban't one to mislike folks with-
out a cause."
" Then best to get it out of your heart," he said
roughly. “You'm not used to talk nonsense.
The man's one in a thousand-kind, honest, gentle,
an' as good a shot as there is in the county.
Straight as a line, too. Straighter than I be my-
self, for that matter. He've behaved very well over
this, for well I know what it cost him to lose you."
"I wish I felt to respect him like you do. 'Tis
wicked not to, yet I be asking myself questions all
the time. He'm so rich, they say. How can he be
rich, Daniel? Where do the money come from?"
“From the same place as my own father's: from
gentlefolks’ pockets. The men he waits on make
no more of a five-pound note than we do of a half-


DANIEL SWEETLAND
e was a reason
penny. Titus will die a rich man, and glad am I
to think of it; for he's been a most unlucky chap
in other ways. There was his health first, as
wouldn't let him be a keeper, though he wanted
to, and then-you. An’ a worthless beggar like
me-I can do what I please an’ win you. All the
same, I don't think no better of you for not think-
ing better of my best friend.”
“I hope you'll never find there was a reason
for what I feel, Daniel.”
“I swear I never shall ; an' I'll thank you to
drop it, Minnie. I don't want to think my wife is
a fool. Nothing on God's earth shall come be-
tween me an’ Sim-be sure of that!”
The girl's lips tightened again, but she was too
wise to answer. In truth she had no just grievance
against her sweetheart's friend. Titus had asked
her to marry him a week before Daniel put the
question, and she had refused him. Two days
later with passion he had implored her to recon-
sider her decision; and when again she answered
“ no," he had spoken wildly and called Heaven
to witness that she should be his sooner or later.
His white face had flamed red for once, and his
smooth, steady voice had broken. But on their
next meeting Titus was himself again. He had
then begged Minnie's pardon for his temper; and


DANIEL SWEETLAND
29
when their little world knew that she was going to
take the gamekeeper's son, Mr. Sim was the first to
give Daniel joy and congratulate Minnie.
She had no definite case against him; but a
deep intuition dominated her mind, and frankly
she regretted Daniel's affection for his old rival.
Now, however, she returned silence to her lov-
er's angry words, according to her custom. Soon
the climb to the Moor was accomplished and the
cold wind lit Minnie's eyes and calmed her sweet-
heart. Over the great expanse of autumnal purple
and gold they took their way, and now sank into
valleys musical with falling water, and now trotted
upon great heaths, where sheep ran, ponies gal-
loped, and the red kine roamed. To the horizon
rose the granite peaks of the land. Eastward there
billowed Hameldon's huge, hogged back, and to
the north rolled Cosdon; but Yes Tor and High
Willhayes—the loftiest summits of the Moor-
were hidden. Westerly a mighty panorama of
hills and stony pinnacles spread in a semicircle,
and the scene was bathed with the clear light that
follows rain. The sun began to sink upon his cloud
pillows and heaven glowed with infinite brilliance
and purity.
“ 'Twill be good to live up here in this sweet
air, along with you, dear heart," said Minnie.


30
DANIEL SWEETLAND
“ Yes, an' it will; an'-an' I'm sorry I spoke
harsh a minute agone, my own dear, darling
Min," he cried.
“I forgived 'e afore the words was out of your
mouth,” she answered.
Whereupon he dropped the reins and hugged
her close and nearly upset the trap.
Presently they passed Bennett's Cross, where
that mediæval monument stands deep in the
heather; then they came to the “ Warren Inn,"
perched on lofty ground under Huston Ridge in
the middle of the Moor.
A man came out of the Inn as Daniel drew up
and walked to the horse's nose and stroked it.
He was almost hairless. His small eyes glittered
out of his round countenance like a pig's; his short
figure was of amazing corpulence. A smile sat on
his fat face, and his voice came in a thin and pip-
ing treble, like a bird's.
“ Here you be then?”.
“Yes, Johnny, here us be. This is Minnie Mar-
shall, who's going to marry me presently. Minnie,
this here man is Johnny Beer-beer by name an'
barrel by nature! There's not a better chap 'pon
the Moor, and him an' his wife will be our only
neighbors for three miles round.”


DANIEL SWEETLAND
31
We en
Mr. Beer beamed and shook Minnie's out-
stretched hand.
"A bowerly maiden, sure enough,” he said
frankly. “I hope you'll like the cot, my dear.
'Tis lonesome to a town-bred mind, but very pleas-
ant you'll find. And wi' a husband handy, you'll
have all you want. An' my missis for your friend,
I hope. She'm not a beauty, but she wears some-
thing wonderful, an’ she've a heart so wide as a
church door, though fretful where the poultry's
concerned. Everybody to Postbridge will tell you
of her qualities. Of course it ban't my place. But
never was a one like she in all the blessed West
Countree.”
“ Bring a pint of liquor an' the key of the cot-
tage, Johnny,” said young Sweetland; “ an' then
after a drink, us'll walk down, an' Minnie can
make up her mind.”
" There's only one thing against the place, an'
that is the name,” declared Mr. Beer. “ Though
for my part I don't see why you shouldn't change
the name. It can be done without any fuss or
documents, I believe. 'Tis called 'Hangman's
Hut,' because the first person as lived there killed
himself, being tired of having the world against
him. With an old peat knife he took his life. But
if I was you, I should just change that an' call it


32 DANIEL SWEETLAND
:
by some pretty name, like · Moor View Villa,' or
what not.”
“Never,” declared Daniel. “I'm above a small
thing like that-so's my girl. “Hangman's Hut'
be a good, grim name-not easy to forget. Shall
be left so-eh, Minnie?”
“ The name's nought if the place is weather-
tight, an' healthy, an' clean. Call it what you
please, Daniel.”
Sweetland turned triumphantly to the inn-
keeper.
“ That's the sort she is," he said.
" Ah-strong-minded, without a doubt,” ad-
mitted Mr. Beer. “ Wish my Jane was. Wish I
was too. 'Tis a very good gift on Dartymoor; but
we'm soft in heart as well as body. We live by
yielding. I couldn't bide in a place by that name.
It's owing to the poetry in me. 'Twill out. I must
be rhyming. So sure as there comes a Bank Holi-
day, or the first snow, or an extra good run with
hounds, then verses flow out of me, like feathers
off a goose."
The lovers drank a pint of beer between them
turn and turn about; but Minnie's share was tri-
fling. Then they walked off to Hangman's Hut,
where it stood alone in a dimple of the hillside half
a mile from the high road.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
33
The cottage looked east and was approached by
a rough track over the Moor. High ground
shielded it from the prevalent riot of the west
wind, and nearly two miles distant, in the midst
of a chaos of broken land and hillocks of débris,
a great water-wheel stood out from the waste and
a chimney rose above Vitifer Mine.
Minnie gravely examined the cottage and di-
rected Daniel where to take measurements. The
place was in good repair and had only been vacant
two months. It was not the last tenant who had
destroyed himself, but an unhappy water-bailiff
many years previously.
“ The golden plover nearly always come this
way when they first arrive in winter. Many's the
pretty bird I'll shoot 'e, Min.”
She nodded. Her thoughts were on the kitchen
range at the time.
" You'll often see hounds in full cry— 'tis a
noble sight.”
But Minnie was examining the larder.
She spent an hour in the cottage, and no experi-
enced housewife could have shown more judgment
and care. Then, much to Daniel's satisfaction, his
sweetheart decided for Hangman's Hut.
“But I wish you could get it for five shillings a
week, instead of six, Dan."


34
DANIEL SWEETLAND
“No, no! I can't beat Beer down. He'm too
good a neighbor, an' 'twould never do to begin
with a difference of opinion. Six ban't too much.
An' I'm to get twenty shillings wages after Christ-
mas. You always forget that. There'll be tons
of money.”
Mrs. Beer greeted them on their return to the
“ Warren Inn.” She was a plain, careworn soul,
who let her poultry get upon her nerves and take
the place of children as a source of anxiety. In
her sleep she often cried out about laying hens and
foxes, but everybody knew her for the best crea-
ture on Dartmoor. The women talked together
and the men drank. Then Daniel prepared to
start, and soon he and Minnie were jogging home
amid the dusk of night. Dartmoor stretched
vast and formless round about them, and Minnie
discussed second-hand furniture. She held that
carpets were a luxury not to be named; but Daniel
insisted upon one in the parlor.
“For our bedroom,” he said, “I've got six
jolly fine mats made of skins. One's a badger's,
an’ one's a foxhound's, an' three be made out of
a horse's skin, an'one's that old collie as I
used to have. There was a touch of Gordon setter
in him; an'a very pretty mat for your little feet


DANIEL SWEETLAND
35
he'll make. An' proud he'd be if he knowed it,
poor old devil.”
“ They'll be very nice if the moth don't get in
them,” said Minnie.
Then, weary of sordid details, Dan let his girl
take the whip and reins; and, while she drove, he
cuddled her.


CHAPTER III
GUNS IN THE NIGHT
TIME sped swiftly for the young miner and his
sweetheart, and Daniel told his friend Prowse, as
a piece of extraordinary information, that he had
killed nothing that ran or swam or flew for the
space of three weeks. Seeing that these innocent
days formed part of the month of September, the
greatness of the occasion may be judged. Every
moment of the man's leisure was spent at Hang-
man's Hut; and once he took a whole holiday and
went with Minnie to Plymouth, that he might
spend ten pounds on furniture. He also purchased
a ready-made suit of gray cloth spotted with yel-
low, which seemed well adapted for his wedding-
day. It proved too small in the back, but Daniel
insisted on buying it, and Minnie promised to let
out the shoulders.
Then came the night before his wedding, and the
young man looked round his new home and re-
flected that he would not enter it again until he
came with a wife on his arm. Mrs. Beers had proved


DANIEL SWEETLAND
37
of precious worth during these preparations, and
now all was ready. Even the little evening meal
that would greet Minnie on her arrival had been
prepared. A cold tongue, a cold fowl, two big red
lettuces from Johnny Beer's garden, cakes, a bot-
tle of pale ale, and other delicacies were laid in.
Groceries and stores had been secured, and many
small matters destined to surprise and delight the
housewife were in their places; for, unknown to
Minnie, Daniel had spent five pounds, the gift of
his mother-and the money represented numerous
useful household contrivances.
It began to grow dusk when young Sweetland's
work was done. Then the ruling passion had play
with him and an enterprise long since planned oc-
cupied his attention for the rest of his last bache-
lor night. It was now October.
“ A brace of pheasants would look mighty fine
in Minnie's larder," thought Dan, “ an’there they
shall be afore I go home to-night."
He had some vague idea of giving up his dis-
honest sport after marriage, but in his heart he
knew that no such thing would happen.
Much talk of poaching was in the air at More-
tonhampstead about this season, and raids and
rumors of raids at Middlecott and elsewhere kept
the keepers anxious and wakeful; but no sensation


38
DANIEL SWEETLAND
marked the opening of the season, though Matthew
Sweetland had secret troubles which he only im-
parted to his second in command, a young and
zealous man called Adam Thorpe. Birds had gone,
and there were marks in the preserves that told
ugly tales to skilled eyes; but Sweetland failed to
bring the evil-doers to justice, and a cloud pres-
ently rose between his subordinate and himself,
for Thorpe did not hesitate to declare that the
head-keeper's own son was responsible. With all
his soul Daniel's father resented this suspicion,
and yet too well he knew the other had just
grounds for it. Once only the father taxed Daniel,
and the younger man fell into a rage and reminded
old Sweetland how long ago he had sworn upon his
oath never to enter Middlecott preserves.
“You ought to know me better than think it,"
he said bitterly. “Be I what I may, you've no
just right to hold me an oath-breaker; an’ if I
meet that blustering fool Thorpe, I'll mark him,
so's he'll carry my anger to the grave. Any fool
could hoodwink him. He walks by night like an
elephant. There's no fun in taking Middlecott
pheasants. Anyway, I never have an' never will."
But the preserves at Westcombe Daniel re-
garded differently. They extended under Hamel-
don on the skirt of the Moor; and this night he


40
DANIEL SWEETLAND
The owner hesitated between these weapons.
His inclination was toward the fowling-piece; hie
instinct turned him to the silent air-gun.
“ Two shots at most, then a bolt,” he reflected.
“ Anyway, there won't be a soul that side to-night,
for Wilkins and the others at Westcombe will all
be down on the lower side, where they are having
a' battoo 'to-morrow. So I'll chance it."
He broke open a box of cartridges, loaded the
gun and then left Hangman's Hut, locking the
door behind him.
Westcombe lay midway between Middlecott and
the Moor. Of old there had existed great rivalry
between the houses of Vivian and Giffard as to
their game, but for many years the first-named
estates produced heavier bags, and, after the death
of Sir George Giffard, Westcombe went steadily
down, for Sir George's son and heir had little love
of sport. Old Lady Giffard, however, still dwelt
at Westcombe and rejoiced to entertain the de-
creasing numbers of her late husband's friends.
A shooting party was now collected at the old
house, and a big battue had been planned for the
following day.
" 'Twould keep any but Mister Henry away
from my wedding,” thought Daniel. “ Of course
not one man in a million would put another chap's
1.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
wedding afore a “battoo.' I wouldn't. But he will.
'Tis an awful fine thing never to break your word,
no doubt. You can trust that man like you can
the sun."
The young poacher pursued his way without in-
cident and sank into the underwoods of West-
combe as the moon rose. He waited an hour hid-
den within ten yards of the keepers' path; but
silence reigned in the forest, and only the faint
tinkle of frost under white moonlight reached his
ear. Once or twice an uneasy cry or flutter from
a bird that felt the gathering cold fell upon night;
and once, far away, Dan's ears marked gun-fire.
The sound interested him exceedingly, for it cer-
tainly meant that somebody else was engaged upon
his own rascally business. Long he listened, and
presently other shots in quick succession clearly
echoed across the peace of the hour. They were
remote, but they came from Middlecott, as Daniel
well knew.
" 'Tis Thorpe an' my father for sartain,” he
said to himself. “Well, I hope father haven't
met with no hurt to keep him away from my wed-
ding."
Now Dan turned his attention to his own affairs
and was soon in the coverts. He crept slowly
through the brushwood and lifted his head cau-


42 DANIEL SWEETLAND
tiously at every few steps. Often for five minutes
together he remained motionless as the dead fern
in which he stood; often he might have been a
stock or stone, so still was he. Only the light in
his eyes or the faint puff of steam at his lips in-
dicated that he was alive. The pheasants slept
snug aloft and Dan heard a fox bark near him
and smiled.
“You'm wanting your supper, my red hero, no
doubt, an' can't reach it. Well, well, you'll have
to go content wi' a rabbit: the long-tails be for
your betters.”
He had crossed a drive ten minutes later and
was now in the midst of the preserves. Presently,
at a spinney edge, he got the moon between him-
self and the fringe of the wood, and sneaked
stealthily along examining the boughs above him
as they were thrown into inky relief against the
shining sky. Many birds he passed until at length
he came to two sitting near together. Then, work-
ing to a point from which one bird came half into
line with the other, he fired and dropped both.
Like thunder the gun bellowed in that deep silence,
and a lurid flame dimmed the silver of the night.
Then peace returned, and long before a flat layer
of smoke had risen above the tree-tops and dis-
limned under the moon; while still a subdued flut-


DANIEL SWEETLAND 43
ter and cry in the woods told of alarm, and the
sharp smell of burnt powder hung in the air, Dan-
iel Sweetland was off to the Moor with two fine
pheasants under his coat and his gun on his
shoulder.
A mile away three keepers, watching round the
best and richest covers of Westcombe, heard the
poacher's gun and used bad language. Then two
started whence the sound had come.
“I've christened you, anyway,” said Dan to his
new weapon. “ Come to think of it, old Wilkins,
the keeper at Westcombe, never gived my Minnie
a wedding present, though a cousin by marriage.
So now these here birds will do very nice instead,
an'make us quits.”
Within the hour he was back in the Moor and
soon returned to his cottage. But a surprise
awaited him, for upon the high road, as he passed
the “ Warren Inn” and prepared to turn off to
where Hangman's Hut lay, with its two little win-
dows glimmering like eyes under the moon, Daniel
heard steady feet running slowly behind him and
saw a man approaching along the way. Dan leapt
off the high road instantly and hid himself beside
the path. But the other apparently had not seen
him, for he trotted past and went forward. Daniel


44
DANIEL SWEETLAND
left his hiding-place just in time to see a man van-
ishing into the night.
No little remained to be done before he sought
the little room he occupied in his father's house at
Middlecott lodge-gates. First he returned to Hang-
man's Hut; then he put up his gun and, taking a
hammer, a big nail and a piece of string, entered
his garden and lifted the cover off a little well that
stood there. He then bent over it and drove in his
nail as far down as he could reach from the top.
Next he fastened his pheasants to the string and
lowered them twenty-five yards into the gloom be-
neath. The string he fastened to the nail.
“ They'll do very nice an' comfortable there till
us feel to want 'em,” he thought. Then he locked
up the house once more and started for Middlecott.
Again, as he passed over the Moor to the main
road, did he hear the sound of feet not far off, and
again did a man take shape out of the darkness
and move away before him. This time the figure
leapt up out of the heath right in his path and
hastened in the direction of Hangman's Hut.
s. Be blessed if the whole parish ban't up an'
doing to-night!” laughed Daniel. “ 'Tis some
blackguard trapping Johnny Beer's rabbits, I
lay.”
Then he set off briskly homewards and did not


DANIEL SWEETLAND
stop until he passed the corner of Westcombe
woods and saw two men standing together at the
stile over which he had himself crept some hours
before.
“ Seen anybody up-along, mate?” asked one.
“Yes, I did,” answered Daniel. “A chap in
a hurry, too-running for his life.”
“You be Dan Sweetland!” cried the other man.
“ Did you hear a gun fire awhile back, Sweet-
land ?”
“I heard several," replied the young man.
“ They've been busy down to Middlecott, or I'm
mistaken. For my part, I wish I'd been there;
but I wasn't. Too much on my hands, you see,
to trouble about sporting. I'm going to be mar-
ried to-morrow; an' you can tell your old man,
Wilkins, that my sweetheart was rather aston-
ished he didn't give her a wedding present-him
being related by marriage.”
The keepers laughed. Both felt morally certain
that Daniel had fired the shot which brought them
from the distant woods; both knew that to prove
it would be impossible.
“ An’I dare say there'll be a nice pheasant for
supper to-morrow night at Hangman's Hut-eh,
Dan?” asked one.
“Oh, no, there won't, Jack Bates. I like my


46
DANIEL SWEETLAND
game hung a bit, same as the quality do. If you'll
come to supper this day week, I'll see what I can
do for 'e."
The keepers laughed again, and Sweetland went
his way.
At home yet another surprise awaited him. His
father's cottage flamed with lights. Instead of
silence and sleep brooding here, with the glimmer-
ing leaden statues standing like sentinels above,
as he had often seen them on returning from noc-
turnal enterprises, Dan found his father's cottage
awake and full of stir and bustle. The door was
open and from the kitchen came Matthew's voice.
When Dan entered Mr. Sweetland was sitting
in an old eared chair by the fire in his night-shirt.
A red night-cap covered his head and his person
was largely exposed, where Mrs. Sweetland ap-
plied vinegar and brown paper to red bruises. The
keeper evidently suffered great agony, but no sign
of suffering escaped his lips.
He turned to Dan and spoke.
“ Be that you? Where was you this night,
Daniel?”
“ Not in Middlecott Woods, father; that I'll
swear to. But I'm feared that you was-to poor
purpose. Have 'e catched anybody?”.
“No; but Adam Thorpe was hit an' went down.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
47
Me an'him have long knowed what was doing, an'
we gived it out at the White Hart'bar in mixed
company that we was to be in Thorley Bottom to-
night. Then we went to the coverts an', sure
enough, surprised my gentlemen. Two of 'em.
They fired two shots, an’ we laid wait an’ went for
'em as they came out wi' birds. I got one down
an’he bested me. What he've broken, if anything,
I can't say. T'other fired on Thorpe an' he
couldn't get up. Afterwards, when they'd got
clear, I found he was alive but couldn't speak.
Then I crawled to the house, an’some of the gen-
tlemen and a in-door man or two comed out. 'Twas
only eleven of the clock at latest. They carried
Thorpe to the cottage hospital at Moreton an' sent
me home. Us'll hear to-morrow how he fares, poor
soul.”
“I knowed he'd catch it sooner or late," said
Dan. “ Such a cross-grained bully as him. But
I hope 'twill larn him wisdom. An' you. Be you
hurt in the breathing? Will 'e be at my wedding
to-morrow? It shall be put off if you can't come.”
“ 'Tis all right if you can swear you had no
hand in this. That's the best plaster to my
bruises,” answered his father.
“Of course I can. Why for won't you trust
me? I know nought about it-God's my judge."


48
DANIEL SWEETLAND
" Then you'd better get to your bed an' sleep,”
said his mother.
“ All's done at the Hut,” he answered, “ an'
the carriage be ordered. After us be married,
we'll walk over to Minnie's aunt an' have the
spread as the old woman have arranged; then
we'll drive straight away off to the Moor. An' if
'tis wet weather, us be going to have a covered
cab; for I won't have Minnie drowned on her
wedding-day. Please God, you'll be up to coming
to church, father."
" I shall be there," said Matthew-" there an'
glad to be there, since you wasn't doing any harm
this night. But Mr. Henry may not come. I had
speech with him, for the gentlemen hadn't gone
to bed. Sir Reginald's in a proper fury. They'll
leave no stone unturned to take the rascals. My
man won't travel far, I should reckon, for I gived
him quite as good as I got, maybe better."
“You've got enough anyway,” declared the
keeper's wife. “Now lean on Dan an' me, an'
we'll fetch 'e up to your chamber.”
Without a groan Matthew Sweetland let them
help him to his bed. Then at dawn the pain of his
bruises lessened and he slept.


CHAPTER IV
THE WEDDING DAY
DANIEL's wedding-day dawned gloriously and
at the lodge-gates a splendor of autumn foliage
blazed in the morning light. But Mr. Sweetland
woke black and blue, and stiff in all his joints. He
had broken a finger of the right hand; that, how-
ever, did not prevent him dressing in his best
black and setting out to see his son married.
Daniel wished his friend, Titus, to be best man;
but the circumstances made that impossible, since
poor Sim himself had been a suitor. The lad, Sam
Prowse, therefore filled that important post, and
Minnie's aunt, an ancient widow named Mary
Maine, gave the bride away.
Daniel with his party were the first to arrive at
church; but Mr. Sweetland called at the cottage
hospital on his way and had his broken finger at-
tended to. There he heard black news, but the
keeper kept it to himself and presently joined his
wife at church. The bells rang out cheerfully and
people began to drop in by twos and threes. Dan-


50
DANIEL SWEETLAND
iel, from a place in the choir stalls, kept turning
his head to the door. But those he looked for did
not appear. Neither Titus Sim nor Henry Vivian
were at his wedding, and the circumstance cast a
gloom upon the bridegroom. He grumbled under
his breath to Sam Prowse concerning the matter.
“I could have sworn them two men would have
been here, come what might. Titus would never
have missed seeing me turned off if there wasn't
some good reason against it. As for Mr. Henry-
he gave me his word, an' his word no man have
known him to break. Something be wrong, Prowse,
else they'd be here, both of 'em. 'Tis last night's
work in the woods."
" Be that as it will, better not keep stretching
forward so, else you'll burst thicky coat,” said
the cautious Prowse. “I see the seams of un
a-bulging over your back something cruel. There's
Johnny Beer an' his missis. I knowed they'd
come.”
Five and twenty people formed the little con-
gregation; then the vicar appeared; the bells
stopped; the bride with her aunt walked up the
aisle.
Minnie was self-possessed as usual. She wore a
light blue dress, white thread gloves and a hat
with a jay's wing in it that Dan had given her.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
51
One swift peep up at the face of her lover she gave,
one little smile touched her mouth and vanished;
then, without a quiver, she pulled off her gloves
and opened her prayer-book. Dan had his ready
also. Beside her niece stood Mrs. Maine, in a
bright purple dress and a bonnet that towered and
trembled with magenta roses and red ribbons. On
Daniel's right young Prowse appeared. He kept
one hand in his trouser pocket and held the ring
tightly on the tip of his little finger, so that it
should be ready for the bridegroom when the
critical moment came.
Mrs. Sweetland was early dissolved in moisture,
and Mrs. Beer likewise wept. Matthew Sweetland
seemed distracted and his thoughts were else-
where, for a great terror sat at the man's heart.
Then the ceremony concluded: the bell-ringers
clattered back to the belfry; the wedding party
entered the vestry.
A cloud hung dark over Daniel, and only Minnie
had power to lessen it. He signed his name mood-
ily and was loud to all who would listen in expres-
sions of wonder and regret that Henry Vivian and
Titus Sim had not been at his wedding.
"Of course there was the battoo' at West-
combe-yet somehow, he promised, mind you-he


52
DANIEL SWEETLAND
promised. As to Sim, he must be sick; nought but
illness would have kept him."
“Don't judge the young youth,” said Mrs.
Maine. “You forget he wanted Minnie, too. Per-
haps, when it comed to the point, he felt he couldn't
bear the wrench of seeing her made over to you
by Holy Prayer-book for evermore."
A brave banquet was spread at Mrs. Maine's,
and since all who desired to sit down to it could
not get into the parlor, an overflow of feeders took
their dinner in the kitchen. Mr. Beer's pleasure
was spoilt entirely by this circumstance, and his
wife never liked Minnie's aunt again. For the
publican, by reason of his bulk, was invited to join
the minor company in the kitchen; and then, when
the time came, Daniel roared to him from the other
room to come into the parlor and propose the
bride's health.
But this Mr. Beer stoutly refused to do. His
lady answered for him and her tartness struck all
the wedding guests with consternation. Sour
words from Mrs. Beer were like bad grapes from
a good vine.
“We'm very comfortable here, thank you, Mr.
Sweetland," she shrilled back in answer to Daniel.
“ We know our place, since Mrs. Maine has made
it so clear. Us will tell our own speeches in the


DANIEL SWEETLAND
53
kitchen, an' you can tell yours in the parlor; an'
it may be news to Mrs. Maine that all the jugs on
our table be empty-have been this long while.”
“An' the room, small though it be, ban't so
small as the beer was,” added Mr. Beer with the
shrill note of an angry blackbird.
The empty jugs were filled; but nothing could
remedy Mrs. Maine's error. So she lost her tem-
per and began making pointed remarks about a
silk purse and a sow's ear. The visitors made
haste to finish their meal, and Dan's wedding
breakfast soon ended without speeches or health-
drinking. Since the beginning of the festivity
there had indeed been a shadow in the air, and
men and women whispered under their breath con-
cerning the tragedy of the previous night. But
the truth was hidden with general kindness of
mind from the young bride and bridegroom. Now,
indeed, it could be concealed no longer, and, hor-
rible as a sudden death, there burst upon Daniel
Sweetland and his new-made wife the tragedy of
their lives.
The time for departure came and Daniel no-
ticed that a crowd, considerably larger than might
have been expected, began to gather at the railings
of Mrs. Maine's cottage garden. Once or twice
he saw Luke Bartley, the policeman, pass and or-


54 DANIEL SWEETLAND
II
der the people farther back; then, as he himself
emerged, with Minnie on his arm, the crowd over-
powered Mr. Bartley and came close. Daniel
stared and his jaw stuck out and hardened, for no
cheer or friendly shout greeted him now. Instead
there rose hisses in the air and a hoarse under-
sound, or growl, as of angry beasts.
Turning to learn the cause, two men suddenly
approached him. One was the local inspector of
police, a strong, brisk officer in uniform; the other
Daniel had never seen before. Even at that tre-
mendous moment young Sweetland's interest was
arrested. The stranger who now spoke to him
stood six feet six inches and was evidently as
powerful as he was tall. He dwarfed the people
about him and his big voice rolled out so that it
seemed to smother the church bells, which were
now clashing a final peal of farewell to the depart-
ing pair.
“ Who be you-Goliath of Gath, I should reck-
on?” said Dan stoutly, as the big man barred his
way.
“No matter who I am,” he answered. “The
question is, who are you?”
60 'Tis Daniel Sweetland-just married,” de-
clared Inspector Gregory, who knew the Sweet-
lands well. “Sorry I am, Dan, to come between


DANIEL SWEETLAND
55
you an' the joy of life at this minute; but so it
must be. This here man's a plain clothes officer
from Plymouth, an' he've got the warrants all
right an’ regular. You'm arrested for the murder
of Adam Thorpe last night in Middlecott Lower
Hundred. He was shot in the belly, an'he died to
hospital just after dawn this morning.”
The prisoner fell back and the world swam
round him. Then his wife's small hand came into
his.
“Be a man, Dan. Swear afore God you didn't
do it, an' to God leave the rest,” she said loud and
clear so that all heard her.
“ Afore God, an' humans, an'angels, I be inno-
cent of this,” said Daniel. “Never in all my life
have I lifted a hand against any fellow-creature-
except Saul Pratt when he insulted me in the
street. Who brings this against me? Who charges
me? "
The facts were briefly stated-not by the police
but by Daniel's friend, Titus Sim. He broke
through the crowd and spoke in the other's ear.
“ Listen to me, Dan. 'Tis life an' death for 'e.
Who had your gun last night? All hinges on that.
At dawn yesterday I was called up by Mr. Henry,
and only then did I know what had falled out.
He told me of the raid and ordered me to come


56
DANIEL SWEETLAND
down straight into the woods an' search the
ground to find any mark or trace of the murderer.
For murder it was, because at cocklight came the
news from Moreton hospital that Thorpe was dead.
We went-him and me alone--and searched the
ground foot by foot. Then I found your gun-one
barrel empty, t'other loaded. I knew 'twas the
new one he had given you, and, in sudden fear, I
was just going to try and hide it. But Mr. Henry
had seen it. He came over and recognized it at
once.”
“ If it hinges on that, I'm safe,” said Daniel.
“ 'Tis all right, Minnie. I be safe enough! You
go to Hangman's Hut, 'pon Dartymoor, my bold
heroes, an' you'll find my gun in its case, where I
put it last night with my own hands."
“Won't do, Daniel," answered the inspector.
“ We had a warrant for search as well as for ar-
rest. I was at Hangman's Hut at mid-day with
this man here. Us did no harm, I promise you.
But we found the gun-case-empty-also a box of
cartridges broke open an’two missing.".
“You'll have plenty of time to talk later on,"
said the big man. “But you've got to come along
wi'us to Plymouth now, Daniel Sweetland, so the
sooner we start the better. I hope as you'll prove



.
LIVES
.
TAANIC
“Keep a stiff upper lip, my son," he said, “ us'll do what men
can do." (Page 58)





DANIEL SWEETLAND
59
“ Going-going where, you poor, deserted, tibby
lamb? Where should you go?”
- To my home," answered the girl. “ I'm Mrs.
Daniel Sweetland now. I've got to keep up Dan's
name afore the world, an' be the mistress of his
house. 'Tis waiting for me. I'll have it witty for
him when he comes back along.”
“Go up there all alone to that wisht hovel in
the middle of them deadly bogs? You shan't do
it, Minnie-I won't let you."
“An' the name of the place!” groaned Mr.
Beer. “I prayed un to alter it, too. 'Twas bound
to bring ill-fortune. Now 'tis an omen.”
“ I'm going, however. 'Tis my duty. An'.so
soon as may be I'll get down to Plymouth to see
him," declared the girl.
A cab that was to have driven Daniel and Minnie
still waited. Now she walked to it and opened the
door.
“ Drive me up to · Warren Inn' 'pon Darty-
moor, my boy,” she said. “From there I can
walk."
Then she turned and approached Mrs. Sweet-
land.
“My place is in his home, mother. Don't you
fear nothing. I'll be a good wife to your son, an'


60
DANIEL SWEETLAND
a good daughter to you. Our Dan be in the hands
of God. Good-by, all-good-by!”
She drove away, and the men who had hissed at
her husband cheered her.
“ Dammy-a good plucky un!” cried a thin,
gnarled man with a green shade over his eye.
“Lucky's the he that gets that she, whether it be
yon chap or another after he swings!”
The man was called Rix Parkinson and he held
the proud dual position of leading drunkard and
leading poacher in Moreton. He was drunk now,
but people nearly always felt themselves in agree-
ment with him when he was sober and cared to
talk.
A buzz and babel hovered round Mrs. Maine and
the Sweetlands. Then the gamekeeper and Titus
Sim talked apart.
“ There's a train to Newton Abbot half after
six," said Matthew. “I'll go by it an' have a say
with Lawyer Thornton."
" And what I can do with Mr. Henry, I'll do,"
said Sim.
His eyes were upon Minnie Sweetland's carriage
as it drove away with the little blue figure sitting
bravely in it-alone.
Johnny Beer's wife had been forgotten and she


DANIEL SWEETLAND 61
wept in a small circle of children who had gath-
ered about her.
• What a wedding-night for a dinky maiden!”
sobbed Jane Beer; “ but me an’ my man will go
over to hearten her up, if 'tis in mortal power to
do it."
Anon the people scattered and the day was done.
A gray gloaming settled upon the Moor, and their
eternal cloud-caps rolled over the tors and stifled
the light of evening.
A dog-cart with a fine trotting horse in it swept
along over the long, straight stretch to the “ War-
ren Inn”; and some miles in the rear of it Daniel
Sweetland's wife followed behind an old gray
horse. But the driver had taken the ribbons off
his whip and flung away the flowers from his but-
ton-hole. He numbered only twelve years; yet he
had sense to see that the moment was not one for
show of joy.
" They'll never hang such a rare fine chap," he
said; “ I'm sure they never would do such a ter-
rible rash thing, Miss."


CHAPTER V
A GHOST OF A CHANCE
His first experience of life crushed down with all
the weight of the world on Daniel Sweetland and
kept him dumb. He stared straight before him
and only answered with nod or shake of head the
remarks addressed to him by Luke Bartley and
the inspector.
“ Better leave the lad in peace,” said the kindly
giant, who drove. “He wants to think, an' no
doubt he's got a deal to think about."
The prisoner's native genius now worked swiftly
with him, and his sole thought was of escape as
dusk gathered on Dartmoor. He puzzled his head
in vain to see the drift of these doings. It seemed
that his gun had been found beside the spot where
Adam Thorpe was shot. What human hands could
have put it there? He knew of no enemy on earth.
Measuring the chances of establishing an alibi, he
saw that they were small. Search could prove the
fact that he had killed pheasants on the previous
night and it was quite possible for him to have


DANIEL SWEETLAND
killed a man also. He might have shot Thorpe at
Middlecott and have spoken to the other keepers
at Westcombe afterwards. Indeed, the hours
agreed. Then he remembered the shadow that had
leapt up out of the heath when he left Hangman's
Hut for the last time. That man it was who had
killed him; and that man would never be found
unless Daniel himself made the discovery. Re
volving the matter in his young brains, the
poacher believed that his only chance was present
escape.
Once free and beyond the immediate and awful
danger of the moment, Daniel Sweetland trusted
that he might establish his innocence and prove
the truth. But as a prisoner on trial, with his
present scanty knowledge, there appeared no
shadow of hope. He looked up at the man who
drove and instinctively strained the steel that
handcuffed his wrists. Escape seemed a possi-
bility as remote as any miracle.
" What be your name, policeman?” asked Dan-
iel meekly. “ You took me very quiet an' gentle,
an' I thank you for it.”
" I'm called Corder-Alfred Corder-alias' the
Infant.' That's a joke, you know, because I'm the
biggest man in the force.”


64
DANIEL SWEETLAND
n
“An' so strong as you'm big, by the looks
of it.”
“Well, I've yet to meet my master," said the
huge · Infant. He had one little vanity, and
that was his biceps.
“Be you any relation to Alf Corder, the cham-
pion of Devon wrestling, then?"
“I am the man,” said Mr. Corder. “Never
been throwed since I was twenty-two, an' now
I'm thirty-four.”
Daniel nodded.
“ A very famous hero. I should have thought
you'd make more money wrestling in London than
ever you would doing cop's work to Plymouth."
The giant was interested at this intelligent re-
mark.
“ I've often been tempted to try; but I'm not a
man that moves very quick in mind; though I
can shift my sixteen stone of carcass fast enough
when it comes to wrestling or fighting. Once my
hand gets over a limb, it sticks-like a bull-dog's
teeth. 'Tis the greatest grip known in Plymouth
- to say it without boasting.”
Daniel nodded and relapsed into silence. He
was thinking hard now. All his ideas centred on
the wild hope to escape. Scheme after scheme
sped through his brains. Once a shadowy enter-
ca
w


DANIEL SWEETLAND 65
prise actually developed, but he dismissed it as
vain.
Then Luke Bartley spoke to Mr. Corder and sug-
gested another line of action.
“ This here was the man who had that cute
thought that the burglars to Westcombe got away
in a motor car-didn't he, Gregory?"
The inspector admitted it.
“ Yes; I gave you all credit for that, Sweetland.
'Twas a clever opinion, and the right one. I'm
sure of that. Hue an’ cry was so quick that they
never could have got clear off with any slower
vehicle."
Daniel made no answer; but he jumped at the
topic of the recent burglary and turned it swiftly
in his mind. Here, perhaps, was the chance he
wanted. For half an hour he kept silence; then he
spoke to Bartley.
“ 'Twas you who first thought as I might have
a hand in that business myself, Luke?”
“No, no; Mr. Gregory here."
.
“Of course, I hope you hadn't; but you might
have had. Anyhow, that will be a mystery for
evermore, I reckon," said the inspector.
“Five thousand pounds' worth of plate they
took,” explained Daniel to his driver; but Mr.
Corder knew all about it.


66
DANIEL SWEETLAND
“ Five thousand and more. 'Twas always a
great regret to me that I wasn't in that job.”
“ You couldn't have done no better than I
done,” struck in Gregory. " That I'll swear to.
The London man gave me great credit for what I
did do. He said he'd never known such a nose for
a clue. That was his own word.”
“ It was,” declared Bartley. “That was the
very word of the London man, for I heard it.”
“ They are not a bit smarter than us to Plym-
outh really,” said Corder. “I've known them
make mistakes that I'd have blushed to make.
But 'tis just London. If a thing comes from Lon-
don, it must be first chop. They only beat Plym-
outh in one matter as I knows about, an' that's
their criminal classes."
“Not but what we've got our flyers at a crime,
too,” said Mr. Gregory, who was highly patriotic.
“ Take that there burglary job to Westcombe.
'Twasn't a fool who planned and carried that
out."
“ But they comed down from London for cer-
tain," argued Corder.
“ They might or they might not,'' answered the
inspector.
“ Then, for murders like this here murder of
Adam Thorpe," added Bartley, “ I'm sure the


DANIEL SWEETLAND
67
county of Devon stands so high as anybody could
wish. 'Tisn't a deed to be proud of, certainly;
but I won't allow for one that London beats Dev-
onsheer in anything. As many hangs to Exeter
gaol as to any other county gaol in my knowledge."
“Shall I hang over this job, do 'e reckon, Mr.
Corder?” asked Daniel humbly.
“ Ban't for me to say, my son. A gun be a very
damning piece of evidence. But if you can prove
you wasn't there, that's all that need be done.”
“I was using my gun, but- "
“Don't say nothing to me,” interrupted the
giant. “I wish you well; but anything you say is
liable to be used against you according to law.
Therefore you'll do wisest to keep your mouth
shut till you can get your lawyer to listen to you."
Silence fell; then the “ Warren Inn " came into
sight, and at the same moment Mr. Corder pulled
up and looked anxiously down his horse's flank.
“Just jump out, will 'e, one of you men, an' see
if he's got a stone in his shoe. He has gone lame
all of a sudden-in the near hind leg, I think.”
Bartley alighted and lifted the horse's hoof.
Then he examined the others. But there was no
stone. Yet the horse went lame when they started
again.
“ He's hurt his frog. He'll be all right in an


68
DANIEL SWEETLAND
Ter
hour,” said Gregory, who was learned on the sub-
ject. “Here's the 'Warren Inn' just handy.
You'll do well to put up there for a bit. Us can
go in the parlor an’ wait; then, if there's any in
the bar, they won't see us.”
John Beer and his wife were, of course, not yet
at home; but a pot-man kept house and waited in
the public room
The place was empty. Mr. Corder and Gregory
took Daniel Sweetland into a little parlor, while
Bartley stabled the lame horse.
Presently he returned and brought a lamp with
him, for it was now growing dark.
“ An hour I'll wait, and only an hour,” declared
Corder. “Then, if the horse be still lame, we must
get another."
The officers sent for bread, cheese and beer.
They asked Daniel to join them, and he agreed;
then suddenly, while they were at their meal, he
spoke.
“ I've got a word to say to you chaps. 'Tis a
terrible matter, but I'd rather have it off my mind
than on it just at present. Will you do the fair
thing if I tell you, an' give me credit after?”
“You'd better far keep quiet,” said Corder.
“ 'Tis like this. The cleverness of you three
men 'mazes me. To think as Gregory here saw so


DANIEL SWEETLAND
69
clear about the burglary, an' Bartley, too! Well,
now your horse goes lame an’ everything. "Tis
fate, an’so I'll speak if you'll listen. Only I ax
this as a prisoner; I ax this as the weak prays the
strong for mercy; that you'll remember to my
credit how I made a clean breast of everything
without any pressure from any of you."
The “ Infant” stared.
“ Trouble's turned your head, my son, by the
looks of it. Whatever rummage be you talking
about?”
" 'Tis sense, I promise you. I nearly told just
now when us was speaking about the burglary.
Then, just here of all places, your horse falls lame.
'Tis like Providence calling me to speak.”
Daniel was playing his solitary card. The
chances were still a thousand to one against him;
but he saw a faint possibility if things should fall
out right. His swift mind had seized the accident
of the horse's lameness and his plot was made.
“Be plain, if you can,” said Corder. “ Don't
think I'm against you. Only I say again: there's
no power in us to help you, even if we had the
will."
“ I'm thinking of last August—that burglary.
Well-now how about it if I was able to help you
chaps to clear that up? Wouldn't I be doing


70
DANIEL SWEETLAND
you a good turn, Greg, if you was able to say at
headquarters that by cross-questioning me you'd
wormed the truth out of me?"
Mr. Gregory stared. He licked his lips at the
very idea.
" An' if Mr. Corder here was agreeable, an’ let
me explain, you might find that when you drive
into Plymouth in a few hours' time you would be
taking five thousand pounds of silver plate along
with you besides me. Wouldn't there be a bit of
a stir about it-not to name the reward? Why,
you'd all be promoted for certain."
“Twelve hundred and fifty pounds reward was
offered by the parties," said Mr. Corder.
“ And do you mean that you know anything?”
asked the inspector, much excited.
“I mean this: You was right, Gregory. I didn't
do the burglary, but I knowed about it, and I can
tell you all an' more than you want to know.
There's twelve hundred and fifty pounds for the
men who recover that Giffard silver; an' it can be
done. But what I ax you three men is this: If I
put that money into your pockets, will you do
something for me?”.
“ That's impossible," answered Corder firmly.
“I know what's in your mind, my lad; and 'tis
natural enough that it should be; but you might so


DANIEL SWEETLAND
soon ask them handcuffs on your wrist to open
without my key as ask me to help you now, if
that's your game.".
“ It isn't," answered Daniel. “ Afore God, no
such thought as axing you to let me go comed
in my mind. 'Twould be like offering you three
men five thousand pound to let me off. I wouldn't
dream of such a thing. You'm honorable, upright
chaps, an' I respect you all a lot too much to do it.
Five thousand pound divided into three be only a
dirty little sixteen hundred or so apiece. Though
as a matter of fact there was far more took than
that. But I never meant no such thing. I'm
booked for trial and you can't help me. No, you
can't help me-none of you. 'Tis my poor little
wife I be breaking my heart for."
A cab crawled up to the inn as Daniel spoke and
stopped at the door. Looking out through the
open window, he saw a passing glimpse of Minnie
herself under the lamp at the door, and heard her
voice. She paid the driver and he went into the
bar; but Daniel knew that Minnie was now walk-
ing alone across the Moor to Hangman's Hut.
“Go on,” said Gregory. “Let's hear all you've
got to say. No harm in that. My heart bleeds for
your mother, not for your wife, Sweetland. Little


72
DANIEL SWEETLAND
did she think that she was bringing such a bad lot
into the world the day you was born."
“ I'm not so bad neither. Anyway, time's too
short to be sorry now. 'Tis like this. It's not in
my mind to ax anything for myself; but I pray
for a bit of mercy for my wife. If I swing over
this, what becomes of her? She've got but fifty-
five pounds in the world.”
“ 'Tis enough to keep her till an honest man
comes along an' marries her," said Bartley. “For
that matter, Titus Sim will wed her if the worst
overtakes you, Daniel.”
“You put it plain," answered the prisoner,
“ an' I thank you for it, Luke. All the same, they
may not hang me; an’ if I get penal servitude,
Minnie can't marry any other man. Now the re-
ward for finding out that burglar job be twelve
hundred and fifty pounds, as Mr. Corder says.
That divided betwixt the three of you would be
four hundred odd apiece. An' I want to know
just what you'll do about it. In exchange for the
money an' fame an' glory this job will bring you
men, I want two hundred pounds-not for myself,
but for my poor girl. Ban't much to ax, an’ not a
penny less will I take. That's my offer, an' you'd
best to think upon it. If you refuse, I'll make it
to somebody else.”


DANIEL SWEETLAND
73
Silence followed. Then Dan spoke again.
" 'Tis terrible awkward eating bread an' cheese
wi' handcuffs on. Will 'e take 'em off for a bit,
please? I can't get out of the winder, for 'tis too
small; so if you stands afore the door, you needn't
fear I'll give you the slip.”
Mr. Corder perceived the truth of this and freed
the prisoner's hands.
“ You've put a pretty problem afore us, young
man," he said; “ an’ we must weigh it in all its
parts. Can't say as ever I had a similar case in
my experience.”
“Nor me either,” declared Inspector Gregory.
Bartley remained silent. He was asking himself
what it would feel like to be the richer by hun-
dreds of pounds.
Daniel ate his bread and cheese, drank a pint of
beer, and held out his wrists for the handcuffs.
Then Mr. Corder himself went to see to his horse,
and while he was away Daniel spoke to the others.
“ You chaps know how hard a thing it is to get
the public ear. Surely-surely 'tis worth your
while to find out this great burglary job an’ put
money in your pockets. You'm fools to hesitate.
But if you be such greedy souls that you won't
spare a crumb to my poor wife, then you shan't
have a penny, so help me!”


74
DANIEL SWEETLAND
" 'Tis throwing away money to refuse," de-
clared Bartley to the 'Infant,' who now re-
turned. “You see, that money have got to be
earned, an' why for shouldn't we earn it? There's
no under-handed dealings, or playing with the
law."
“The hoss is all right again, an' the sooner we
go the better," answered Mr. Corder.
" You won't fall in then?" asked Daniel with a
sinking heart.
“I don't say that; but if you'm in earnest,
you can tell us all about it as we go along."
“An' you'll swear, all three of you, to give Min-
nie Sweetland two hundred pounds of the re-
ward?”
“I will,” said Bartley. “ 'Tis flying in the face
of Providence to do otherwise.”
“If it can be proved we'm not straining the
Law, I'll do the same," declared Inspector Greg-
ory. “What do you say, Corder?”
“ The Law's clear for that matter," answered
the big man. “ The Law ban't strained. The Law
have nothing to do with a private bargain. This
here man comes to us an' says I'll put you chaps
in the way to make twelve hundred an' fifty
pounds between you.' An' we says, ' Do it.' Then
he says, “ But I must have two hundred for my


DANIEL SWEETLAND
wife; because I, who be 'her natural support, be
taken from her.' Well, there it is. My conscience
is clear. Since he's brought to book an’ may go
down on it, the burglary never will be any use to
him; so he peaches. For my part I'll promise what
he wants this minute."
“And so will I,” said Bartley. “ 'Tis a very
honest, open offer for a condemned man.”
“Not condemned at all, merely an arrested
man,” corrected Gregory. “ An' I'll take his
offer, too,” he added;“ so it only remains for him
to tell us where the stuff be hidden."
Daniel looked straight into Corder's face.
" That was why I axed you not to be in a
hurry,” he said. “ The Giffard plate from West-
combe was brought up to the Moor, an' such a
fuss have been made, that the burglars haven't
been able to get it clear for all these weeks. No-
body dared to go near it. But I've kept secret
watch on it for 'em. As for the stuff, 'tis within
a mile of this very house, though I dare say
Johnny Beer would have a fit if he knowed
about it."
" Within reach of us?” gasped Bartley.
" That's why I said you could take it along to
Plymouth to-night, if you had a mind to. Drive
across with me into King's Oven under Hurston


76
DANIEL SWEETLAND
Ridge an' borrow a spade or two, an' I'll wager
you'll have every pennyweight of the silver in
your trap in two hours or less from this minute.
Take it or leave it. I'm in solemn earnest; that I
swear to. Only this I'll say: you'll not find it
without me-not if you dig for ever an' a day.
'Tis safe enough.”
The policemen held a hurried colloquy aside.
In Gregory's mind was a growing suspicion that
the prisoner did not speak the truth. But the
others believed him.
“What motive should he have to lie about it?"
asked Corder under his breath. “ It won't advan-
tage him if we find nothing. If we do, the credit
is ours. An' I shan't grudge his wife her share
of the reward, I'm sure. Ban't even as if 'twas
blood money; for that stealing job won't make
any difference to this hanging one. Better let
him show us the stuff now. Who'd be the worse?
If he's fooling us, he's not helping himself. For
my part, I believe him. He's just come from mar-
rying his wife; an' 'tis human nature that she
should be the uppermost thought in his heart.”
“ King's Oven do lie no more than a mile from
here,” said Gregory; “ so there's no reason why
we shouldn't get going. You put in the hoss, Luke.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
77
Sooner this job's over an’ we'm on the Plymouth
road again, the better I'll be pleased.”
Corder spoke to Daniel.
“ We'll fall in with your offer, young man,
Show us that stuff an' your missis shall have
her two hundred pound so soon as the reward is
paid."
“Very well. If you slip a spade and a pick or
two in the trap afore we start, 'twill be all the
better. An' a bit of rope, for that matter. Us
have got our work cut out,” answered the pris-
oner. “ What they Londoners will say to me for
turning traitor, I don't know; an' I don't caro
now neither,” he added.
“ You won't give 'em up?"
“Not the men. Only the stuff-for my wife's
sake.”
Bartley brought the trap to the door, and as
Sweetland was helped in, Mr. Beer and his wife
drove up in their little market cart.
The police said nothing, and soon they were on
their way again, but not before Johnny Beer had
spoken to his friend.
“Keep a cheerful heart, Dan. Us'll do all we
can. To think of the tragedy of your wedding
day! It have so got hold upon me that I've made
tragical rhyme upon it all the way back from


78
DANIEL SWEETLAND
Moreton. Please God, I'll get the chance to tell
'em to 'e some day.”
“I hope you will, Johnny, though it don't look
very likely.”
The trap drove off. Its lamps were lighted and
they cast a bright blaze forward into a dark
night. Presently Daniel stopped them, and Bart-
ley jumped down and took the horse's head.
“Now keep over the grass track to the right
an' us will be in King's Oven in ten minutes,"
said Sweetland.
Swaying and jolting, their dog-cart proceeded
into the great central silence and stillness of the
Moor.


CHAPTER VI
THE WEDDING NIGHT
FURNUM REGIs, or the King's Oven, is a wild
and lonely spot lying beneath a cairn-crested hill
in mid Dartmoor. Here in centuries past was
practised the industry of tin-smelting, and to the
present time a thousand decaying evidences of
that vanished purpose still meet the eye. The
foundations of ruins are yet apparent in a chaos
of shattered stone; broken pounds extend their
walls into the waste around about; hard by a mine
once worked, and much stone from the King's
Oven was removed for the construction of build-
ings which are to-day themselves in ruins. Now
the fox breeds in this fastness, and only roaming
cattle or the little ponies have any business
therein. A spot better adapted for the bestowal
of stolen property could hardly be conceived.
Three hundred yards from the entrance of the
Oven, Daniel stopped the trap and the men
alighted.
“I must get two of the rocks in line with the


80
DANIEL SWEETLAND
old stones 'pon top the hill,” said Daniel. “ That
done, I know where to set you fellows digging."
They proceeded as he directed. Corder walked
on one side of the prisoner and Gregory upon the
other; while Luke Bartley, with two spades and
a pickaxe on his shoulder, came behind them.
The moon now rose and the darkness lifted.
Sweetland walked about for some time until a
certain point arrested him. This rock, after some
shifting of their position, he presently brought
into line with another, and then it seemed that
both were hidden by the towering top of the cairn
that rose into the moonlight beyond them.
“Here we are,” he said. “An' first you've
got to shift this here gert boulder. It took three
men to turn it over and then pull it back into its
place; an' it will ax for all you three can do to
treat it likewise."
The rope was brought, and with the help of the
mighty Corder a large block of granite was
dragged out of its bed. The naked earth spread
beneath.
“ You'll find solid stone for two feet,” declared
Daniel, “ for we filled up with soil an' granite,
an’trampled all so hard an' firm as our feet could
do it. The hole we dug goes two feet down; then
it runs under thicky rock to the left."


DANIEL SWEETLAND
81
Without words the men set to work, and Daniel
expresssed increasing impatience.
“Lord! to see you chaps with spades! But, of
course, you haven't been educated to it. You'll
be all night. I wish I could help you; but I can't.”
“We'll shift it,” declared Corder. “ Wait till
the moon's a thought higher; then we'll see what
we're at easier."
He toiled mightily and cast huge masses of
earth out of a growing hole; but the ground was
full of great stones; and sometimes all three of-
ficers had to work together to drag a mass of
granite out of the earth.
“ You chaps wouldn't have made your for-
tunes at spade work—that's a fac?,” said Daniel.
“I wish you'd let me help. If you freed my
hands, ther'd be no danger in it so long as you
tied my legs."
Bartley stopped a moment to rest his aching
back.
“ 'Tis a fair offer," he said. “If you make
fast the man's legs, he couldn't give us the slip.
I can't do no more of this labor, anyway. I've
earned my living with my brains all my life, an'
I ban't built to do ploughboy's work now I'm get-
ting up in years. I be sweating my life out as
'tis."


82
DANIEL SWEETLAND
Gregory agreed.
“ Time's everything," he said. "If you take
that there rope an' tie him by the leg to this
stone what we've moved, he's just as safe as if
he was handcuffed. Then he can dig for us, as
he well knows how."
Mr. Corder considered this course and then
agreed to it. The rope was knotted round Daniel's
leg, and he found himself tied fast to the great
rock that had been recently moved; then Mr.
Corder took off the handcuffs.
“No tricks, mind,” he said. “I'm a merciful
man, an’ wish you no harm; but if you try to run
for it, I'll knock you down as if you was a rab-
bit.”
“You're right not to trust me," answered the
poacher, calmly; “ but give me that spade an'
you'll see I'm in earnest. I want two hundred
pound for my wife, don't I? If we take turn an'
turn about, we'll soon shift this muck. 'Twill be
better for two to dig. Ban't room for three."
The critical moment of Daniel's plot now ap-
proached; but he kept a steel grip on his nerves,
and succeeded effectively in concealing his great
excitement. All depended on the next half hour.
He and Corder now began to work steadily,
while the others rested and watched them. The


DANIEL SWEETLAND
83
moon shone brightly, and a mound of earth and
stone increased beside the hole they dug. Pres-
ently Gregory and Bartley took a turn; but the
latter had not dug five minutes when Daniel
snatched his spade from him and continued the
work himself.
“I can't stand watching you," he said. “Such
weak hands I never seed in my life. A man would
be rotten long afore his grave was dug, if you
had the digging.”
“I works with the intellects," answered Mr.
Bartley. “My calling in life is higher than a
sexton's, I hope.”
After another period of labor, Corder took the
inspector's place, and soon the aperture gaped two
feet deep.
“ That's it; now we've got to sink to the left,"
explained Sweetland. “ We run another two feet
under this here ledge and then we come to the
stuff.”
Now he was working with Gregory again, and
the moment for action had arrived. Opportunity
had to be made, however, and Daniel's escape
depended entirely upon Mr. Corder's answer to
his next question. He knew that with the giant
present his plans must fail: but if Corder could


84
DANIEL SWEETLAND
be induced to go aside, Daniel felt that the rest
was not difficult.
“ Can't see no more,” he said. “If you'll fetch
one of they gig lamps, Mr. Corder, us will know
where we are. You'll want the lamp in a min-
ute anyway, when we come to the silver, for 'tis
all thrown loose into the earth.”
Without answering, the big policeman fell into
the trap. He had to go nearly three hundred yards
for the lamp, and, allowing him above a minute
for that journey, Daniel Sweetland made his
plunge for liberty. Suddenly, without a moment's
warning, he turned upon Gregory as the inspector
bent beside him, and struck the man an awful
blow with his spade full upon the top of the head.
“ Sorry, Greg!” he cried, as the officer fell in a
heap, “but if I've got to swing, it shall be for
something, not nothing.”
Even as he spoke, Daniel had reached to the
length of his rope and collared Bartley. The
strong man he had struck senseless according to
his intention; the weak one he now prepared to
deal with. Bartley screamed like a hunted hare,
for he supposed that his hour was come. Then
Daniel saw the distant light leap forward. Only
seconds remained, and only seconds were neces-
sary.



24
" Sorry, Greg!” he cried, “ but if I've got to swing it shall be
for something, not nothing." (Page 84)





DANIEL SWEETLAND
85
“Be quiet and hand me your knife, or I'll
smash your skull in, too!” he shouted to the shak-
ing policeman; then he stretched for the hand-
cuffs, which Corder had put on a stone beside
him, and in a second Luke Bartley found himself
on the ground beside his colleague. A moment
later and he was chained to the recumbent and
senseless person of the inspector, while Daniel
knelt beside him and extracted from his pocket
the knife he now required. With this he cut the
rope that held him prisoner, and during the ten
seconds that remained, before -Mr. Corder rushed
upon the scene, Daniel had put fifty yards of dark-
ness between himself and his guards.
The Plymouth man now found his work cut out
for him. Gregory was still unconscious, and Bart-
ley had become hysterical and was rolling with
his face on the earth, howling for mercy. Mr.
Corder liberated him and kicked him into reason.
Then Luke told his tale while the other tended
the unfortunate inspector.
“ He falled upon the man with his spade, like
a devil from hell, an'afore I could start my frozen
limbs an' strike him down, he'd got me in his
clutches an' handcuffed my wrist to this poor
corpse here."
But Gregory was not a corpse. In two min-


86
DANIEL SWEETLAND
utes he had recovered his senses and sat up with
his feet in the pit.
" What's happened?” he asked. " Where's
Daniel Sweetland to? Who hit me? Was it
lightning?"
“ 'Twas him," answered Corder; ” an' there's
no time to lose. If you can walk, take my arm an'
we'll go back this minute. I'm going to drive to
Princetown at once an’ give the alarm there. 'Tis
only a matter of ten mile, an' the civil guard at
the prison know the Moor an' will lend a hand to
catch the man as soon as daylight comes. He
can't be off much sooner.”
“ An' this here silver treasure?" asked Mr.
Bartley.
“This here silver grandmother!” answered the
other bitterly. “He's done us-done me-me as
have had some credit in my time, I believe. There
- don't talk-I could spit blood for this!- but
words be vain. I shan't have another peaceful
moment till I've got that anointed rascal in irons
again. 'Tis a lesson that may cost me a pension."
Corder gave his arm to Gregory, and Bartley
walked in front with the lantern.
“A ghastly company we make, sure enough,”
said the pioneer. “ The wickedness of that limb!
An' I thought for certain as my death had come.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
87
Talk about London-I'd like to see a worse un-
hung ruffian there, or anywhere. The man don't
live that's worse than Sweetland. I never knowed
there was such a liar in the universe.”
A last surprise awaited them and made the long
journey to Princetown impossible until dawn.
When they reached the dog-cart they found it
supported by the shafts alone; for the horse was
gone.
“He'll get to Plymouth after all, I reckon,"
said Corder blankly; “ but we shan't-not this
side of morning. Us have got to walk ten mile on
end to reach Princetown, let alone Plymouth.
That's what us have got to do."
" While we talked, he took the hoss. The
devil's cunning of that man!” groaned Bartley.
Meantime Daniel Sweetland was riding bare-
backed over Dartmoor to his new home.
He knew the way very well, and threaded many
a bog and leapt a stream or two; then breasted a
hill and looked down where, like a glow-worm,
one little warm light glimmered in the silver and
ebony of the nocturnal desert.
For the first time that day his heart grew soft.
" Her-all alone!” he thought. “I might have


88
DANIEL SWEETLAND
knowed she'd come. That's her place now; an'
mine be alongside her!”
He formed the resolution to see Minnie at any
cost.
“Us'll eat supper alone together for once,
though the devil gets the reckoning,” he said.
“I lay my pretty have had no stomach for vic-
tuals this night.”
Five minutes later a horse stopped at Hang-
man's Hut, and Minnie, unlocking the door, found
herself in her husband's arms.
“Ban't much of a wedding night,” he said;
“but such as 'tis us'll make the most of it. I've
foxed 'em very nice with a yarn about that bur-
glary, of which I know no more than the dead
really. But you'll hear tell about that presently.
An' to-night they'll have a pretty walk to Prince-
town, for the only horse, except this one within
five miles, belongs to Johnny Beer; an' 'tis tired
out after the journey to Moreton."
Minnie was far less calm than when she left him
in the morning. Even her steady nerve failed
her now, and for the only time in his life Daniel
saw her weep.
“Don't you do that," he said. “ Ban't no hour
for tears. Fetch in all the food in the house, an'


DANIEL SWEETLAND
89
that bottle of wine I got for 'e. Can't stop long,
worse luck.”
“I know right well you'm an innocent man,
Daniel; an' I'll never be happy again until I've
done my share to prove it,” she said.
“ 'Tis just that will be so awful hard. Anyway,
I felt that the risk of a trial was too great to stand,
if there was a chance to escape. And the chance
offered. The lies I've told! But I needn't waste
time with that. Keep quiet about my visit to-
night. Ban't nobody's business but ours. A
purty honeymoon, by God! All the same, 'tis bet-
ter than none."
Minnie hastened to get the food; then, when she
had brought it, he put out the light and flung
the window open.
“Us must heed what may hap. They might
come this way by chance, though there's little
likelihood o'it."
He listened, but there was no sound save the
sigh of a distant stream and the stamp of the
horse's hoofs at the door.
" To leave you here in this forsaken place!” he
cried. “You mustn't stop. You shall not.”
“ But I shall, for 'tis so good as any other," she
answered. “I've got to work for you while you
are far off, Daniel. I've got to clear you; an’I
a


DANIEL SWEETLAND
91
love, then off I must go,” said Daniel. “I've
hit poor Gregory rather hard; but I hope he'll get
over it. Anyway, it had to be done. Only you
go on being yourself, Min, an' keep up your cour-
age, an' fill your time working for me. The case
is clear. Some man have shot Adam Thorpe; but
he didn't shoot him with my gun, because my gun
was in my own hand when Thorpe fell, an' I was
a good few mile away. To be exact, I was getting
pheasants for 'e in Westcombe woods at the time
-you'll find 'em in the well; an' I heard the shots
fired at Middlecott quite clear, though I was five
mile off. But the thing be to show that I was five
mile off.”
“ And your gun, Daniel ?”
“I put my gun back in the case in the next
room to this long afore midnight yesterday," he
said.
“ Then 'twas fetched away after midnight?”
“ Yes, it was; an’ if you can find the man as
took my gun, then you'll find the man who killed
the keeper."
“ 'Twill be the first thought an' prayer of my
life to do it, Daniel.”
" An' you will do it-if Sim don't,” he prophe-
sied.


92
DANIEL SWEETLAND
Within an hour Daniel reluctantly prepared to
leave his home.
“ 'Tis a darned shame I must go,” he said;
" but I've no choice now. Only mind this, Minnie
Sweetland. Don't you think you'm a widow to-
morrow when they comes an' tells you so. If they
bring my carpse to 'e, then believe it; but they
won't.”
“ Take care of yourself, Daniel," she answered,
“ for your life's my life. I'll only live an' think
an' work an’ pray for you, till you come home-
along again.”
“ Trust me," he said. “ You'm my star where-
soever I do go. Up or down, so long as I be alive,
I'll have you first in thought, my own li'l wife.
Nought shall ever come atween me an' you but
my coffin-lid. An’ well God knows it.”
" Go," she said. “An' let me hear how you be
faring so soon as you can."
“ Be sure of that. If I daren't write to you,
I'll write to Sim. But, remember: it may be an
awful long time, if I have to go across seas.”
“ Write to me-to me direct," she begged earn-
estly. “ Send my letter through no other man or
woman. 'Twill be my life's blood renewed to get
it. An' I can wait; I can wait as patient as any
stone. Time's nothing so long as we come to-


DANIEL SWEETLAND
93
gether again some day. We've got our dear mem-
ories, an' they'll never grow dim, though we grow
gray.”
"Not the memory of this day an' night, that's
brought the greatest ill an' the greatest joy into
my life at once,” he answered. “ Green for ever-
more 'twill be.”
Then again and again they kissed, and Daniel
Sweetland rode away.
At the top of the next dark hill he turned and
looked back, but he saw nothing. Minnie had not
lighted her lamp again. She stood and watched
him vanish. Then she went to her bed in the dark
and prayed brave prayers until the dawn broke.


CHAPTER VII
THE BAD SHIP “PEABODY"
DANIEL SWEETLAND had decided on his course of
action before he bade his wife farewell. Now he
rode back to Furnum Regis, found the King's
Oven empty as he expected, and turned his horse's
head to the south. He crossed the main road,
struck down a bridle-path, and presently ap-
proached Vitifer Mine. Here the land was cut and
broken into a wild chaos of old-time excavations
and deep, natural gulleys and fissures. The place
was dangerous, for terrific disused shafts opened
here, and a network of rails and posts marked the
more perilous tracts and kept the cattle out.
Sweetland knew this region well, and now, dis-
mounting, he led his horse to a wide pit known
as Wall Shaft Gully, and tethered it firmly, where
miners, going to their work, must see it on the fol-
lowing morning. An ancient pit lined with gran-
ite yawned below, and local report said that it
was unfathomable. Two years before a man had
accidentally destroyed himself by falling into it,
1-


DANIEL SWEETLAND
95
and though the fact was known, the nature of the
place made it impossible to recover his corpse.
Now Daniel took a pencil and paper from his
pocket. Then, under the waning moon, he wrote
the words, “ Good-bye, all. Let Sim break it to
my wife. D. Sweetland.” Next he took a stick,
stuck it up, and set his message in a cleft of it;
and lastly he kicked and broke the soil at the edge
of the shaft, so that it should seem he had cast
himself in with reluctance. That done, he set out
for Plymouth at his best pace, consulted his watch
and saw that, if all went well, he might reach the
shelter of the streets by four o'clock in the
morning.
That information respecting his escape must be
there before him, he knew. As soon as the police
reached Princetown, telegrams would fly to Exe-
ter and Plymouth and elsewhere. But Daniel
trusted that early news would come from the
Moor. Then, if once it was supposed that he had
destroyed himself, the severity of the search at
Plymouth and elsewhere was certain to relax.
His estimate of the distance to be traveled
proved incorrect, and the runaway found himself
surprised by the first gray of morning long before
he had reached the skirts of town. He turned,
therefore, into the deep woods that lie among


96
DANIEL SWEETLAND
those outlying fortresses which surround the
great seaport inland; and near the neighborhood
of Marsh Mills, where the River Plym runs by
long, shining reaches to the sea, Daniel hid close
under an overhanging bank beside the water.
Here he was safe enough and saw no sign of life
but the trout that rose beneath him. The food
that Minnie made him carry was soon gone, and
another nightfall found Sweetland ravenous. At
dusk he lowered himself to the river and drank
his fill, but not until midnight was past did he
leave his snug retreat and set forth again.
By three o'clock on the following morning he
was in Plymouth and turned his steps straight-
way to the Barbican. For Daniel sought a ship.
He had debated of all possibilities and even
thought of hiding upon the Moor and letting Min-
nie feed him by night, until the truth of Thorpe's
murder came to be known; but the futility of such
a course was manifest. To intervene actively
must be impossible for him without discovery; he
felt it wiser, therefore, to escape beyond reach of
danger for the present. Then, once safe, he hoped
to communicate with his friends and hear from
them concerning -their efforts to prove his inno-
cence.
The Barbican grew out of dawn gradually, and


DANIEL SWEETLAND
97
its picturesque and venerable details stood clear
cut in the light of morning. It woke early, and
Daniel hastened where a coffee-stall on wheels
crept down to the quay from an alley-way that
opened there. He was the first customer, and he
made a mighty breakfast, to the satisfaction of
the shopman. Daniel was cooling his third cup
when other wayfarers joined him. Some were
fishermen about to sail on the tide; some were
Spanish boys, just setting out on their rounds
with ropes of onions; some were sailors from the
ships.
A thin, hatchet-faced man in jack-boots and a
blue jersey attracted Daniel. He wore his hair
quite long in oily ringlets; gold gleamed in his
ears; his jaws were clean-shaven and his teeth
were yellow.
" Have any of you chaps seen a Judas-colored
man this morning?” he asked of the company.
“ His name's Jordan, and he carries a great red
beard afore him, and the Lord knows where he's
got to. Went off his ship last night and never
came back.”
A fisherman was able to give information.
“I seed the very man last night. He was drink-
ing along with some pals and females at the Mas-
IL


DANIEL SWEETLAND
“D’you know your job?”
“Ess, fay; an’ what I don't know I'll larn afore
we'm off the Eddystone lighthouse."
"Come on, then," answered the other. "I'm
in luck seemingly. You're all right-eh? Ban't
running away from anybody?”.
“I'm running away from my wife," answered
Daniel frankly.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“ Well, well, that's a home affair-your busi-
ness, not mine. Sometimes there's nought better
than a bit of widowhood for females. You'll make
friends when you go back, no doubt.”
“ Very likely we shall.”
“ There was one man shipped with me who
told that story, and I thought no more of it at the
time. But afterwards I found that the chap had
murdered his missis afore he ran away from her.
You haven't done that, I hope?".
“No, no-just left her for her good for the
present,” explained Daniel. “ An' who be you, if
I may ax?"
“My name is James Bradley, and I'm mate of
the ' Peabody,'" answered his companion. “ I'll
not deceive you. I'm offering you nothing very
well worth having. The' Peabody's ' an old tank
steamer, and rotten as an over-ripe pear. Some-


100 DANIEL SWEETLAND
times I think the rats will put their paws through
her bottom. A bad, under-engined, under-manned
ship.”
“Why do you sail in her, then?”.
“ That's not here or there. I'm mate, and men
will risk a lot for power. Besides, I'm a philoso-
pher, if you know what that is, and I've got a
notion, picked up in the East, that what will hap-
pen will happen. If I'm going to be drowned, I
shall be drowned. Therefore, by law an’ logic,
I'm as safe in the ' Peabody' as I should be in a
battleship. But perhaps your mind is not used to
logic?”
“Never heard of it,” said Daniel.
“ I'll larn you,” answered Mr. Bradley.
“ There's the ship alongside that quay. I'll lay
you never saw a uglier.”
The“ Peabody " was not an attractive craft, but
Daniel had no eye for a ship and merely regarded
the steamer as an ark of refuge until better days
might dawn. She lay low in the water, had three
naked, raking masts and bluff bows. Her engines
were placed right aft. The well of the ship was
not five feet above the water-line.
Mr. Bradley, ignorant of the fact that the new
carpenter's mate had seldom seen a ship in his
life, and never been upon one, supposed that Dan-


DANIEL SWEETLAND 101
iel was taking in the steamer with a sailor's eye.
“A better weather-boat than you'd think, for
all she's so low. Ten knots with a fair wind.
We're taking out a mixed cargo, and we shall
bring back all sorts and probably cruise around
on the South American coast till we can fill up
somehow."
“ What sort of a captain have you got?”
“ A very good old man. Too good for most of
us. A psalm-smiter, in fact.”
“I'll come an' see the captain, an' have a bit
more breakfast, if you've no objection,” said
Daniel.
“He won't be there. He's along with his wife
and family at Devonport. He'll only come aboard
an hour afore we sail. But I'm in command now.
We'll sign you on right away. What sort of a
sailor are you?”
“Never knowed what it was to be sea-sick in
my life,” said Daniel, laughing to himself at the
joke.
“ Lucky for you. The ' Peabody' finds the
weak spots in a man's system when she's in a
beam sea—that I promise you. I'm always ill for
a week after I've been ashore a fortnight. Here's
Chips."
The man addressed as “ Chips” was standing


102 DANIEL SWEETLAND
at the entrance of the forecastle as Bradley and
Daniel crossed a gangway and arrived on the deck
of the ship.
He came forward to the mate.
“ Have 'e heard or seen aught of Jordan?” he
asked.
“Seen nought; heard all I want to hear. He's
either in hospital or police station. There won't
be time for him to come back now, even if he
wants to. Tell the boy to pack his kit-bag and
send it ashore to the Master Mariner.' They'll
know where he's been taken. And this man has
come in his place. What's your name, my son?”
“Bob Bates."
“Come and eat your breakfast, Bob Bates," said
the carpenter. “Then I'll find a plenty to do
afore we sail."
“I'm a thought out of practice, but I'll soon
get handy,” answered Daniel.
" Where's your papers ? " asked the mate.
“ Haven't got none," answered the other.
“ Old man will never take you without papers.”
The carpenter, who liked the look of his new
mate, intervened.
“Leave that, Bradley. Cap'n will listen to
me, if not to you. Seeing this man ships in such
.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
103
a devil of a hurry, 'twill be all right. Then, if
he's the proper sort, old man will soon forget."
“ You can pretend I'm a stowaway an' not find
me till we're out to sea," suggested Daniel.
• “No need, no need; 'twill be all right,” an-
swered the other.
Time proved that the carpenter of the “ Pea-
body” was correct. His injured mate did not
reappear, and in the hurry of sailing no questions
were asked. That night, in a weak ship rolling
gunwales under, Sweetland made acquaintance
with the ailment he had never known, and Mr.
Bradley, who found him under the light of an oil
lamp in an alley-way, regarded the prostrate
wreck of Daniel with gloomy triumph.
“ I told you as this ship would twist your in-
nards about a bit. I'm awful bad myself. Drink
a pint of sea-water; 'tis the only thing to do. If
it don't kill you, it cures you."
The landsman grunted inarticulately. He was
thinking that to perish ashore, even with infamy,
would be better than the dreadful death that now
prepared to overtake him.
But after twenty-four hours the “ Peabody"
was ship-shape and panting solidly along on an
even keel. Daniel quickly recovered, and what he
lacked in knowledge, he made up in power to learn


104 DANIEL SWEETLAND
and power to please. Chips, of course, discov-
ered that his new mate was no carpenter, and
Bradley also perceived that Daniel had never been
to sea before. But your land-lubber, if he be
made of the right stuff, will often get on with a
ship's company better than a seasoned salt.
Sweetland was unselfish, hard-working and civil.
The men liked him, and the captain liked him.
He prospered and kept his own dark cares hidden.
To detail at length the life on shipboard is not
necessary, since no events of importance occurred
to be chronicled, and within a few weeks of sail-
ing, accident withdrew Sweetland from the “ Pea-
body" forever. The usual experiences befell
him; the wonders of the deep revealed themselves
to him for the first time; but only one thing that
the sea gave up interested Sweetland, and that
chanced to be an English newspaper. It hap-
pened thus: When off the Azores, on the Sunday
after sailing, a big steamer overhauled the “ Pea-
body," went past her as if she was standing still,
and in two hours was hull down again on the
horizon.
" 'Tis the ' Don,'” said Bradley. “ One of the
Royal Mail boats from Southampton for Barbados
and Jamaica."
Sweetland frowned to himself and wondered


DANIEL SWEETLAND
105
how it came about that the vessel's name should
be familiar to him. Then he remembered that it
had entered his ear before the tragedy. Henry
Vivian intended to sail by this ship. Doubtless
he was on her now.
The liner passed within two hundred yards of
the tramp. Then, just as she drew ahead, some-
body pitched a newspaper over her taffrail into
the water. It was crumpled up, and the sea
being smooth, the journal floated and a current
drifted it across the bows of the “ Peabody.” A
man forward saw it, guessed that it contained
later news than any on the ship, and prepared to
fish it up. Three sailors with lines were ready
for the floating paper as it passed the side of the
steamer, and the second angler secured it. It
proved to be the “ Daily Chronicle" of a date
one day later than the sailing of the “ Peabody."
The journal was carefully dried and then, in
turn, each man who cared to do so studied it at
leisure.
For Daniel Sweetland it contained one highly
interesting paragraph, and he smiled to see how
successful his crude deception had proved.
The item of news may be reproduced, for it de-
fines the supposed situation left behind by Sweet-


106 DANIEL SWEETLAND
land, and fittingly closes this chapter of his life's
story.
“ The Tragedy on Dartmoor.
“A sensational sequel is reported to the arrest
of the man Daniel Sweetland on his wedding-day.
It will be remembered that Sweetland, a notorious
poacher, was suspected on the evidence of his own
gun, to have murdered a gamekeeper in the woods
of Middlecott Court estate near the little town of
Moretonhampstead, Devon. Three officers arrested
him and started to convey him to Plymouth. But
accident detained the party in the lonely central
region of the Moor, and, their horse falling lame,
they spent some time at a solitary public house
known as the · Warren Inn.' Here Sweetland,
taking the police into his confidence, confessed to
being an accomplice in the recent famous bur-
glary at Westcombe— the seat of the Giffards, not
far distant from Middlecott Court. ... "
The journal, after giving a very accurate ac-
count of all that had happened at Furnum Regis,
proceeded:
“ The hoodwinked officers lost no time in
reaching Princetown, and from the convict estab-
lishment at that village telegraphic communica-
tion was set up with the neighboring districts.


DANIEL SWEETLAND 107
But early morning brought the sequel to the inci-
dent, for at dawn certain laborers proceeding to
their work in Vitifer Mine, some few miles from
the King's Oven, discovered the horse on which
Sweetland had ridden off. It was tethered in the
midst of a wild and savage region full of old
workings, where lie some tremendous and un-
fathomable shafts, sunk in past years but long
deserted. Here the unfortunate poacher appears
to have deliberately taken his own life, for at the
head of Wall Shaft Gully-a famous aperture
which has already claimed human victims in the
past-a stake was discovered with a letter fas-
tened to the top of it. The words inscribed thereon
ran as follows: 'Good-bye, all. Let Sim break
news to my wife. D. Sweetland.' The writing
bears traces of great agitation, but those familiar
with Sweetland's penmanship are prepared to
swear that these pathetic syllables were actually
written by him. Absolute proof, however, is im-
possible, since the profound depths of the Wall
Shaft Gully cannot be entered. In the case of an
accident during 1883, when a shepherd was seen
to fall in, all efforts to recover his body proved
fruitless, owing to the fact that foul air is encoun-
tered at a depth of about one hundred yards be-
neath the surface of the ground. The man' Sim'


108 DANIEL SWEETLAND
alluded to in the poacher's last message is a foot-
man at Middlecott Court, and appears to have
been Sweetland's only friend. We understand
that he has carried out the trust imparted to him
by his ill-fated companion. Search at the King's
Oven has proved unavailing. It is clear that no
treasure of any kind was secreted there."
" That's all right,” said Daniel. “Now the
sooner I get back to help 'em find out who killed
Thorpe, the better. If I'd known that 'twould all
work out so smooth an' easy, I'd not have gone at
all. If it weren't for the thought of Minnie an'
mother, I could laugh."


CHAPTER VIII
MR. SIM TELLS A LIE
THOUGH Daniel had expressly asked Minnie to
tell his friend Titus Sim that he was not at the
bottom of Wall Shaft Gully, but far away in pres-
ent safety, the wanderer's wife did no such thing.
She would not trust herself to associate Sim with
her husband's tragic misfortune; for she could
not yet feel certain that the footman was all he
pretended and declared. His conduct after Sweet-
land's disappearance proved exemplary. He ful-
filled the mission left behind by Daniel with all
possible tact and judgment. Alone he visited
Minnie and broke the news to her that she was a
widow. But she surprised him more than he dis-
mayed her.
“I pray that you an' everybody be mistaken,
Mr. Sim," she said. “I hope my Daniel's not
at the bottom of that awful place. But whether
his days are over an'he lies there, or whether he's
safe an' beyond the reach of those who want to
take him, my part is the same. I'll never rest till
mo
same
ver


110 DANIEL SWEETLAND
I've done all a faithful wife can do to clear his
memory of this wicked thing. You know so well
as I do that he was an innocent man.”
“ Yes, and trust me to prove him so, if wit and
hard work can do it.”
“Those who loved him must labor to clear him.
Let them who want my good word an' goodwill
right Daniel. 'Tis the only way to my heart, an'
I don't care who knows it."
Perhaps those words were the cleverest that
Minnie had ever uttered. At any rate, they pro-
duced a profound effect on Titus Sim. He pon-
dered deeply before replying; then he nodded
thoughtfully to himself more than once.
" 'Tis the great task before us all: to make his
memory sweet. Rest sure enough that I'll do my
share,” he promised.
But Minnie Sweetland found her dislike of Sim
not lessened by his correct attitude during these
dark and troubled days. She avoided him when
possible. She kept the secret of her husband's
flight very close. Indeed, two living souls alone
knew it beside Minnie, and they were her hus-
band's parents. Dan need have been in small
concern for his mother, because, on the morning
after the poacher's flight, Minnie had private
speech with the Sweetlands and made them un-


DANIEL SWEETLAND
111
derstand the truth. The woman was wise and,
perceiving her son's salvation probably hung
upon this secret, she kept it. Matthew Sweetland
also preserved silence. His melancholy was pro-
found, and only Minnie had any power to lift him
out of it. Her energy and determination deeply
impressed him; her absolute belief and trust in
her husband's honor put life into him. He told
her all that he knew concerning the death of Adam
Thorpe, and promised to take her to the scene of
the outrage, that she might study it for herself.
“If only we can prove he had no hand in it,"
said Matthew. “But there, 'tis vain to hope so-
look which way you will. If he was innocent, why
for did he run?".
“ Innocent men have done so for nought but
terror," she answered.
“Maybe; but not Daniel. He was never afeared.
No-no; he's gone with blood on his hands. "Twill
never be known till Judgment Day. Then the
record will be cried from the Book."
" Why for shouldn't us believe him?" she
asked. “ He never told me a lie in his life. Can
you call home that you ever catched him in one?”
But the father refused to argue.
“He may have throwed himself down Wall
Shaft Gully for all he told you he would not. And


112 DANIEL SWEETLAND
man
no man would have taken on that dreadful death
if he wasn't in fear of a dreadfuller. However,
you can come to the place an’ welcome. I'll show
you where one man got me down an' nearly
whacked the life out of me; an' I'll show you
where the other man let moonlight into poor
Thorpe. The detectives have tramped every yard
of the ground, but they found nothing good or
bad. The man or woman as can prove my son
innocent will have my blessing, I promise you,
though too well I know he's guilty. I've heard
him threaten Thorpe myself.”
In process of time, therefore, Minnie visited the
coverts of Middlecott Court and traversed the
exact ground where Daniel was supposed to have
destroyed Adam Thorpe. Many other more highly
trained observers had done the like; but public
interest in the affair perished with Sweetland's
supposed suicide; and even the police, when the
events of Furum Regis and Wall Shaft Gully
came to their ears, pursued their operations at
Middlecott Lower Hundred and elsewhere with
less ardor. Their labors threw no light upon the
past; nor could they find Daniel's accomplice.
Mr. Sweetland swore to a second poacher; for
one man fought with him and broke his finger,
while the other fired on Thorpe; but both rascals


DANIEL SWEETLAND
113
had worn masks, and no trace of either appeared
after the affray, excepting only the gun-Henry
Vivian's gift to Daniel.
Proceedings presently terminated tamely
enough, and it was not until a fortnight after the
last detective had left Middlecott that Minnie,
with her father-in-law, visited the theatre of
Thorpe's death.
But they took a detour, for Sweetland had fresh
troubles upon his hands.
“We'll go by Flint Stone Quarry in the east
woods," he said, “ for there it was that more
birds were killed last night. You'd think the
anointed ruffians had done enough; but they be at
it still. 'Twas a great roosting-place-very thick
an’ warm, with snug shelter from north and east.
They might have killed scores o’ dozens for all
me an' the new keeper could do. For all I know,
they did. Of course, when us got there all was
silent as the grave; but Thomas went again first
thing this morning and found one dead bird, an'
one lamed but living, stuck in a tree fork. An'
there was feathers everywhere an' marks of feet.
Ten pounds' worth of birds at least they took."
The girl listened quietly.
“ Maybe 'tis the old hands, father?"


114 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“ Or new ones, as have larned their wicked
tricks from my dead son."
“I shall never love you while you say these
things against Daniel.”
The keeper did not answer. He was surveying
the glaring evidences of another poaching raid.
A stone quarry stood in the center of heavy
woods here, and gleamed white with fint and yel-
low with gravel where it had been gouged out of
the hillside. All round it there crowded trees,
and an undergrowth of juniper and rhododendron
grew to the forehead of the cleft.
“ Look!” said Matthew Sweetland. "The
scamps comed down there; an' one slipped, I
reckon. See how the soil be tored away. I lay
he fell pretty heavy. 'Twas this here more*
catched his foot an' over he comed. Here's feath-
ers an' blood where he fell.”
Minnie stood by her father-in-law and exam-
ined the marks he indicated. It was clear that
some heavy body had crashed over the edge of
the quarry and fallen six feet into a bed of fern
beneath. While the man examined the ground,
Minnie picked up a feather or two, regarded the
clotted blood beneath, and wondered whether it
came from a dead pheasant or a living poacher.
* More. A tree root.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
115
She peeped about among the fern, then started,
bent down, picked up a small object and put it
into her pocket quickly. When the keeper re- .
turned she was looking listlessly at the wound on
the quarry.
“ The man must have fallen heavy, if 'twas a
man,” she said.
“The Dowl looks arter his own,” answered
Mr. Sweetland. " 'Twould have broke the neck
of any honest chap, no doubt."
They proceeded a mile into the sweet recesses
of the woods. Then Minnie stood on the scene
of the murder, and regarded, not without emo-
tion, the spot where her husband was declared to
have killed Adam Thorpe.
His father gloomily pointed out the place where
Daniel's gun had been discovered by Titus Sim.
“It have aged the poor wretch twenty year,”
he said. “Sim be a hang-dog creature now, an'
slinks past me as though he was to blame for
Dan's downfall. But I won't have that. He only
done his duty. There was the gun, an' he had to
show it. 'Tis all summed up in that. How did it
come to be there, if my son was not? An' why
for did he run away or else kill himself, if he had
the power to prove himself guiltless? Who can
answer those questions?”


116 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“ 'Tis for me to do it," replied Minnie. “ An'
right's on my side, father. If he was dead, 'tis for
me to live to right his memory; but he be living,
so 'tis for me to clear him more than ever, so that
he may come back and stand afore your face again
like an honest man."
“ Never-never!” he answered. " That's
where us picked up Thorpe; an' that's where the
gun was; an' there, alongside that fallen tree in
the brambles, was the spot where t'other black-
guard got me down an' nearly hammered the life
out of me."
The girl looked round about her and nodded.
“ Now you go about your business, for I lay
this is not a pleasant place to you,” she said.
“I'll just peep around, if you please.”
" There's no eyes of all them that have searched
here was so bright as yours, my dear; but think
'twice afore you waste your time here. 'Tis not
likely you'll find aught; an’ if you find anything
more than others have found, 'tis most certain to
be sorrow."
“I don't think it. My heart tells me as there
be that hid here as will pay for finding. I've felt
it all along, an’ never more than to-day.”
“ Seek then, an’ if you can find my son's inno-
cence, me an' his mother will bless you for ever-


118 DANIEL SWEETLAND
vestigated, left Middlecott Lower Hundred and
prepared to return home.
She still lived at Hangman's Hut, and the fifty
pounds with which Daniel had started life prom-
ised to keep her there until time should pass and
news of her husband reach her. Already the won-
der waned, and folks began to talk of the “ widow
Sweetland” and ask each other how long she
must in decency remain alone before taking
another husband. That Titus Sim would be the
man few doubted. He often visited her, and he
strove valiantly in many directions to discover
the secret of Thorpe's death. Sometimes he grew
elated at the shadow of a clue; then, again, he be-
came cast down as the hope of explanation van-
ished and the problem evaded him.
Three nights after Minnie's first great search,
Mr. Sim called upon her. Of late he had seen her
not seldom, because the family at Middlecott was
away and the servants consequently enjoyed un-
usual leisure.
Titus found Mrs. Beer with her neighbor, for
the inn-keeper's wife often spent an evening hour
with the lonely girl, and Mr. Beer also would
occasionally run over if business was quiet. But
his motives were selfish, for Minnie proved a
good listener, and though she did not praise the


DANIEL SWEETLAND 119
fat man's poetry, she was always prepared to give
it respectful hearing.
The footman knocked and entered, according to
his custom; then he sat by the fire and stretched
his gaitered legs to the blaze.
"A rough night,” he said. "I had a regular
fight with the wind coming up over the heath;
but you'm snug enough seemingly. I do welcome
these days when our people are away, for they
give me a chance to be in the air. Sometimes
I'm sore tempted to throw up this life and get
out-of-door work again.”
“You wasn't meant for a flunkey, I'm sure,”
declared Mrs. Beer. “I never can think 'tis a
very dignified calling for a grown man; though,
of course, the quality must have 'em."
“You was almost so fond of the woods and
the wild things as my Daniel was," declared
Minnie.
" True for you,'' he answered. " True for you,
Mrs. Sweetland.”
“I dare say you get a breath of the woods now
an' again while the folks are away?".
“ All I can. These stirring times make me long
to be a gamekeeper- just like when the country
goes to war we men all want to be soldiers. I'm
afraid poor old Sweetland gets beyond his work.


120 DANIEL SWEETLAND
There's been more trouble in the preserves since
Sir Reginald went to Scotland.”
This information apparently reminded the mis-
tress of Hangman's Hut that she had offered Titus
no hospitality.
“I'll draw some cider for 'e. 'Tis all I've got.
Dan promised never to drink nought else after we
was married. An' if you want for to smoke, please
do it. Mrs. Beer an' me both like the smell.”
The footman pulled out a pouch of tobacco and
a pipe from his pocket; and as he did so he
groaned.
“What's the matter?” inquired Mrs. Beer.
“ That's the noise my old man makes in his sleep
when the rheumatics be at him.”
"My side. I had a cruel dig in the ribs two
days agone. Slipped and fell on the cellar stairs
with a scuttle o' coals. I thought I'd broke every
bone in my body. And a pang shoots through an'.
through my side yet when I move my right arm.
But 'tis better than 'twas.”
Minnie expressed active regret and brought Mr.
Sim a cushion for his back. His bright eyes looked
round the little comfortable room hungrily. He
already pictured the time when he might fill a
dead man's shoes, for he was among the many who
believed that Daniel Sweetland had in reality per-


DANIEL SWEETLAND 121
ished and would be heard of no more. Minnie had
not undeceived him.
Now the mistress of Hangman's Hut poured her
visitor out his drink, then sat and watched the
tobacco smoke curl from his lips. Presently she
spoke.
“Do you ever use that wooden pipe what my
Dan gived 'e? 'Twas cut very cunning in the
shape of a fox's mask wi' li'l black beads for eyes.
I should like to think as you smoke it sometimes
an' remember him as gived it to you.”
“ An' so I do. 'Tis my best pipe-for great
occasions only. There's nought belongs to me I
treasure more. I had it betwixt my teeth only
this morning.”
The woman looked at him and nodded gravely.
There was nothing in her face that showed his
speech particularly interested her. And yet, in
wide ignorance of facts, Sim had spoken words
that might some day lead to his discomfiture and
ruin. For he had lied, and Mrs. Sweetland
knew it.
He drank and talked on, and suggested in his
speech and ideas a man of simple rectitude and
honorable mind. His admiration for Minnie he
made no attempt to conceal. It presently fired
Mrs. Beer into a rather personal remark.


122 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“Lord! what a couple you'd make!” she said,
eyeing them. “I do hope, to say it without rude-
ness, as you'll see your way, my dear; for Titus
here be cut out for you, an' everybody be of the
same opinion. When a man's saved enough to
open a public house, that man's a right to look
high for his partner, and he has a right to the
respect of us females. Take the case of my Beer.
He waited, so patient as Job, till the critical cash
was to his name in the bank at Moreton. Then he
flinged over service as gardener up to Archerton
and lifted his eyes to me; but not afore he'd got
three figures to his name. An' we all know that
Mr. Sim be a very snug man.”
“I won't deny it," said Titus. " 'Twould be
idle to do so. I am a snug man as young men go.
The guests at Middlecott are generous, and five
pound notes soon mount up. But we mustn't talk
of that. Mrs. Sweetland hopes that my poor friend
an' her dear husband be still in the land of the
living. An', though it cuts the ground from be-
neath me, I hope so too. Have 'e heard 'bout
drunkard Parkinson? They say he's not likely to
get over his last bout. Now there's a man famed
for poaching since his childhood, and as clever at
it as any chap ever I heard of. It strikes me that
he knows a lot more than his fellow creatures have


DANIEL SWEETLAND
123
heard him speak. Anyway, I'm going to see him
to-morrow, if he's well enough to see me. He's
not above a bit of sport by night still, though I
guess he's shot his last bird now, poor chap! Put
a gun in that man's hand, an' he was sober in a
minute. 'Twas an instinct with him.”
Minnie listened and said nothing. She appeared
to be working on a piece of red flannel, but in re-
ality her mind and attention were elsewhere. She
had private reasons for a close personal scrutiny
of Titus, and now, from under veiled lids, observed
his every action, his dress, his speech.
The man clearly endured physical pain from
time to time. He moved his right shoulder gin-
gerly and occasionally, forgetting it, puckered his
mouth into the expression of suffering, when a
twinge reminded him of his accident. He was
clad in an old shooting jacket and breeches, the
gift of one of his master's guests at the end of a
shooting season. One leg was torn and the rent
had been carefully drawn together. His gaiters
were fastened with yellow horn buttons; but upon
the right leg a button was missing. It had, how-
ever, been replaced with a black one.
Sim smoked and finished his cider; then he
loaded his pipe again, talked ten minutes longer
and prepared to depart.


DANIEL SWEETLAND 125
from D. S.” Minnie Sweetland collected some of
the shreds of Mr. Sim's tobacco and compared it
with that still pressed into the broken pipe. Thus,
while the footman walked home well satisfied with
the progress of events, and full of dreams for his
future prosperity, she, upon whom it rested, had
made a remarkable discovery. That Titus Sim
was involved in the murder of Thorpe, Minnie
could not guess or prove; but that he was impli-
cated in the recent raid-that it was, in fact, Sim
who had fallen in the quarry-it seemed impos-
sible to doubt.
Mrs. Sweetland's first thought was to tell her
father-in-law upon the following day. But she
abandoned the idea. “I'll go on alone,” she said
to herself. “My Dan shall have none to thank
but me. I'll prove afore all the world that he
told the truth; an' maybe I'll live to bring the
truth to light. An' if there's danger in it, let
the danger fall on me. I never was afeard of a
human, an' never will be, please God."
lever


DANIEL SWEETLAND 127
patient, for the matter has to do with you in a
manner of speaking, though 'tis poetry. In fact,
you be mentioned by name.”
The footman, who never quarreled with any
man, declared deep interest, and Johnny drew a
piece of foolscap from his pocket, unrolled it, set
a glass on the top, then spread out the sheet and
read with that deliberate and loving unction pecu-
liar to one who recites his own composition.
“ 'Tis the whole tragedy of two young, youthful
lives told in a rhyme,” he explained. “I've took
the tale so far as it has got like. Now 'tis for you
to make history, so as I can write the next verses."
Then the poet began:-
“Oh, 'twas a direful business sure
When out come Sweetland from church door
And, almost afore he'd kissed his wife,
To find himself tried for his dear life.
Then up he sprang : policemen three
They wasn't half so spry as he.
And even Corder, as come from Plym-
Mouth, he couldn't get quits with him.
But cruel sad and wisht the tale,
For Daniel from this mortal vale
Did take his leave; but there's no mirth
Down in the bowels of the earth,
Where he be now-excuse my groans,
For fitches and weasels do pick his bones.


128 DANIEL SWEETLAND
And that young woman sweet and slim,
She never was no wife for him.
Though she have lost her maiden name,
She'm just a maiden all the same.
And Sweetland's her name and sweet's her nature-
So sweet as any mortal creature.
And here, upon the Moor so desolate,
She lives, like a bird as have lost its mate.
All in a lonesome nest she bides;
Near by a little old river glides ;
And Dan will never come no more, he
Is in the Land of eternal glory.
For that I swear, who pens this verse,
Though some was better and some was worse,
Yet never would that straight young Dan
Have shed the blood of any man.
But now who shall come forth and say,
• I'll take this poor young girl away
And marry her and give her joy
To atone for her unfortunate boy'?
I ask the question far and near,
And answer comes as clear as clear:
For Titus Sim, he loved her well,
And nothing but death true love shall quell.
And therefore I do hope afore long
He will make good this humble song ;
And no chap will be happier than Titns Sim
If Minnie Sweetland will wife along with him."
“ There!” said Mr. Beer. “Every rhyme out
of my own head. An' what d’you think of it?"
" 'Tis very fine poetry, and true, which all


DANIEL SWEETLAND 129
poetry is not to my certain knowledge,” answered
Titus. “I have chances to dip into gentlefolks'
books, and the nonsensical rhymes they have in
'em would much surprise you. But here's rhyme
and reason both, I'm sure. 'Tis a beautiful poem,
an’I should be very much obliged for a copy."
.“ If 'twill fire you on to your duty, you shall
have it; an' if she takes you, I'll add a bit to it,'
said Mr. Beer. “ If you think in rhyme as I often
do,” he added, “ 'tis fifty pounds against a bag
of nuts but you frequently hit on a bit of wisdom.
I've often been mazed at my own cleverness. But
I never surprise my wife. If I found out a way
of turning moor-stone into solid gold, she'd merely
say that she knowed all along 'twas in me to do it.
Therefore I hope you'll take the hint like a man,
an' offer marriage so soon as you can. You've
got the good wishes of the parish behind you in
the adventure; an' that's half the battle, no
doubt."
" I'm thinking it's too soon,” said Titus. “Be-
tween you and me, Mr. Beer, 'tis my dream and
hope to have her, but time must pass. In the upper
circles they wait a year afore they approach a
bereft female, and though I needn't be asked to
keep off it so long as that, still three months isn't


130 DANIEL SWEETLAND
enough, I'm afraid. She was very fond of Dan,
remember.”
“I suppose three months is not enough, as you
say,” admitted Johnny, “ especially as she won't
have it that he's dead. There's a crack-brained
thought in her poor young heart that Daniel didn't
make away with himself at all; an' of course as
the ashes of the poor chap will never be seen by
mortal eye until the last Trump, 'tis impossible
to prove she's wrong. For my part I've said that
I reckon he's dead; but at the same time, I never
shall know why he made away with himself until
we stand face to face beyond the grave. Then
that will be the fust question I ax the man,' What-
ever did 'e do such a terrible rash thing for, Dan?'
I shall ax him as we meet in a golden street.”
“I wish I could think with you that he didn't
do it-shoot Thorpe, I mean; but I'm only too sure
of it. What I believe is this: that Rix Parkinson
and Dan did the job between them, and that poor
Dan shot the under-keeper while Parkinson tried
to knock the life out of Dan's father. Of course
Rix denied it when I taxed him. However, truth
will out-at Doomsday, if not before, an', be it as
it will, there's no reason why I shouldn't ask the
girl I love to marry me now she's free to. I'll do
it come the springtime, if not before."


DANIEL SWEETLAND 131
Mr. Beer applauded the resolve.
" I'm sure right an' law be on your side. The
Church likewise, for that matter. Parson never
would hold Minnie to that marriage. She'm free,
no doubt. What you've got to do be to convince
her loving mind that Daniel be in glory, as my
verses say; then she'll let un bide an’ turn her
attention to you, if she's so wise as I think. Shall
you live up-along to Hangman's Hut if she takes
you?”
“No, I shan't. I mean to go to Moreton. I've
a thought to take a little shop there, if she likes
the idea."
“Better try for'a public.' Drink be even a more
certain support than food. If I don't know More-
ton men, who should? I tell you that they put
bread second to beer every day of the year. I
made a rhyme about it that they wrote up in Sam
Merritt's bar. If you like--?"
“Not now, master," said Titus. “Though I'll
wager 'tis a very clever rhyme, if you made it.
And I'll keep in mind all you've said. Now I must
get going, else I'll be late for dinner.”
Sim rode off and it chanced, as the dimpsy light
faded and the brief splendor of winter sunset
lighted the west, that he met young Mrs. Sweet-
land herself returning home. 'Minnie was riding


132 DANIEL SWEETLAND
a pony which Mr. Beer lent her when she wanted
it. She had been at Middlecott Lodge and in the
coverts also, for her search was not relaxed, and,
when opportunity offered, she continued it.
Little remained to be done. That day she had
paid her eighteenth visit to the spot of evil fame,
and for the first time since the beginning of the
search the girl believed herself rewarded. Most
laborious and faithful had been her scrutiny. She
told herself that to leave a twig unturned might
be to lose the chance of re-establishing her hus-
band's good repute. She toiled with a patience
only possible to a woman; and now, while but
three or four more yards remained to be searched,
a significant fragment came to the light. Yet it
was not near the spot where Daniel's gun had
been discovered. That tract, despite a survey mi-
croscopical in its minuteness, yielded her nothing
but a flake of flint. The arrowhead, for such it
was, had told an antiquary of some old Danmonian
warrior from palæolithic days; but to Minnie
Sweetland it meant nothing, and she threw it
aside without interest. Then, where Matthew
Sweetland had suffered his cruel beating, the
searcher came upon a yellow horn button. It re-
minded her instantly of Sim's leathern gaiters,
and she stood silent in the silent woods and stared


DANIEL SWEETLAND 133
wa
ras
before her. Thus it seemed that her husband's
closest, dearest friend was identified with the spot
of the murder. But even in the flush of discovery
the young woman perceived how slight and vain
was such a clew unsupported. If the button was
Titus Sim's, it proved nothing against him, since
all men knew that he had been early on the scene
of the fray. But her heart leapt, though her head
warned it, and she left the woods full of hope
renewed.
Returning from this discovery, Minnie met Sim.
Then they pulled up their horses and spoke to-
gether.
“I do wish you'd come down off the Moor to
live, Mrs. Sweetland. 'Tis much too cold and
lonely for a female up-along these winter days."
“I like it. 'Tis a stern life an' keeps a body
patient. You've got to fight a bit wi' nature. It..
makes a woman brave to have to do that. Last
night the foxes got to my chicks an' killed three
of 'em.”
“I'm sorry, indeed!”
"v 'Twill larn me to be wiser.”
“ To think what it is to be a few miles nearer
the sun! At least I suppose 'tis that. They've
heard from Mr. Henry. Sir Reginald was reading
out a lot of his letter at luncheon to-day. Such a


134 DANIEL SWEETLAND
place as that Tobago be! All palm-trees, and
lofty mountains, and flowers, and birds and but-
terflies, and sweltering sunshine, and niggers, and
cocoanuts and sugar-cane. A different world, if
words mean anything. Mr. Henry has a pretty
pen, seemingly. I wish to God I'd been educated
and could write so easy and flowing. As to the
Overseer of the estates, I didn't hear about that.
'Twas only a bit here and there Sir Reginald read
out to her ladyship.”
“Have they heard anything 'bout the pheasant
thieves?”
“Not a syllable. Drunkard Parkinson swears
on his oath he had no hand in it, though for my
part I suspect him. And what d’you think? Mat-
thew Sweetland was at me only yesterday to throw
up my indoor work and turn keeper again! He
knows I understand the work almost so well as
Dan himself did. But I've got my ideas. It all
depends on-on other parties what I do. I've told
the old man that he must wait for my answer till
next midsummer day.”
“He's always praising you an' wishing how my
Daniel had been more like you."
“No, no! I wasn't a patch on Daniel. Still, I
know the out-door work and love it, too."
Minnie thought of her button.


DANIEL SWEETLAND 135
“ You'd want a wife then. A gamekeeper's life
is a hard one. I suppose if you do that, you'll
take the north cottage and Thomas will get warn-
ing?"
“ YesI should have his place; he's not much
good. But as to a wife-well, if you ask me, I
think a keeper's better without one. Men will
talk to their wives; an’ women will talk again to
other women. They can't help it. A man whose
business 'tis to keep secrets and run the chance
of sudden death, had better bide single. So it de-
pends-as I told you just now—’pon other parties.
Come next midsummer, I shall ask a certain party
a certain question; and if the answer is ' yes,'
there'll be no game-keeping for me; and if the
answer is' no '-well, I'd rather not think of that.
There come times in his life when a strong man
can't take' no'for an answer.”
Minnie sat on her pony with one hand in her
pocket. She fingered the horn button and spoke.
“You want somebody to look after you. A
girl's eyes be sharp where she takes an interest.
I wonder your master have never called you to
account for that black button on your gaiter. 'Tis
very untidy. If you was an out-door man, you'd
never dare to go about like that.”
“ Quite right,” he admitted. “To think your


136 DANIEL SWEETLAND
sharp eyes have seen-but what don't they see-
even to a button? It do make me feel a proud man
all the same, that you can have bestowed the least
thought from your beautiful mind on such a
thing."
“I catched sight of it some time ago. If you
remind me one day, I'll sew a yellow one on for
'e. I've got one. "Twill match t'others an' look
more pretty than that black one."
“ I'm afeard it won't match the others, my dear,
for they'm notched around the edge and be pecu-
liar. But your button will be more to me than all
the rest, and if 'tis yellow in color, 'twill pass very
well; and thank you kindly for the thought."
“ Next time you come up, then?”
“That will be Sunday night, if I may.”
She nodded.
“ Good night, and bless you for your kind
words,” said Mr. Sim very fervently.
“ Good night,” she answered, and went her
way.
No definite course of action had prompted her
to this strange offer. Her only wish was to get
a closer view of the gaiter and compare the but-
ton she had found with those upon it. Now, as
she rode on, a thousand plans passed through her
mind, but not one pleased her, and she began


DANIEL SWEETLAND
137
doubtfully to speculate upon the necessity of seek-
ing help in this enterprise. The danger grew. Let
Sim once suspect and she could not guess the re-
sult. If he had himself destroyed the keeper, and
in cold blood plotted the subsequent destruction
of Daniel Sweetland, then he would stick at noth-
ing. Minnie very clearly perceived the necessity
for caution. She also saw the direction in which
Sim's thoughts were turning. That he would ask
her to marry him when midsummer came was cer-
tain. She only hoped that long before summer re-
turned the truth might have dawned upon her
darkness and her husband be by her side again.
Daniel was in her thoughts and her young heart
yearned for him as she returned to her lonely
dwelling. Then, as if to answer the longing, great
news greeted her and the day closed in splendor
brighter than any sunset light.
Mr. Beer was waiting for the pony when Min-
nie arrived at the “Warren Inn," and she marked,
despite the gloaming, that his mouth was full of
news.
“ Wonders never cease, but be on the increase,”
he began. “ An'well you know that when I break
out into poetry I've generally got something on
my mind. Well, so I have. Onlight from your
horse an' I'll give 'e a present. What could be


138 DANIEL SWEETLAND
better than a postman's letter? An' from foreign
parts, if you'll believe me, though I didn't know,
my dear, as you'd got friends in the distance."
“Dan!” she said. “ 'Tis Dan, my heart says
it.”
“Now, don't think that, my poor maiden. I
wish it was. But there ban't no letter-writing in
the grave. A man neither sends nor receives 'em
in the pit. An' 'tis not the worst thing as you
can say for death that it puts you beyond reach
of the penny post-not to name telegrams. You
must make up your mind that Daniel be in the
better land with saints an' angels grand. This
here is from the West Indies where the rum comes
from; an' if the place be as comforting as the
drink, then I make no doubt people do very well
there. For rum punch is a glorious brew to make
the heart and liver new. But, if you ax me, this
letter is from Mr. Henry, who be in them parts.
He was a close friend of Dan's; an' his was the
gun that done the dreadful deed when death to
Adam Thorpe did speed. Lord! how full I be of
rhyme to-night! So, very like, he's written in his
gentlemanly way to comfort you."
Minnie's bosom panted and she put her hand
upon it to hide the swift rise and fall. Right well
she knew that Mr. Beer was wrong, and though the
70


DANIEL SWEETLAND
139
superscription of the letter spread in a scrawling
hand was quite unlike Daniel's, yet her heart saw
through the envelope and she felt that the letter
came from her husband.
“Let me have it,” she said. “I'll tell you
what's to tell to-morrow.".
“Why not read it now?” he asked as he handed
the letter to her.
“ Time enough. Now take the pony an' thank
you, an' good night.”
Soon she was alone, and Minnie ate no supper
that night, for another sort of feast awaited her.
She read the long letter thrice from end to end,
then, finding that the hour was nine o'clock and
the fireless cottage had grown very cold, she went
to bed and read the letter three times more by
candlelight. After that the candle suddenly went
out, so she cuddled her soft bosom to the pages
and slept with them against a happy heart.


CHAPTER X
DAN'S LETTER
“My own, dear, pretty-eyed wife:
“Here I be so safe as you could wish, with
many a mile o' salt water betwixt me and them
as would harm me. A mighty lot of terrible strange
things I've seed; but first I must say as I got to
Plymouth all right and met a chap as wanted a
sailorman. He took me, because he couldn't get
a better, and we sailed out of Plymouth on the very.
next tide. My ship be called the ‘ Peabody.' She's
a steamer-not much to look at and a poor one to
go; but here we are anyway, and I be writing to
you from Tobago-an island in the West Indies,
where us get brown sugar and cocoanuts and such
like foreign contrivances.
“I'll begin at the beginning, well knowing how
you like for things to be all in order and shipshape,
as we say. Well, the food's cruel bad and the
ship's undermanned and under-engined, but we'm
just on the windy side of the law, I believe, which
is all you can expect from a tramp like the ‘ Pea-


DANIEL SWEETLAND 141
body. The old man (Skipper) is a very good
sort and everybody likes him; also the mate; like-
wise the bosun. Everything's all right, in fact,
except the grub and the engines. I be the carpen-
ter's mate.
"Us seed a good few of the wonders of the deep
coming out over, but it blowed a bit off the Azores
(which you can find in father's big map of the
world), and we took it green. By which I mean
this vessel shipped solid waves over her bows and
we had to slow down, else we'd have gone down.
The engines be good for nought in a head-wind.
But we got to Barbados at last, and I find 'tis
called Bim for shortness. In the dimpsy light us
fetched it, but out here twilight turns to night
while the clock's striking, and afore we cast an-
chor 'twas dark and the island lying like a sea-
monster with a red light on his nose and a white
on his tail- lighthouses I mean. Bridgetown it
was where us landed part of our cargo-a place
with windmills 'pon it and tilled land and miles
of stuff, as made me think of home, so green it
was; but 'tis sugar-cane when you gets up to it.
We didn't bide in Carlisle Bay long, else I'd have
wrote from there, but we was so terrible busy I
hadn't but one chance to land. The folks here
be every color you could name between white and
S


142 DANIEL SWEETLAND
black, through all manner of shades of snuff color,
and butter color, and putty color, and peat color.
Cheerful, lazy devils, as like to laugh and smoke
and chew sugar-cane all day. But they properly
hate work. Reckless mongrels, I should say they
was; but in Bim a man don't get any show unless
he've got a touch of the tar-brush as they say.
That means nigger blood. Such a way as they
tell! I never heard English spoke so comic in all
my born days. Their clothes be built for ventila-
tion mostly, and I never seed such a show of rags.
Barbados is made of coral, but t'other islands are
volcanos, and they've a nasty way of going off
when you least count upon it.
“ From Carlisle Bay you can see white houses
under wooden tiles all scorced gray by the sun
heat, and in the streets a great crowd goes up and
down in the blazing air and shining dust. Such a
noise and clatter I never did hear. Mules squeal-
ing, bells ringing, bands playing, niggers bawling.
The women all wear white dresses and gay tur-
bans. They'm amazing straight in the back, owing
to carrying all their goods 'pon top their heads.
They sell cocoanuts, cane, pineapples, oranges,
limes, mangoes, yams, pickles, and Lord knows
what beside. They stride out beautiful owing to
their short petticoats, but their mouths be a cau-


DANIEL SWEETLAND 143
tion. The childen look like little chocolate dolls,
and much you'd love 'em. The policemen all be
dressed in white. They fancy themselves an awful
lot. The pigs run about the streets and be for
all the world like greyhounds (what we call long
dogs to home). The climate's that fiery that you'll
never get no stock properly fatted in it. But you
don't feel no call for much red meat. We got
fresh water and green stuff aboard here, and how
I wish I could have sent you my dinner yester-
day. I had flying-fish and sweet potatoes and
green-skinned oranges, red as gold inside, and
many other fine things as would make your lit-
tle mouth water to hear tell about. But the man-
goes is what I like best, though they do say out
here they be no better than a bit of tow dipped
in turps. Ban't true, I assure 'e. I got off for
two hour just afore we set sail, and went into the
country, trapsing round to see what I could see.
And if I didn't come across a great mango tree
as 'peared to me to be just a foreign, wild tree
alongside the high road. Well, I seed the fruit in
it, an' thinks I, 'twill be a fine thing for the ship.
So up I goes, hand over fist, but not before I made
some niggers stop throwing stones up at the tree.
Well, I shinned up aloft and began flinging down
the mangoes, and the wretched niggers holloed


DANIEL SWEETLAND
145
". You tief my mangoes! You lodge in de
gaol!' was all he could think of. So I told him
not to be such a tarnation fool.
". There's your mangoes on the ground,'I said.
• I'll give you a bob for 'em, and if I hear any
more about it, I'll apply to the Governor to have
your beast of a dog shot.
" 'Twas the money done it!
" A bob-a bob, Massa!’he says. “Dat's dif-
f'rent, sar! I'se too sorry I spoke so rude to
massa. A bob! Go home, you damn dog!'
“ So the dog cleared out and I comed down and
gived the heathen his shilling, and took the man-
goes and marched off to the Careenage and joined
my ship. But I'd paid a lot too much money, of
course.
“ Next morn us got to St. Vincent-an island
that runs up into the sky, like a Dartmoor tor,
only 'tis a lot larger and the sides of un be all cov-
ered with palms and savage trees. The town lies
spread at sea level-all white and red-and the
forest slopes behind with fine trees. Some of them
was blazing with red flowers. A pride of the morn-
ing shower falled just as we got here, and the rain
flashed like fire. There was a rainbow in it,
and I never seed such a bright one afore. The
caps of the mountains was hidden in clouds,
10


148 DANIEL SWEETLAND
and one male goes to every ten females. A fine
thing, even if you was a tree, to have ten wives-
so Bradley says! But I only want one, and that's
my dinky Minnie, so brave and so lovely.
“St. George, Grenada, we stopped at for a week,
and I seed a great deal of the place. They've got
a lunatic asylum and a klink there; and they want
'em both. Niggers often go mad, but it ban't from
over-work, that I will swear.
“ The King of the Caribs lived here, but he was
a poor fool and believed the French. They gived
him a few bottles of brandy and he gived them
his island on conditions. But of course they broke
the conditions. And pretty well all the Caribs
died fighting. The last of the king's men jumped
into the sea and was drowned rather than give in.
“The market would make you die of laughing,
I'm sure. Never seed such a clatter of business
even to Moreton on a Saturday. Such a row!
You'd think the wealth of the nation was chang-
ing hands, but you could buy up the whole lot
pretty near for thirty shilling. But a gay bit of
colored scenery, I promise you, with the women's
turbans all a-bobbing, like a million colored par-
rots. 'Tis a very fine place for cocoanut palms
also. The little young nuts look like giant acorns
in long sprigs. I went to a nigger man on busi-


DANIEL SWEETLAND 149
est darter
a little
lizards ..
ness and met with some mighty strange sights in
his garden. There was land-crabs lived there and
a tame tortoise, and a nursery of young cocoanut
trees and a nursery of young niggers also, for the
man was a family man and had a lot of little peo-
ple. “Dat my youngest darter,' he said to me, and
pointed to a little maid playing along with the
lizards and things and dressed the same as them.
""A very nice darter too,' I said to him.
"'Dat my son ober dar,' he said, “and dat
my next youngest son, and dem gals eating dat
shaddock - dey twins.'
“I told him I never seed a braver lot o'childer,
and then he went in his house and fetched out his
wife and his old father and his aunt. And I
praised the lot and told him what a terrible lucky
chap he was; and he got so pleased that he gived
me half a barrow-load of fruit.
" There's a lake inland by the name of Etang,
and the niggers say how the Mother of the Rain
lives in it. But I told 'em that the Mother o’ Rain
lives home-along with us in the Cranmere Pool 'pon
Dartymoor. But they wouldn't believe that! Any-
way their Mother o’ Rain belongs to Obeah, and
she'm an awful strong party. 'Tis a wisht, silent
place she do live in, all hid in palms and ferns
and wonderful trees blazing with flowers. They


150 DANIEL SWEETLAND
do say the witch comes up out of the water of a
moony night to sing; but I don't know nought
about that. I'd go and have a look and see if I
couldn't teel a trap here and there; but there ban't
no game worth naming in these parts, though
Bradley tells me they've got deer in Tobago. If
there be, I'll bring some pairs of their horns home
to 'e to stick over the doors to Hangman's Hut.
How I do wish I was there; but ban't no good
coming back yet awhile, and when I do, us will
have to be awful spry. I wonder if you've found
out aught-you or Titus? I dare say such a clever
man as him have got wind of the truth afore now.
I be bringing home some pink coral studs for him.
You might let him know it, if you please. I sup-
pose they've gived back my gun to you? They
did ought to, since no doubt everybody thinks I
be dead. If you be very pressed for money, sell
the gun to Sim; but not if you can help it.
"Mister Henry Vivian be in Tobago, and I
hope as he'll suffer me to have speech with him
some day soon. 'Twould be a tower of strength
to get him 'pon our side. But such a stickler as
him and so quick to take a side and hold to it-
he may be against me, and, if so, the less I see of
him the better.
" But I must tell about Trinidad while my paper


DANIEL SWEETLAND 151
holds out. We comed to it after Grenada, and a
very fine place it is. And a very terrible sight I
seed in the Court House there, namely, no less
than a nigger tried for murder. The Coolies be
short-tempered people and often kill their wives.
Then the vultures find 'em in the sugar-cane. But
niggers, though they talk a lot, never kill one an-
other as a rule. This chap had shot a tax-col-
lector, and the black people in the court didn't
seem to take it very serious; but the jury fetched
it in murder, and he was sentenced to be hanged,
I'm sorry to say. My flesh did creep upon my
bones to hear it, for it might have been me; and
them words I should certainly have heard but for
my own way of doing things after they took me.
The nigger stood so steady as if he was cut out of
coal. A good plucky man, and went to his doom
like a hero. It took three judges to hang him.
They sat under a great fan in court to keep 'em
cool. But all three growed awful hot over the
job. The people thought 'twas very hard on the
man, and so did I.
" They've got a pitch lake here, and there's a
lot of business doing, and a racecourse and a rail-
way.
" At Port o' Spain I met the rummiest human
that ever I did meet. 'Twas in a drinking-place


152 DANIEL SWEETLAND
what me and Bradley went to one evening. This
here chap was bar-keeper, and his father had been
a Norwegian, and his mother had been a Spaniard
from Hayti, and he was born in the Argentine
Republic, and he said he was an Englishman.
Swore it afore all comers! Us told the man it
couldn't be so—according to the laws of nature;
and he got his wool off something cruel, and cussed
in five languages, and axed us who the blue, blaz-
ing hell we thought we were, to come teaching
him. He said he was English to the marrow in
his bones, and we proved he couldn't be, in good
sailor language. Then he said that such trash as
us wasn't going to be heard afore him; and then
we got a bit short like (though not in liquor, that
I promise you) and told the man he was no better
than a something or other mongrel-like every-
body else in foreign parts. After that glasses got
flying about and we slung our hook back to the
ship. But it shows what fools men are, I reckon
6. The Coolies put all their money on their
wives. And I'd do the same, as well you know.
But they don't do it in a manner of speaking, but
really and truly, for they hammer all their silver
money into nose-rings, and bracelets, and armlets,
and leglets, and their females go chinking about
with the family fortune hanging to 'em, like fruit
US


DANIEL SWEETL AND
153
to a tree. I seed a lot at a sugar factory nigh Saint
Joseph-a little place out over from Port o' Spain.
One estate there done very well, but others was
all falling to pieces and the machinery all rusting
and no business doing at all. The air in a busy
factory smells of sugar, and the canes be smashed
between steel rollers, and the juice comes out in a
stream, like'a moor brook. Then they set to work ·
and, after a lot of things have been done to this
here juice, including boiling, it turns into brown
sugar. And the remains be treacle, and the
crushed cane is used for firing. They also make
rum out of sugar-cane, and very cheerful drink-
ing 'tis. The Coolie girls be awful purty-so
brown as my Minnie, with dark eyes that flash.
But they keep themselves to themselves. They
wouldn't keep company or go out walking with a
sailor man for the world. And their men folks be
very short and sharp with them. One gal was
singing and scrubbing a floor when I catched sight
of her. All in red she was with silver bangles on
her arms, and wonderful glimmering eyes, and
not a day more than thirteen year old. That's
a purty child,' I said to Jim Bradley. 'Child be
damned,' he said in his short way. “She's a
growed woman and very like got a family. The
truth is that they be grandmothers at thirty. But


154 DANIEL SWEETLAND
I've only seed one purtier gal in all my born days,
and that's my gal.
"All the machinery in Trinidad be worked with
cocoanut oil. 'Tis a very funny smell, but you
soon get used to it.
“ Our next port was Tobago, and here we shall
bide for a good while and let our fires out and
have a go at the boilers. This letter will go off
from there to you, and I do hope and trust as it
will find you as it leaves me at present, my dear
wife. Ban't much good for me to ax you to write
the news, because you wouldn't know where to
send it. But I hope afore next year be out that
we'll come together again and your poor chap
will be proved an innocent man.
“I'll send you three pound from here presently
and another letter along with it. If there's any
good news and the charges don't run too high,
you might send a telegram on getting this letter
to · Bob Bates, Steamship “ Peabody," Bridge-
town, Barbados.' We go back there in three weeks
and shall be there afore you get this. I be · Bob
Bates' now, and shall remain so for the present
till I can be Dan Sweetland again without run-
ning my neck in the rope.
“Lord save us, but how I do long to be squeez- -
ing my own true wife! Awful rough luck we've


DANIEL SWEETLAND
155
had, but there's a better time coming. Tell mother
and father all about me, but make 'em swear on
father's old Bible fust that they'll name it to none
else. They can hear bits of this letter, but not all.
I'm sending you twenty thousand kisses. I wish
to God I was bringing 'em. Last thing I done at
Trinidad was to cut your name and mine on a
great aloe leaf in the Botanical Garden when no-
body was looking. And over 'em I scratched two
hearts with a arrow skewered through. They aloe
leaves live for ever, I'm told, so our names will be
there for people to see long after we be dead and
gone, I hope. But that won't be for a mighty
long time yet, please God.
“I may say that I've growed a bit religious
since we parted. Ban't nothing to name and won't
make any difference in my feelings to old friends,
but you can't see the Lord's wonders in the deep
without growing a bit thoughtful like. And if by
good chance I ever get back to you and stand
afore the world clear of the killing of poor Adam
Thorpe, then I shall be a church-goer for ever-
more-or else a chapel member-which you like
best. But one for sartain. So no more at present
from your faithful husband till death,
" DANIEL SWEETLAND."
mo


CHAPTER XI
THE LAST OF THE “PEABODY"
Wa
0
eas
Fate, it seemed, had ordered a final fleeting hap-
piness for the lonely young wife before her sun
was to set in sorrow. For a season the glow of
Daniel's letter clung to her, warmed her heart,
and lighted her spirit. Nor did she hide the news
from all. Daniel's parent heard much of the let-
ter, as he directed, and Minnie trusted Mr. Beer
and his wife with the news also. But nobody else ·
heard it. Then, as summer approached and she
already began to count the days until another let-
ter might reach her, a crashing grief fell upon the
woman, and all her future was changed. Hope
perished; life henceforth stretched forward into
the dreary future without one ray of light to break
its darkness.
For a moment in her shattering sorrow even the
truth itself seemed no longer worth discovery.
Nothing mattered any more, for the end had come.
Even while she was reading his letter, so full of
life and hope, the hand that wrote it was clay


DANIEL SWEETLAND 157
again; and, under circumstances the most awful,
his little vessel and all thereon had perished.
When Titus Sim kept his appointment and
brought himself to Hangman's Hut that Minnie
might sew a yellow button upon his gaiter, she
had some ado to hide her splendid thoughts while
she worked for him. From the first she had studi-
ously hidden the truth from Titus, nor did she
speak a word of it now. His presence always made
her heart cold and hard; for as she thought of the
past, his action grew more and more clear to her.
He had laid a deadly trap for Daniel, and Daniel,
trusting him better than anybody in the world,
had fallen headlong into it. Whether Sim was
actually present at the death of Thorpe, Minnie
still knew not; but that he was familiar with the
circumstances and that he had on the night of the
murder fetched Daniel's gun and placed it ready
to be found on the following morning, she felt
assured. His purpose was to gain herself. But
what to do at this juncture she did not know.
She dared not summon Daniel home as yet, and
she dared not impart her discoveries to any other.
Then happened circumstances that made all vain
and turned revenge into a thing too mean and
shallow to pursue. After the announcement of her
husband's death, the perspective and significance


158 DANIEL SWEETLAND
of life were altered. For long days she moved
listlessly from her bed back to her bed again.
Sleep only had power to comfort her, while yet
the overwhelming tragic truth tortured each wak-
ing hour. Sleep nightly she welcomed as she
would have welcomed death.
In this strange fashion came the fatal news to
her.
Sim was accustomed to bring books and news-
papers upon the occasion of his visits, and in a
daily journal, at the time of that awful event, tele-
grams appeared of the volcanic catastrophe that
had burst upon the West Indies, had shaken St.
Vincent to its heights, and overwhelmed much of
the unfortunate island of Martinique. Chance or-
dered the intelligence upon the day that Sim had
fixed for his formal proposal, and her eyes were
actually fixed upon the “Western Morning News."
where it lay spread over her table, at the moment
that the man was asking her to marry him.
“ I can't hold it in no more," he said. " You
know right well what I mean. I've been patient
too-God knows how patient. On, woman, don't
torment me any longer. For God's sake say you'll
marry me. My life's one cruel stretch on the rack
as it is. All I've done to get you you'll never
know. You've been the one thought and hope and


DANIEL SWEETLAND
159
prayer and longing of my life ever since I first
set eyes on you, and now-now there's nought be-
tween us-now-Minnie! Good God-what's the
matter-what have I done?”
He broke off and leapt to his feet, for she had
fallen back in her chair and an expression of great
terror and horror had come into her face. She
had only heard his last words. The woman did not
faint; but for the moment she was powerless to
speak. Her emotion had robbed her cheek of
blood, and made her dizzy. In response to his cry
she pointed to the sheet before her. He glanced at
the long Reuter telegram and then noted the brief
paragraph upon which she kept her finger:
" Among the ill-fated vessels that went down
with all hands was the English steamer ‘Peabody'
(Nailer & Co.). It is reported that she attempted
to steam out of harbor, but was overwhelmed and
sunk in the awful convulsion from above and be-
low. Every soul on board perished.”
“What is this to you, or to me? What do you
know? Tell me if I can do anything," cried Titus
Sim.
“Every soul-every soul,” she said, quoting in
a strange voice under her breath. “ Every soul,'
but it means ' every body.' The souls have gone
back where there's no hopes nor fears nor sor-


160 DANIEL SWEETLAND
rows. But his body-his dear body-all-all per-
ished. I can't read no more. Does it say. all '9"
“That awful thing in Martinique. Yes, they be
full of it at the house and full of thanksgivings
that it wasn't Tobago that was smitten. But you,
Minnie-what is this to you?”
“Death,” she said. “ His death; and his death
be mine- the death of all that's best in me, the
death of all I kept alive for him.”
“For-for-you don't mean your husband ?
Not Daniel Sweetland?".
“He was on board her. 'Twas to her he went
and in her he sailed. I only heard it a thought
more than a month agone. Heard it under his
own hand. He wrote me a letter. And now "
“There might be another ship of that name.
But how much this means! And you could hide it
all from me! And I thought-
“ You thought he was in Wall Shaft Gully. And
now he lies in a bigger grave than that,my Dan
-driven away to die. May God remember the
man who ruined my husband!”
For once Sim was shaken from his power of
ready speech; for once his tongue seemed tied.
The tremendous nature of this event made him
powerless. Yet at the bottom of his bewildered
mind lurked joy. The thing he had toiled to bring


DANIEL SWEETLAND 161
about appeared at last accomplished without
further possibility of failure. Doubt no longer
existed. Sweetland was now dead indeed. He
concealed his thanksgiving and began to mourn.
No more of love he spake, but strove to find conso-
lation for her in religious reflections. Dry-eyed
she stared from him to the newspaper, from the
newspaper back to him. Then she bade him leave
her, and he went but stopped at the public house
hard by and told his tremendous news to Mr. and
Mrs. Beer. They, who knew the secret of Daniel's
disappearance, were stricken with profound sor- ,
row, and scarcely had Sim proclaimed the truth
before Jane Beer hurried bareheaded from the
house and ran to her friend.
“Poor young woman!” groaned Johnny in
genuine grief, “what a world of ups and downs
and hopes and fears she have suffered, to be sure!
To think as one pair of girl's shoulders be called
upon to carry such a burden. There's nought to
be done. Only time can help her, an' maybe you."
“ To think,” said Sim," and I was that moment
putting marriage before her! Another moment
and she must have told me she was a wife; and
then it caught her eye-staring from the printed
page-that she was a widow!”.
“She told us the secret and I made a joyous


162
DANIEL SWEETLAND
rhyme about it; but what's rhymes to her now?
Yet I'll do one, and this day I'll do it, for many's
the poor broken heart as have sucked comfort
from a well-turned verse-else why do we have
hymns? Well, it will come back to you, Titus.
For my part I could wish as Daniel had died to
home where first we thought he did. A sea death
be so open an'gashly. For my part I'd sooner
have gone down Vitifer mine shaft and know my
bones would bide in the land that bred 'em.”
“Well, the mystery be all out now. No doubt
he visited her that night he gave the policemen
the slip. 'Twas hard I should never know the
secret, for I'm sure Dan would have told me afore
all the world.”
“She've only got his memory now, poor lamb;
an' that won't keep her warm of a winter night.
'Twas ordained you should have her, no doubt.
But you mustn't ax her till the tears be dried.
She'll weep a lot. Turn and twist as you may,
death will grab you some day. The appointed
time comes round as sure as the sun rises. Pig
or man, each has his span. There's verses rising
up in me, Titus, so I won't keep you. What was
the name of the poor hero's ship? D’you call it
to mind?"
" The Peabody,'" answered Sim; then he
Son


DANIEL SWEETLAND 163
departed with strange thoughts for company.
In truth Titus had much ado to marshal his
ideas. He stood exactly where he believed that
he had stood from the time of Daniel's disappear-
ance, but the fact that Sweetland was only now
removed from his path by death startled him not
a little. He hardly realized his fortune. In his
mind was a dark cloud, for that Minnie should
so carefully have kept her secret from him meant
mischief. She had not trusted him with the truth.
There was a reason for that, and the reason prom-
ised to be the reverse of pleasant. Sim had been
deceived by Minnie's attitude. Without attempt
to blind his eyes, her steady and friendly demeanor
had led him to suppose that she at least was well
content in his society; that she trusted him; that
she bore to him the regard due to her husband's
first and favorite companion. But she had delib-
erately chosen to keep him in ignorance not only
of Daniel's safety, but also concerning his actual
existence; and this reserve caused Sim a great
deal of painful surprise. Surely it indicated that
Daniel's widow did not trust him; and for that
distrust a reason must exist.
Titus perceived that much depended upon his
future attitude. To win her absolute confidence
would now be necessary before there could be any


164 DANIEL SWEETLAND
further talk of love. He ransacked his sleepless
mind that night, and before morning saw the way
clear. His good faith must be made apparent; it
must shine above any shadow of suspicion. Min-
nie should learn that her husband's honor and fair
name were as much to Titus Sim as to herself.
How to effect this result was his problem, and
the footman believed that he could solve it. For
Sim was perfectly familiar with the truth con-
cerning Adam Thorpe's end; and no man knew
better than did he that Daniel had no part in the
crime. The secret murderer was not hidden from
Titus, nor was the hand that placed Sweetland's
gun where he had found it.
Everything conspired to his purpose. He cal-
culated that in a month's time he would be able
to clear Sweetland's name before the world. Then
his own reward seemed clear. Minnie, once con-
vinced that her vague fears and suspicions did him
wrong, could hardly deny him what he begged.
Into his fixed and immovable resolution to make
her his own he poured all the strength of a tre
mendous will. He had not come so far upon the
journey to be repulsed. He had not moved by
dark ways and committed worse than crimes for
nothing. From a mental condition of anger and
uneasiness his devious soul plotted itself back into


DANIEL SWEETLAND 165
ev
content and calm. The end was assured and the
means to play his final strokes now lay clear be-
fore the man's intelligence. To establish absolute
confidence in himself as Sweetland's friend-true
even beyond death-was now. his purpose; and
the thing he planned to do, if brought to a suc-
cessful issue, could hardly fail to show him in a
noble light and convince the skeptic, if any such
existed beside Minnie, that his aims were pure
and his faith above all suspicion.
A week later, when she had told her secret and
her little world mourned in its wonder, and yet
also triumphed at the ingenuity of the native who
would never return again, Titus Sim visited Min-
nie with offers to assist her in any step she might
now be contemplating. But she did not avail her:
self of the suggestion.
“ I'm going back to my aunt come presently,”
she said. “I can't bide here no more now. After
Michaelmas I give it up an' return to Moreton."
Her face was very pale against her black dress,
and darkness and sorrow haunted her beautiful
eyes; but no living soul had seen her deepest grief.
That was hidden from all. Her voice never shook
when she spoke of Daniel to Titus Sim, for instinct
told her the man, despite his protestations, did not
share her bereavement. Only with Daniel's mother,


166 DANIEL SWEETLAND
or in the company of Jane Beer, did she reveal a
glimpse of her breaking heart.
“ Command me, if I can serve you in any possi-
ble manner,” he said. “And don't think I'm for.
getting this great sorrow because 'tis not always
upon my tongue. Far from it: Daniel is never out
of my thoughts. He's beyond the reach of aught
but prayers; but his honor and good name are the
legacies he left behind, and 'tis for us to treasure
them and make 'em shine out like the sun from
behind this cloud that darkens them. I know only
too well you don't believe me. It's been the great-
est grief in a sad life-the greatest but Daniel's
death-that you kept his secret from me and did
not let me know that he was still alive. I've had
nought but sleepless nights thinking of it. And
why for you don't trust me I can't guess, and why
you hid the welfare of my greatest friend from
me I shall never know; but this I know: you had
no just reason, and not by word or deed or thought
or dream have I ever done him wrong. Be that
as it may. I'll say nothing about it and I'll ask
you for no explanation, for 'tisn't a time to
wrangle which of us-man or woman-friend or
wife-loved him best. I'll not prate; I'll do. I
believe even now that 'twill be my blessed lot to
clear his memory afore the world. You gaze at


DANIEL SWEETLAND
167
me as if you thought that 'twould be no joy to
me to do it-see how I read what's in your eyes!
But I swear afore the throne of Heaven that I'd
sooner clear his name and sweeten his memory
than be a prince in the land or the ruler of cities."
“ If you could do it, why have you waited until
now?" she asked coldly.
“Because Providence willed that I should wait.
And even now I'm only hopeful, not positive. I
should have striven to do all and bring you the
glad news when I'd got it proved beyond the
doubt of the world; but now Heaven has hit upon
a better way. Yes, Heaven's' the word, for in
righting Daniel in the world's eyes, I pray God
will right me in yours, Minnie Sweetland.”
He paused, but she only surveyed him silently,
and he spoke again.
“ Thus it stands. The poor soul commonly
called “Drunkard’ Parkinson is now at his last
gasp, or near it. He cannot live more than a
month; doctor has told him so. But, as I have
always feared, that man has evil secrets. What
they are I only guess, but my guess during the
last few days has developed into certainty. You
know young Prowse lives in the cottage that ad-
joins Rix Parkinson's? Two days ago he came
to tell me that poor Rix wanted to see me, and


168 DANIEL SWEETLAND
DO
to know how soon I could call upon him. I went
at once, and then he confessed that there is much
upon his conscience. I begged him to see Parson
Thornton, whose deep wisdom and sympathy and
knowledge of Heaven are denied to no sinner; but
he refused. 'Not him, nor any other man,' he
said. “ 'Tis a woman I want to see-the wife of
that chap Dan Sweetland as runned away after
that they'd taken him for murder.' He did not
know that Dan was dead, and I did not tell him,
for the fact might have changed his determina-
tion. I promised to bring you to him, and pre-
vailed with him that he would let me be present
also. He is desirous to tell you something, and
since the confession must have a witness to make
it of any worth, I, too, shall hear it, that it may
be supported in the world after Parkinson dies.
For he is on the way to die, and he especially
told me that the thing he meant to tell you must
not be made public until his death. What it is I
can guess, as I have said; and doubtless you can,
too."
“He it was killed Adam Thorpe!”
“I believe so with all my soul. They were old
enemies, and three years ago Parkinson went to
gaol for three months after assaulting Thorpe.
Either he did it, or he knows right well who did.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
169
And he knows that the man who did it was not
our poor Daniel.”
“I will come when he pleases,” said Minnie.
" I hope your opinion may be the right one, Mr.
Sim."
“And I hope that you will think kinder of me
when, through my ceaseless toil and labor, I have
cleared my friend's memory."
He left her then without waiting for an answer,
and a week later a day was fixed.
It happened that Minnie was in Moretonhamp-
stead upon the occasion of making this final ap-
pointment to visit the sick man, and as she re-
turned to the Moor, she met young Samuel Prowse
- well known to her as an old friend of Daniel.
She passed him with a nod of recognition; then
she changed her mind; a thought suddenly struck
· her, and she called the youth to her side.


DANIEL SWEETLAND 171
again! Talk about volcanoes and such like! 'Tis
us aboard the 'Peabody' that be on a volcano,
not the shore folks. This here's a very fine
island, and I've had a merry time when I could
get ashore. They laugh at me because I be gath-
ering together such a lot of queer things for you.
God He knows if you'll ever get 'em and hang
'em round the walls to home, but if you do, I
lay you'll be 'mazed with wonder. There's a huge
river by the name of Orinoco that pours out of
the mainland of South America, and it brings to
these shores all manner of queer seeds and shells
and such like, including coral and coraline, like
stone fans, all very beautiful for ornaments. I
tramp along when off duty and fill my pockets,
and say every minute, “My stars, won't Minnie
like that!' or “These here will make a necklace
almost so pretty as pearls, for her neck!! There
be little silver-like shells here, all curly. I've got
scores; and the niggers say as there be real pink
pearls to be got; but I doubt it, 'cause if there
was, why don't somebody with plenty of time get
'em? Sometimes the cocoanuts will fall with a
bang just while you be under the palms. I near
had my head knocked off by a whacker t'other
day; then I forced a hole in his monkey-face (for
they be all like monkeys one end) and drank the


DANIEL SWEETLAND
173
I killed a few birds and one sun-bird as be like
a splash of fire on the wing, and a green hum-
ming-bird or two. My hoss he loafed along,
thinking of anything but his business, but he was
eating out of the hedge all the while, and some-
times 'twas a fight between us which should get
to something first. As to alligators, I never seed
the tail of one; but lizards was there by the mil-
lion, and iguanas, too. They be very big chaps
and pretty eating when you can catch 'em, so
Bradley says. The lizards be all colors of the
rainbow and all sizes, from a tadpole to a squirrel.
In the trees was all manner of hot-house things
a-blazing away and quite at home, and on the hill-
sides grew wild plantain, wild indigo, guinea-
grass, cotton, cashew palms (cashews be nuts),
cabbage palms, and all manner of other fine things,
with the humming-birds and butterflies looking
like flowers blowed out of the trees. Then, as for
the stream, it bustled along for all the world like
a Dartmoor brook, and the sound of it among the
stones was like a word from home. But instead
of the heather and whortleberries and fern, there
was all foreigners 'pon the bank, and instead of a
Moor-man coming along with a nitch of reeds or
a cart of peat, I found a lot of black gals wash-
ing linen in the stream.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
175
“ That man Ford lost his wife rather sudden
two or three nights agone. She was half a black
woman, and believed in a lot of queer, horrible
things, like the full-blooded niggers do. And
come nightfall, after she died, a awful wailing
and howling broke out ashore, for scores of ne-
gresses was singing all round Ford's house to
keep the Jumbies away. Jumbies belong to the
religion of Obi, and they'm awful, flesh-sucking
vampires as scent out a corpse like vultures and
come through the air and out of the earth to be
at it. But if the beast hears women singing, it
chokes him off. Certainly the black females sing
very nice; and they sang hymns the parson out
here has taught 'em-hymns that comed from
England. I almost cried to hear 'em, Minnie, till
I remembered as they were being sung to keep
off Jumbies; then I laughed. There's another
awful, terrible customer called a loopgaroo.* He's
worse than Jumby almost, and he takes off his
skin when he's at his nightly devilries, and hides
it under a silk cotton tree. This be all part of
Obeah, and I hear tell there's an awful wicked
and awful powerful Obi Man, called Jesse Hagan,
in Tobago, who's gotten tame Jumbies to work for
him. The niggers shiver when they tell about him.
* Loopgaroo. Loup-garou.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
177
or sup no more, for there's nought we can give
'em that they'll eat. Many die on the way home,
if the weather turns very cold, and aboard a ship
you can tell how the turtle be faring by the
amount of turtle soup as comes to dinner. And
if they do get home, 'tis to have their throats
cut pretty quick. But they pay well if they get
home alive.
“Now I'll knock off, because I be going ashore
to see Mister Henry. We sail to-morrow, so I
can't leave it no longer. I'll finish this when I've
had speech with him, and much I do hope as I'll
find he'll come over to my side.”
Here the unfinished letter broke off, and the
things that happened after may be immediately
related.
Daniel went ashore with a special message from
his captain for the harbor master; but the order
was not delivered, because good fortune, as it
seemed, had brought Henry Vivian to the pier-
head, and as Daniel climbed up the steps, he
almost touched his boyhood's friend. The Over-
seer of the Pelican Estate stood beside him. Mr.
Jabez Ford had a private venture of turtles about
to be shipped in the “ Peabody" for Barbados,
and now he watched his own mark being set upon


178 DANIEL SWEETLAND
the unhappy creatures. Vivian was also an inter-
ested spectator. He turned with an expression
of sorrow from the turtles and found Daniel
Sweetland's eye fixed upon him.
“Mister Henry, 'tis I, Sweetland, from home!
I be here this minute to speak to you. And I pray
you, for old time's sake, to listen."
Young Vivian started back, and the blood leapt
to his cheek.
“ Alive!” he said.
“And kicking, your honor. I had to do all I
done an' give they policemen the slip, for the law
was too strong for me. But afore God I swear
I'm an innocent man, and, after my wife, I'd
sooner you believed in me than any living.”
" Oaths are nothing to you," said the other
coldly. “Come aside and speak to me.”
They walked apart on the wharf, and Vivian
continued.
Why did you lie to the officers and deceive
them and escape, and subsequently deceive the
world into supposing that you had destroyed
yourself? Tell me that. Were those the actions
of an innocent man, Daniel Sweetland? I do not
think so. If you can prove to me that you did
not murder Adam Thorpe, do it; if not, my duty,
painful as it may be, is clear. You have escaped


DANIEL SWEETLAND
179
justice thus far; but you shall not escape it alto-
gether, if I can prevent you."
Dan stared aghast at such a turn of affairs. The
speaker was inflexible. No gentleness marked his
voice. He had not noticed the hand that Daniel
ventured timidly to put forward.
“I thought 'twas Providence that threw me
here," said the sailor. “I counted to find you,
sir, as was my friend always, ready to stand up
for me against But what can I say? How
can I prove aught, having no witnesses? My
gun was found the beautiful gun you gived me.
And if I swear afore my Maker I know no more
than you do how it comed in Middlecott woods
upon that night, what's the use? I see in your
face you be against me and won't believe me."
“I am not a fool, whatever else I may be," an-
swered the other. “To say you do not know
how that gun came into Middecott Lower Hun-
dred is folly. You alone had access to the gun.
You must know. Whether you killed Adam
Thorpe or not, I cannot say; that you saw him
die, I believe; and if you could have thrown the
blame elsewhere, you would naturally have done
so. I am sorry you dared to come to me-sorry
for your sake and my own. I have enough anxiety,


180 DANIEL SWEETLAND
and difficulty on my hands at present without
you."
6. Very well,” said Sweetland, “ if that's your
answer, then we be man to man and no love lost.
I'll go my way and you can go yours, an' I hope
afore your beard's growed you'll get a larger
heart in you. If it had been t'other way round,
I'd have believed your word like the Bible, an'
I'd have fought for 'e an’spared no sweat to show
the world you was an honest, true man. But
since you won't believe further than you can see,
and haven't got no friendship stronger than what
goes down afore this trial, then go your way, an'
be d d to you; an' may you never find your-
self at a noose end with nought but sudden death
waiting for you an' no friend's hand and heart
ready to help!"
“Friendships may be broken, and I will never
willingly assist a criminal against the laws he
has defied and the state he has outraged. You
fled to escape the just penalty of your deeds, and
no honorable man would succor you. It is not I
that am faithless, but yourself. I have never
changed; my devotion to duty and to honor has
never been hidden from you, and if you had
ordered your life on my example, you would not
stand where you do to-day.”
ever


182 DANIEL SWEETLAND
They stood some distance from the rest, and
now Jabez Ford hastened forward with several
negroes. The colored men chattered wildly, but
none made any effort to run in on Sweetland.
Before they reached him, Vivian had already
closed with his old friend.
“For justice!” he cried. “Right is on my
side, and well you know it!”.
“Liar!” answered the other. “ You're no man
to do this thing. Neither right nor might be on
your side. Take what you've courted, curse you!"
The unequal struggle was quickly at an end, for
Vivian's physical powers were as nothing beside
the strength of Daniel. The sailor shook him like
a dog shakes a rat; then he gripped his huge arms
round him and hugged him breathless.
“So let all be sarved as turns upon their friends
in the time of need!” he bellowed. “Come on-
come on, the pack of 'e!”
It might have been observed that at this sensa-
tional moment the Overseer, Jabez Ford, made no
instant effort to come to Henry Vivian's rescue.
He was as big as Daniel, and apparently as power-
ful; but while his black eyes blazed and he
shouted wildly to the negroes to secure Sweet-
land, himself he took no risk. He saw the strug-
gling men get nearer and nearer to the edge of


DANIEL SWEETLAND
183
the wharf, and secret hopes fired his heart while
he shouted to the terrified colored men to separate
the fighters.
At last a big buck negro tried to grasp Daniel
from behind, but his effort was ill-timed. The
sailor, bending his head, drove with full force at
the black man's chest, and fairly butted him head
foremost into the sea. A moment later Vivian
was in the water also, while Ford yelled to the
negroes to leap in and frighten the sharks. The
Overseer fumbled with a life-belt the while; but
long before he had cut it from its fastenings
Henry Vivian swam with strong strokes to the
landing stage and climbed upon it.
No anger marked his demeanor, despite this
sharp reverse. He brushed the water from his
face and looked for Sweetland, only to find Daniel
had vanished.
" Thank Heaven-thank Heaven!” said Ford
warmly. “My heart was in my mouth. The
water under this stage harbors a dozen sharks."
" Where's that man?”
“ He's safe enough. He can't escape in the long
run. He knocked down two policemen, and then
the harbor-master, who tried to stop him. After
that he bolted to the left there, and has got into
the woods. It may be a long job, but he must be
caught sooner or later."


184 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“He's a runaway from justice-a poacher and
a murderer. By an amazing chance we have met
here. We were boys together. Everything must
be done that can be done to arrest him.”
“Come to my house and get a change of
clothes," answered Jabez Ford. “Thank God,
the wretch was not a murderer twice over.
You've had a merciful and marvelous escape, Mr.
Vivian.”
“ Which might have itself been escaped if you
had been quicker and braver," answered the
younger coldly. “ I'm afraid you are a coward,
Jabez Ford.”
« Presence of mind is a precious gift," an-
swered the Overseer with great humility. “I did
the best that I could think of. Of course, had I
guessed that he was going to throw you into the
sea, I should have rushed at him myself, cost
what it might.”
Mr. Ford turned his face away as he spoke.
“ Come,” he said. “You must change your
clothes quickly or you will be chilled.”
“ After I have been to the Office of Police, not
before," answered Henry Vivian.
Meanwhile the runaway made small work of
such opposition as was offered to his escape. Two
negroes tried to stop him, but only one stood up
n


DANIEL SWEETLAND
185
to him at the critical moment, and was paid for
his pluck by a terrific knock-down blow on his
flat nose. The harbor-master-a small but brave
Scot-next stood in the way of liberty and, de-
spite Dan's shouted warning, attempted to inter-
cept the runaway. He was in the dust a moment
later, and Sweetland, sending a dozen men, women
and children flying like cackling poultry before
his rush, got clear of Scarborough and took to the
hills. He pushed steadily onwards and upwards
to an impenetrable jungle that lay on the steep side
of Fort Saint George; and there, where aforetime
French and English had fought at death grips,
he rested, drew his breath and considered his po-
sition. Far beneath spread the stagnation of the
little port, southward gleamed the metal roofing
of the Pelican Sugar Estate, and from time to
time, faint through the distance, he heard a
hooter roaring from the hungry works to the plan-
tations for more cane. Steam puffed 'from tall
pipes; smoke rolled from chimneys; like bright
insects the coolies ran hither and thither in the
compounds.
Day died while the fugitive kept his hiding-
place. Then a swift, but amazing sunset encom-
passed him. Rose and gold was the sky, all
streaked with tattered ribbons of orange cloud.


186 DANIEL SWEETLAND
The light swam reflected upon the sea, and it
spread to the lofty horizon in broad sheets of re-
flected splendor. From the mountains the scene
was superb in its manifold glory; then the vision
perished and inky silhouettes of palm and plan-
tain and bread-fruit tree stood out black and
solid against the water. Far below the “ Pea-
body” lay, like a toy ship, and twinkled with
lights upon the rosy sea. Darkness leapt out of
the East and under the fringes of the forest night
had already come. Tree-frogs chirruped with
endless crisp tinkle of sound; the air was filled
with the drowsy hum of insect life, fire-flies
flashed; and from far below the mournful boom-
ings of the marsh-frogs made music proper to the
time.
Sweetland pursued his slow way until midnight
came. He climbed on mechanically hour after
hour until the air on his cheek and the stars
above told him that he had reached some moun-
tain-top. Further for the present it was impossi-
ble to proceed. Until day, therefore, he postponed
thought and action. He tightened his belt to stay
hunger; then rolled up in a dry corner under the
savage and spined foliage of an opuntia, and there
slept dreamlessly until the return of the sun.


CHAPTER XIII
THE OBI MAN
WHEN Daniel awoke the sun was climbing
swiftly to the zenith, and the full blaze of it burnt
upon a tropical tangle of palmetto and mango,
plantain and palm. He found himself hidden in a
brake of luxuriant vegetation almost at the apex
of a lofty hill that overlooked the Caribbean Sea.
Strange sounds fell upon his ears, and he per-
ceived that his resting-place was beneath a
prickly-pear fence, on the other side of which
stood a thatched cottage and beyond an acre
of cleared land. Beneath stretched the dark
green and orange-tawny of the forests; strips of
thorny cactus hedge ensured privacy for the clear-
ing, and here a tamarind tree reared its delicate
foliage, and here the broad leaves of bananas
rustled, with foliage all tattered by the breezes.
A goat was tethered to a little pomegranate tree in
the garden, and over the cleared soil itself grew
vines of the sweet potato.
A second glance at the hut revealed to Daniel


DANIEL SWEETLAND 189
network of furrows and deep lines scarred and
seamed his face in every direction; and, curiously
wide apart, on either side of a huge, flat, Ethio-
pian nose, the man's eyes gleamed from his with-
ered headpiece, like the eyes of a toad. Jesse was
in extreme undress. Only the ruins of a pair of
trousers covered his loins and a band of red cloth
circled his throat. Despite his advanced age, no
little physical strength remained to him, and now,
as Daniel watched, the negro displayed it. Taking
an iron spade and seeking a corner of the garden
near his unseen visitor, Jesse, turned aside the
long, creeping fingers of a snake gourd that
trailed there under the shade of a citron tree, and
began to dig in soft earth. As the old creature
worked and sank swiftly downward into the soil,
he sang to himself in a piping treble with the
usual West Indian whine. The voice was feeble,
but the words were sinister and told of evil. A
blue bird sat on a thorn and put his head on one
side to hear the song; a green lizard, with eyes
like Jesse's own, rustled out from the cactus fence
and stopped, with palpitating, tremulous motion
of its front paws, to listen also. Then the bird
flew and the reptile fled, and Daniel Sweetland
was sole secret audience of the song.


190 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“ Low dem lie, low dem lie-
Dey come, dey come, but dey never go by ;
And de roots ob de creeping snake-gard know
Where dey sleep so still in de hole so low-
Obeah-die!
Obeah-do!
Low dem lie, low dem lie-
Hark de buzz of de carrion fly!
But nobody guess what the snake-gard know,
Twining him root far down below-
Obeah-die!
Obeah-do!
Low dem lie, low dem lie-
De worms dey crawl in de dead man's eye,
And de snake-gard he suck, and Jesse he know
What lie so still in de hole so low-
Obeah-die!
Obeah-do!”
The song rose and sank and seemed to hang in
the trees and creep about like an evil presence.
The refrain rose into a wail, and its last pene-
trating note was answered by a crisp stridulation
of great winged grasshoppers. Jesse's uncanny
melody fitted the place, the man, and the task.
“I never did!” thought Daniel as his eyes
grew round. “ If the old devil ban't digging a
grave! And singing rhymes to his beastly self
over it, too! To think that Johnny Beer ban't the


DANIEL SWEETLAND
191
only verse-maker as I've met with in my travels!
But Johnny never in all his born days let off such
a rhyme as that. I'm sure us never would have
stood it. A grave, sure enough-an’ more'n one
poor wretch has been buried there seemingly."
The remark was called forth by an incident, for
Mr. Hagan suddenly exhumed a skull. It was low
and flat-browed. Jesse set it very gravely upon
the edge of the pit and then addressed it.
“Who was you, sar?” he asked. “You no
answer me, sar? Den you berry rude, imper’ent
young fellow!"
Whereupon he smacked the empty brain-pan
with a spade, so that some of the teeth fell out.
The man and the skull grinned at each other, then
Jesse grew serious and spoke again.
“ You larf-eh? You larf! Me Gard, I dunno
what you got to larf about! You's Jephson-
dat's you. I 'member Jephson. Massa Ford, he
want Jephson 'rub out,' and send him wid a mes-
sage to ole Jesse. Den ole Jesse 'rub you out.'
To kill a nigger is only to rub out a black mark.
Dey soon gone. And some white folk, too. Dey
all berry quiet when dey eat and drink poor ole
Jesse's rum and cakes. He, he! Obi Man berry
great use to Massa Ford!”
He labored in silence and dug on until he had


192 DANIEL SWEETLAND
sunk a hole five feet deep. Next he concealed all
trace of the work very carefully. He buried the
pile of damp earth under dead palm-leaves and
brushwood, while the hole itself he covered with
twigs and trailed over them long shoots and
sprays of the luxurious snake-gourd.
Now, having made an end of this business, Jesse
sought his outer gate and, posting himself there,
screened his face from the glare of the risen sun
and looked out with his bright, lizard eyes down
the tremendous escarpments of the hill beneath
him. An amazing panorama of forest, shore and
sea spread below; and winding through the woods,
struggling as it were with difficulty through dense
undergrowth and narrow places full of cactus and
thorns, there ascended a bridle-path flanked by
bewildering tangles of foliage, by volcanic boul-
ders and huge trees. Here and there through the
forest flamed like fire the flowers of the bois im-
mortelle; at other points, all festooned and linked
together with twining and climbing parasites, or
gray curtains of lace-like lichens and wind pines,
arose notable forest giants, some gleaming with
blossoms, some bending under wealth of fruits.
And through the mingled leafy draperies of green
and brown, olive and gold, under the feathery
crown of the bamboo, amongst the little green in-


DANIEL SWEETLAND
193
florescence of the mango, like liquid gems in the
sunlight, did little humming birds, with breasts of
emerald and ruby, flash and glitter. Every step
or terrace in the steep acclivities of the hills was
crowned with cabbage palms or other lofty trees,
and from point to point the gaunt, bleached limbs
of some forest corpse stared out lightning-stricken,
where the dead thing waited for the next hurri-
cane to bring its bones to earth. Far below glim-
mered a white beach, and, through the woods, all
silent in the growing heat, there rose a sigh of
surf-breaking-surf that even from this elevation
could be seen lying like a band of silver be-
tween the many-tinted sea and the pale shore.
Away on the western side of the hills extended
long and undulating fields of green vegetation,
and in their midst arose buildings with tall chim-
neys and metal roofs that flashed like liquid sil-
ver under the sunshine. There extended the Peli-
can Sugar Estates, and indications of prosperity
surrounded them; but elsewhere companion en-
terprises had clearly been less fortunate. In other
parts of the island stagnation marked similar
concerns. The plantations were deserted; the land
was returning to the wilderness; the works fell
into ruins.
But Jabez Ford still held the key to success, if
13


194 DANIEL SWEETLAND
it was possible to judge by visible signs. Tobago
felt proud of him and of the Pelican Estates.
Wide interest was taken in the visit of the own-
er's son, and none doubted but that Ford would
benefit by the circumstance and win a reward
worthy of his long and honorable stewardship.
Only two people understood otherwise, however,
and one was Jabez Ford himself. The Overseer
had failed to satisfy Henry Vivian, and he knew
it. The accounts were scrupulously rendered; the
staff of coolies from Bombay were happy and con-
tented; the sugar commanded high praise and
ready sale; but there was a disparity between the
apparent prosperity and the real output. Other
puzzling circumstances also much tended to in-
crease young Vivian's doubt. Ford was an easy
and convincing talker. He had an answer for
every question, an explanation of every difficulty.
But the fact remained: Henry Vivian disliked and
distrusted him, and Jabez knew it and did not
conceal the truth from himself. An implicit duel
rapidly developed between them, and the elder
man stood to win it, for he was the stronger every
way; he stood on his own dunghill and, for the
present, he had no intention of being removed
from it. His private plans demanded another
year for their fulfilment. Then, the richer by a


196 DANIEL SWEETLAND
cealed beside the cactus fence, and now, through
the flat and thorny leaves of opuntia, he saw Jabez
Ford ride up. Jesse had disappeared for a mo-
ment into his hut, but now he came forward with
a bottle and a calabash.
“Marning, Massa-rum punch for Massa-
what Jesse get ready.”.
The man drank before answering. Then he
threw the calabash on the ground.
“I want another sort of brew to-morrow. It's
got to be. I'm sorry for the young devil, for I've
no quarrel with him; but he's too cute. It don't
do to be too cute with Jabez Ford.”
“Him rub out, sar?”
“No choice. Let me come in. I'll tell you
what happened last night. He's booked.”
" Dar's a nice, cool, quiet hole under de snake-
gourd waitin' for Massa Vivian. He'll be berry
comfable dar wid de udder gem'men."
“You talk too much,” said Ford. " Come in
and don't make jokes at your time of life. Think
of the Devil, your master, and how precious soon
you'll go back to him, Jesse."
“You my massa, sir; Jesse dun want no udder
massa dan Massa Ford. Marse Debbil, he no pay
such good wages as you."
Ford laughed and dismounted from his horse.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
197
He was a big, hard man, roasted and shrivelled
somewhat by a life in the tropics. He always wore
white ducks and a felt hat that sloped well back
over the nape of his neck. His hair was long and
black, his eyes were also blaek, and his face hard,
clean-cut and handsome. But the narrow slit of
his clean-shorn mouth showed unusual strength
of character, and spoke of greed and craft as well.
Tobago admired Jabez without liking him; the
little island was proud of his prosperity, but it
did not trust him. His downfall would have
brought sorrow to few, for many secretly disliked
him and suspected him of dark things. But he
was strong, and not a man among his neighbors
would have cared or dared to fall foul of him.
Now Ford followed the priest of Obi into his
secret dwelling, where monstrous matters were
hidden in the gloom and evil smells stole out of the
darkness. Three dried mummies first appeared.
One was a crocodile and hung from the roof; the
other two had been human beings. They sat
propped in corners, with a dreadful semblance of
living and listening about them. Festoons of
birds' eggs, curious seeds and dried pumpkins
were stretched across the ceiling; skins of ani-
mals and birds littered the floor. Unseen things
squeaked in cages; there was a piece of red glass


DANIEL SWEETLAND
199
said Ford to his creature. “ Last night the
youngster wrote his letters home and left them
with mine to be taken to the post-office to catch
the mail. The · Solent' sailed this morning, but
she didn't take Henry Vivian's letter to his
father. She took one from me instead, signed in
his name. I've got his in my pocket, and it con-
tained exactly what I expected. He makes no
definite charge, because it is impossible to prove
anything against me; but he states in detail that
more money is being made than appears, and ad-
vises Sir Reginald to be rid of me at once. Mean-
time he is going to look round the island and find
a new Overseer. But this little plan won't suit
me. I must stop at the Pelican 'for another year
at least. So, having unsealed and read our young
friend's letter after he retired to bed, I wrote
another-on my typewriter-and gave myself a
better character, you may be sure. His signature
was very easy to imitate, and now my letter, not
his, has set sail for home. There it goes now.”
He pointed below where a steamer slipped away
from Tobago, and the station ship,“ Solent,” pro-
ceeded on her course to Trinidad and Barbados.
“My letter went in his envelope," continued
Ford, “ and when Sir Reginald reads it he will
be favorably impressed, because I gave myself


DANIEL SWEETLAND 201
a shark cruising round! It would have saved us
a deal of trouble.”
" I will do all Marse shark could do, sar. A
berry nice hole dug under the snake-gourd. When
he come?"
“Soon. I've told him that Jesse Hagan, the
Obi Man, is the first wonder of the island; so
he'll be here with me to see you. Have all your
war-paint on. Afterwards, I'll take his horse
away-and his boots and clothes. The rest is sim-
ple enough. They'll find the horse loose on the
beach, and his garments together, and prints of
feet going to the bathing-place, but none return-
ing.”
“ Dar's nobody like Massa Ford!”.
“ We must be short and sharp. He's resolute
and quick. But he's small, what's that? There's
somebody moving out there!”
“My goat, sar.”
But Ford had leapt to his feet and left the hut.
A moment later and he stood face to face with
Daniel Sweetland. The sailor was some distance
from the cottage when Jabez accosted him. His
back was turned and he stood on a stone and
pulled down green bananas from one of the Obi
Man's trees.
“ Who are you and what do you do here?”


202 DANIEL SWEETLAND
asked the Overseer. “You must be mad or a des-
perate man to run your head into this danger."
The other looked innocently round. Mere tem-
porary fear seemed to leap into his eyes at this
threat. He showed by no deed or look that the
truth was known to him. But Daniel had heard
the course of conversation very clearly, and the
necessity for swift action had forced itself upon
his mind. His first idea was to leap upon Ford's
horse, hasten to the Pelican estate and give an
alarm; then he remembered his own position as
a hunted fugitive. A plan worthy of the ingenious
brain that had freed him from the handcuffs of
Mr. Corder swiftly dawned in the man's head. He
saw the dangers waiting for Henry Vivian and
for himself. In a few moments he decided upon
action, and his words indicated that Daniel evi-
dently held self-preservation the first law of na-
ture. He left the heir of Middlecott to his fate,
as it seemed, and played for his own hand only.
“ Please, sir, listen afore you give me up," said
Daniel. "Afore God I'm innocent of what this
man says against me. He's a hard, cruel young
devil, and many's the poor chap at home he's
driven desperate. Not a spark of pity has he got,
an' now I be desperate-as any hunted man would
be-an' so I've climbed up here with my life in
ma


204 DANIEL SWEETLAND
against me, I'm against him, an’I'd cut his throat
to-morrow if I got the chance."
The Overseer nodded and turned to Jesse Hagan.
Jesse had brought a gun out of his dwelling and
now deliberately pointed it at Daniel
“Shall I shoot dis gem'man?” he inquired with
his finger on the trigger. “Him berry rude young
man walk in my garden widdout saying ' please,'
an’ eat my bananas."
“Stop!” answered Ford. “This sailor is a
friend. At least I think so. No, don't shoot him.
Let him come in and give him something to eat.
He's hungry."
“ Lucky Massa Ford speak for you, Marse
sailor-man-else you'd be food for de 'John
Crows' dis minute. But he say 'eat'; so you
eat instead ob being eaten, sar."
Then Daniel entered the Obi Man's hut with
Jabez Ford and old Jesse.


CHAPTER XIV
JESSE'S FINGER-NAIL
esi
For an hour Jesse Hagan, Jabez Ford and Dan-
iel Sweetland spoke in secret together. Then the
Overseer mounted his horse and departed, while
Daniel and the Obi Man remained.
The result of this curious conference will ap-
pear. Suffice it that for many a long month no
man ever saw Daniel's face again. Meantime Mr.
Ford resumed his attendance on Sir Reginald
Vivian's son, who continued to enjoy the generous
hospitality of Tobago. Hue and cry for Daniel
Sweetland quite failed to find him, or any sign of
him. No trace of the sailor rewarded a close and
systematic search. It was supposed that he had
eluded all eyes, risked the sharks, and either per-
ished, or succeeded in swimming back to his ship
on the night before she sailed. But the crew knew
differently. To the deep regret of James Bradley
and the rest of his mates, Daniel returned to the
“ Peabody "no more. To wait for him could not
be thought of. A black man was, therefore,


210 DANIEL SWEETLAND
horrible toilet. Upon his head he placed a fur cap
with long black horns sprouting out of it, and over
his lean carcass he drew hairy garments daubed
with white and scarlet paint. These things were
girt about his waist with a belt of feathers of the
king-bird-a tropic fowl of gorgeous plumage.
His arms remained bare, but to his wrists and
ankles he fastened strips of lizard skin and hung
bracelets of rattling seeds. About his neck he
placed a chain of human teeth, and upon his
breast, for a loathsome amulet, the shriveled-up
mummy of a monkey hung-a hideous ghost of a
thing that had never lived. He next painted sun-
dry blue hieroglyphics over his wrinkled face,
and then gazed with unqualified pleasure at the
general effect seen in a scrap of looking-glass.
“ Obi somebody dis day!” said Jesse as he
marched out into the daylight; and if he looked
unearthly in the gloom of his own den, the display
in full blaze of sunshine was still more terrific.
He pranced hither and thither for his servant's
benefit. He jingled and clashed and flamed. His
fantastic adornments glittered in the light; strange
treasures, unseen until now, appeared amongst his
accoutrements. A brass-bound Bible hung round
his neck with a big jack-knife; upon his knees a
pair of old naval epaulettes were fastened. The


DANIEL SWEETLAND 211
ghastly thing on his breast had yellow beads stuck
into its head for eyes, and now they flashed with
a sort of life, whilst its little mummied arms clung
about Jesse and seemed to hug him.
The big attendant eyed him without awe or ad-
miration. Jacky, as he was called, lacked some
of his senses, and never spoke. Then, whils Jesse
capered about like a pantomime monkey, down in
the hot haze of the distance amid trees and rocks,
the old monster suddenly saw a cavalcade strug-
gling up the hill. Two horsemen were approach-
ing.
Now the Obi Man retired again to complete
very special and secret preparations for the hope
of the house of Vivian. He retired behind the
curtain, stooped low in his secret corner, and drew
forth a box from beneath much rubbish that cov-
ered it. Next he lighted a candle, opened the box
and from it took a smaller one. This contained a
gray, sticky matter, like bird-lime. Digging out
some of the stuff upon the point of a wooden
skewer, Jesse, with his thumb, held back the flesh
of his middle right hand finger, and, under the
nail, deposited the compound from the box. He
plastered it there, and since all his nails were long
and dirty, the presence of this strange ointment
was not likely to attract attention. He hid the


DANIEL SWEETLAND 213
rare fine nigger-full blooded and strong as a
horse. But he's deaf and dumb-poor devil! -
though he's got all his other wits about him.”
Jacky made fast the horses and brought them
a pail of water. Then Ford and the guest entered
Mr. Hagan's hut, and Jesse followed them. He
bustled about and fetched a basket of fruit from
the garden. Next he produced a bottle of rum
and drew the cork with his teeth.
Henry Vivian stared and showed a very genuine
interest in the strange scene around him. Mr.
Ford sat on a barrel in a corner and smoked his
cigar.
" You've got to thank old Jesse here for more
than you know,” he declared. “He's been worth
pounds and pounds to the “ Pelican '; and though
I can't show the profits that I'd like to show you,
and hope to show you soon, yet but for this old
wonder here the figures would be far worse than
they are. Two years ago a tremendous lot of
sugar-cane was stolen from our plantation. The
black thieves came by night- ".
“He-he-he! Black tiefs come by night!”
echoed Jesse.
“And took tons of the stuff. I placed the mat-
ter in the hands of the police; but it's not much
good setting a nigger to catch a nigger as a rule.


DANIEL SWEETLAND 217
of refreshment—that intended for Henry Vivian
-Jesse dipped the long, bony middle finger of his
right hand.
A moment later Jabez Ford lifted his drink and
pledged the giver.
“Here's to you, old fellow, and may your
shadow never grow less. Good luck and long life
to all of us!”
He drank heartily, smacked his lips, and set his
empty bowl upon the table, while Vivian followed
his example and drained his drink also.
"Splendid-splendid!” he said. “I'll give
you another sovereign for the secret of that!"
Jesse looked at the doomed man with his toad's
eyes.
“I 'fraid de secret no good whar you gwaine,
massa. You dead gem’man, sar. Nuffing on God
earf save you now. Five minutes more and we
take off your tings and put you under Jesse's
snake-gourd, sar.”
“ What the deuce is he talking about ? ” began
Vivian. Then his jaw fell and he stared at the
face of Jabez Ford. Behind them stood Jacky,
and in front, on the other side of the table, the Obi
Man quietly sipped his rum punch and waited.
But now a thing unforeseen occurred, and the


218 DANIEL SWEETLAND
awful inevitable death that had been mixed with
Henry Vivian's cup fell upon another. .
Jabez Ford it was who leapt to his feet, cried
a hoarse oath and turned upon the negro behind
him.
“ Treachery-you-you-!” he began. Then
he fell in a heap on the floor, twisted horribly like
a snake, while his hands and feet beat the earth.
“ Air-air-my God-life!” he cried, and at
the same moment with a wild yell the Obi Man
leapt forward and hurled himself at his son's
throat. But the younger negro was ready, and in
his grasp the old man's strength availed nothing.
In a moment Mr. Hagan was forced to the earth
and Jacky, with a rope in readiness, had bound
him hand and foot. His finery fell from Jesse
while he shrieked and struggled and cursed. Then
he sank into silence and watched Jabez Ford die
at his feet.
Vivian, believing himself in some appalling
nightmare, glared upon this scene; and its un-
reality and horror seemed increased to a climax
worse than the sudden death of the overseer when
the dumb negro turned upon him and spoke.
“Come!” said the man. “Come out of this!
The horses are waiting. I'll tell you what's to
tell, but not here with that mad old devil screech-



THAT
" Air — air — My God — Life!” he cried, and at the same
moment the Obi man leapt forward and hurled himself at
his son's throat. (Page 218)





DANIEL SWEETLAND 219
ing in our ears and t’other glaring there with
death gripping his throat. Come, Henry Vivian,
an’ give heed to the man who has saved your life
at the cost of this twisted clay here. Like him
would you have been this minute but for me. 'Tis
now your turn to be merciful.”
“ Dan! Dan Sweetland!”.
“So I be then-at your service. Come. No
more till we'm out o' sight of this gashly jakes.
Let that old rip bide where he be for the present.
Us can come back-along for him after dark, or
to-morrow.”
A few moments later Sweetland, still disguised
as a negro, mounted the dead man's horse, and
he and his old companion rode away together.


CHAPTER XV
DANIEL EXPLAINS
“AFORE you think about what all this means,
you'd best to hear me," began Daniel. “I'm
very sorry I throwed you in the water, Master
Henry, but 'twas 'which he should,' as we say
to home; an' if I hadn't done it, you'd have had
me locked up. You thought you was right to go
for me; an' I reckoned I was right to go for you.
An’I shall again, for I'm innocent afore Almighty
God. May He strike me dead on this here dead
man's horse if I ban't!"
“ We'll leave your affairs for the present,'' re-
plied Vivian. " What you've got to do is to tell
me what all this means. Then I shall know how
to act."
" That's all right," answered the other; " but
you'm rather too disposed to be one-sided, if I
may say so without rudeness. A man like me
don't care to blow his own trumpet, but I must
just remind you that I've saved you from a ter-
rible ugly death during the last five minutes; and
IS


DANIEL SWEETLAND
221
I'll confess 'twas a very difficult job and took me
all my time to do it. I've been a better friend to
you than ever you was to me, though I know you
was all for justice an' that you meant to do your
duty. But you was cruel quick against me. Well,
thus it stands: the world thinks I'm a murderer,
an' my work in life is to prove I am not. An' that
I shall do, with or without your help, sir. But if
you believe the lie, say so, an' I'll know where
I be. If you're my enemy still, declare it. Then
if there's got to be fighting, the sooner the better.
But think afore you throw me over. 'Twas be-
cause I loved you, when we were boys, an' because
I thought that, when you heard my story calmly,
you'd come to believe in me, that I let the past
go an' saved your life. So now say how we stand,
please, Mister Henry. If you'm against me still,
be honest and declare it. But I know you can't
be. Ban't human nature after what I've just done
for you."
Vivian stopped his horse.
“ It's not a time for reserve, Dan. You're right
and I'm wrong. You've taught me to be larger-
hearted. I'll take your word, and henceforth I'm
on your side before a wilderness of proofs. From
this hour I will believe that you're an innocent


222 DANIEL SWEETLAND
man, and I thank you, under Providence, for sav-
ing my life.”
He held out his hand, and Sweetland shook it
as if he could never let go.
“God bless you for that! I knowed well how
'twould be when you understood. An' I hope
you'll forgive me for speaking so plain; but 'twas
gall to me to know you thought me so bad. If
you'm on my side an' my own Minnie at home,
an' my heart's own friend, Titus Sim-you three-
then I'm not feared for anything else. I'll face
the world an' laugh at it now. But first I must
tell you the meaning of all that's happened to-
day."
“Here's the 'Pelican,'” interrupted Vivian.
“ You'll do well to come in and have a wash while
I send for the police."
“ Washing won't get it off. I'll be so black as
the ace of oaks for many a long day yet; an’
maybe it's best so. 'Twas that dead man's idea
that I should bide along with Jesse Hagan an'
pretend to be a deaf an' dumb nigger, an' lend
Jesse a hand when you arrived. A very good idea,
too. So long as Dan Sweetland's thought to be a
murderer, he'll be better out of the way."
They entered the dwelling of Jabez Ford, while
a negro took their horses.


224 DANIEL SWEETLAND
smelt a rat-he never saw I was playing a part-
I was that bitter against you. I axed the man
an' begged him to let me kill you myself, an' I
think he would have agreed to it; but Jesse said
that 'twas his job, an' he told us he wasn't going
to have no pig-killing in his house, but ordered
us to leave it to him. To the last he wouldn't tell
me how he was going to do it. So I had an anx-
ious time, I promise you. Then 'twas planned
that I should be a black man, an' the old chap
gived me some stuff for my face an' hands an'
neck- just the color as you see. I've got the rest
up there in a bottle. Well, Ford he went off, an'
Jesse told me what my part was to be. Simple
enough-only to hand you your rum punch when
the time came-nothing more. 'Twas all in that
drop of drink. But he swore 'twasn't when I axed
him afore you come. And what he put in, or how
he put it in, I can't tell you. I only guessed when
he handed me the drink that death was in your
bowl, because he was so partickler about which
was yours an' which was Ford's. So I said to
myself, “I'll change these here calabashes, an’ if
one's a wrong 'un, let that crafty chap have it;
an’ if both be honest, no harm's done.' You see
how right I was. When I seed Ford screech an'
topple over, I knowed what I'd saved you from."


DANIEL SWEETLAND 225
“But why-what did the man want to poison
me for?"
“Because he'd seed through you an' knowed
you'd seen through him. Because he found out
you wasn't satisfied and meant to have him turned
off. I heard him tell the Obi Man the whole yarn.
He read your letters to your father after you'd
gone to bed; an' then he took yours out an' put in
others into your envelopes, an' forged your sig-
nature to 'em. Then, when they'd got you settled,
they was going to pretend you'd gone bathing an'
been eaten by sharks. The story all hung together
very suent an' vitty, I lay. But now he's dust
himself an', if you take my advice, you'll do what
he's done afore you, an' make Jesse Hagan keep
his mouth shut. No harm can come of that; then
you're free to go home. Whereas, if you have the
whole thing turned over to the police, there'll be
the devil to pay, an’ a case at Trinidad, an' law-
yers, an' trouble, an' Jesse Hagan hanged, an'
Lord knows what else.”
“Let things go!” gasped Henry Vivian.
“ Why not? Just consider. There'll be oceans
of bother for you if you stir this up. Nothing
better could have happened. This wicked scoun-
drel's taken off in the nick of time.”
“Hoist with his own petard, indeed!”
15


226 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“Well, he's gone-vanished like smoke-an'
nobody will mourn him neither. What could suit
you so well? Forget you know anything about it.
Why not? All you can do is to hang Jesse Hagan
for his share. But, if you arrest him, so like as
not he'll turn round on me an' say I done it. Then
my name comes in, an’ I'd very much rather it
didn't just at present.”
They argued long upon this theme, but Vivian
would not give way. His sense of justice and
honor made him refuse to let the matter drift, and
Daniel's worldly-wise advice fell on deaf ears.
They made a meal and the negroes who served it
looked curiously at the silent colored man who
ate with their master's guest; for while others
were present Daniel kept dumb. Then, as the day
advanced, the horses were again saddled and
Vivian, with Sweetland, rode off to the hut of
Obeah.
While the attendants stared to see a ragged
negro galloping off on Jabez Ford's horse, Dan
attempted again to convince Henry Vivian that a
cynical silence would for the present best meet
the case. It was only the thought of Sweetland's
own position if all came to be laid bare, that made
the other hesitate. Vivian, indeed, found himself
still in doubt when they returned to the summit
Som


DANIEL SWEETLAND 227
of the hill, tied their horses to the opuntia hedge
and returned to Jesse's dim dwelling.
Profound silence reigned there, and the hut was
empty. Neither the distorted corpse of Jabez
Ford, nor any sign of the Obi Man himself ap-
peared. Hunting in a corner, Daniel found the
bottle of dye which had served so effectually to
disguise him; and at the same moment Henry
Vivian discovered a scrap of paper on the table
under the red eye of light that fell from the roof
upon it.
.“ Jesse larf at ropes and bars, but Jesse no larf
at Massa Judge at Trinidad who hang him. Jesse
tired, so him go to bed along with other gem'men
and Marse Ford under the snake-gourd in him
garden.”
Daniel rushed out to find this statement true.
The Obi Man had flung Ford into the grave pre-
pared for Henry Vivian. He had then jumped in
himself and, with a long knife that lay beside him,
had severed the arteries in his throat. A storm
of flies rose up and whirled away from the ghastly
grave.
" Where's his spade?” cried Daniel. “Even
you will grant there's but one thing to do for 'em
now.


228 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“My duty's hard to know,” declared Vivian.
“ Then leave it," answered the other. “Here's
Fate busy working for you. Why for keep so
glum about it? Let me advise, for I know I'm
right. Take the next ship home an’ set out all
afore your faither. He'll say what's proper to do.
I'll bury these sinners, an' you can bear the tale
home-along; an’ when he's heard all, Sir Reginald
will know very well how to act. Trust him!”
“And you, Sweetland?”
“I'll tell you what I think about myself so soon
as I be through with this job. One thing's clear
as mud; the sooner we're out of Tobago the bet-
ter. If you can only trust the second in command
at the' Pelican 'works to carry on for the present,
I say be off. Then this scarey business will right
itself. The bad man fades away from memory.
His sins are forgotten. Never was a case where
silence seemed like to suit everybody best an' do
the least harm.”
In his heart Henry Vivian felt somewhat net-
tled to find an untutored man rising to strength
of character and practical force greater than his
own at this crisis. But he could not fail to feel
the sense of Dan's advice. Moreover, he was
awake to the immense debt he owed to Sweetland.
That night, while fireflies danced over the raw


DANIEL SWEETLAND 231
payment for saving your life. You take me back
as your black servant. I'm dumb, but I'm such
a treasure that you can't get on without me. Do
it! Do it for love of a hardly used man! I'll ax
it on my knees, if you say so. Let me go back
with you as your nigger sarvant, an' if I don't
clear myself in six months from the day I set foot
in England, then I'll clear out altogether and
trouble you no more. The man's living that killed
Adam Thorpe, and who more likely to worm out
the truth than I be, with such a motive to find it
as I've got? There I'll bide patient an' quiet an'
dumb as a newt, an' I'll work for you as never
man yet worked. I beg you let me do this, by my
faither's good name an’ for love of my mother an'
my little lonely wife, I beg you. You'll never
regret it-never. 'Tis a good deed an’ will stand
to your credit in this world so well as t'other."
" They'll find you out. Sim will see through
you, and your father will. Who can forget your
size and your walk ?"
“Don't fear that. Such things be forgotten
quick enough. Not a soul will know so long as I
keep my mouth shut; an' that I'll do for my neck's
sake, be sure of it. Not a soul living will guess.
I only ax for six months. Then I'll vanish again,
if I haven't found some damned rascal to fill my


232 DANIEL SWEETLAND
shoes. An’ this I will bet: that my own mother
don't know me. With my curly hair an' black
eyes I was half a nig afore I comed here. Now
I'm nigger all over. The colored men here think
I am, anyhow, for they axed me who I was, an'
where I comed from, an' where Marse Ford was
got to. But I just pointed to my mouth an' shook
my head, so they all think I'm dumb."
“It might be better at home if they thought
that you were deaf too,” reflected Vivian. “ Since
you're so set on this experiment, I must fall in
with it. I owe you too much to refuse."
“I knowed you would! Wasn't we boys to-
gether? Bless your good heart, sir! You'll never
be sorry-never. I'm yours, body an' soul, for
this-yours to be trusted an' ordered while life's
in me."
“So be it, Daniel; and, after your own wife,
there's no human being will be better pleased to
see you proved guiltless than I shall. And what
I can do to help you and justice, that will I do.
Now our way is clear and we will waste no time."
“Ban't my business to speak any more then,"
answered Sweetland. “For the future I'll keep
my mouth shut an' obey. But one thing you must
do, an' that is cable home the first moment you
get to Barbados. Ford sent his letter by the last


DANIEL SWEETLAND 233
station ship, an' you can't stop it. Your father
will hear that you've been eaten by sharks. That'll
be likely to worry him bad. Anyway, you'll have
to telegraph an' explain that you're all right an'
on the way home.”
“There's another steamer that sails in two
days' time. To-morrow we'll institute a solemn
search for Ford; I'll appoint his clerk as tem-
porary Overseer; and we'll get back to Barbados
and take the first home ship.”
“ 'Tis just the very thing."
“You must sleep in my cabin, that's clear.”
“ Good Lord, no! Who ever heard of a common
nigger in his master's cabin, sir?”
" It's unusual, no doubt; but you certainly
can't go with the other servants, or share any
other cabin than mine, Dan.”
“Why ever not, Mister Henry?”
“For the simple reason that when you turn in
at night you'll take your clothes off, I suppose;
and a nigger with black face and hands and a
white body might give rise to a little discussion.”
Sweetland roared with laughter.
“ There now, if I didn't forget that!” he said.
“ The sooner you remember these difficulties,
the better, Dan, for your part will be hard enough
to play at best,” his new master answered.


234 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“I know it; but I'll think of my neck, Mister
Henry. That'll steady me. An' I'll think of you,
too, sir. If I come well out of it, an' save myself,
I'll never tire of thanks an' gratitude.”
Events fell out as the Englishmen expected.
Search for Ford failed, and the excitement occa-
sioned by his disappearance ran high. As for
Jesse, the old negro's absence raised no alarm,
because the Obi Man often hid himself and van-
ished into the woods for many days together. A
young Creole was appointed temporary Overseer
at the “ Pelican," and Sweetland, in his character
of a deaf and dumb negro, returned with Henry
Vivian to Barbados.
Sir Reginald received a telegram three days be-
fore Jabez Ford's letter reached him, and ere he
had ceased to wonder concerning the mystery, his
son and Daniel were on their way home in the
Royal Mail Steamer “ Atrato."


CHAPTER XVI
“ OBI” AT MORETON
The red-gold light of evening beat into the bar
of the “ White Hart ” Inn at Moretonhampstead,
and its rich quality imparted a luster not only to
the shining pewter, the regiments of bottles and
the handles of the beer engines, but also to the
countenances of those assembled. The day's work
was done; a moment for leisure had fallen; and
it happened that amongst the crowd that evening
assembled were many known to us as well as to
each other.
Mr. Beer and Mr. Bartley drank together and
discussed the times from different points of view;
but both agreed that they were bad. The con-
stable deplored their quietude, for nothing ever
happened to advance his interests or offer him an
opportunity; and Mr. Beer protested that history
grew more and more colorless. For a week there
had happened nothing to inspire so much as a
couplet. Plenty of incident, however, fell out be-
fore the publican had finished drinking. Titus
er


238 DANIEL SWEETLAND
me, as have suffered from the quality all my life.”
Mr. Beer shook his head
“ Your radical ideas will undo you yet, Gaffer
Hext,” he answered. “But 'tis the way of Hext
to be ever vexed. Principalities and powers was
always a thorn in the flesh to him. But, when all's
said, the uppermost folk pay the wages; an'
where's the workers without 'em?”.
“Hext never had no luck with his wife, you
see. It have soured your spirit-eh, Gaffer?”
asked Mr. Bartley.
“ That's no reason he should be a born socialist
an' plan what's going to happen at the end of the
world,” replied Johnny Beer. “ The Last Judg-
ment ban't his business, I believe. An' whether
the quality will be scat in pieces be an open ques-
tion, if you ax me. They've got plenty to put up
with so well as us. Look at what Quarter Day
means to 'em-a tragedy, no doubt. And think
how Income Tax scourges 'em! No; for my part
I don't judge 'tis all fun being a man of rank.
I dare say Sir Reginald envies Sim here some
times. There's nought like care to thin the hair,
an’ many a red-cheeked chap as smiles at market
and rides a fine hoss be so grim as a ghost behind
the scenes, when there's nobody to see an' hear
him but his wife."


240 DANIEL SWEETLAND
"Don't you speak like that,” said Sim sharply.
“ Sweetland's gone; but I ban't, and 'tis pretty
well known we were better than brothers.
'Twasn't him that was crafty, but you and
t'others that were fools. His craft got him free,
and he died like a man in the hand of God, not
like a dog in the hand of man. I am speaking
of your son, Matthew," he continued, for at that
moment Sweetland the elder had entered the bar.
He was gray, silent, morose as usual. Upon his
left arm he wore a mourning band.
“ Can't his name rest? Ban't it enough he's
gone to answer for his short life, an' taken the
secrets of it along with him?" asked the father.
“ A drop of gin cold,” he added; then he turned
and looked at the tall, dumb Ethiopian who was
regarding him.
“God's truth!” he said harshly,“ if that sav-
age ban't built the very daps of my dead boy-
the very daps of un, if he wasn't black!”
The others regarded the stranger critically, and
“ Obi” grinned about him and tapped his glass
again. But Sim shook his head.
“No more, my lad. You must be moving soon.
He's Mister Henry's servant,” he continued to
Sweetland—“ a poor, simple, afflicted creature,
but true and faithful; and wonderful smart, see-
LV-


242 DANIEL SWEETLAND
noble sentiment he dropped it suddenly and it
broke to pieces.
He shrugged his shoulders and produced two-
pence from his pocket and placed them on the
counter.
“He've got his intellects, evidently. He knows
it costs money to break glass,” said Bartley.
" That one may say for him."
" That he has," assented Titus. “And as good-
tempered as a bulldog. Where's my parcels? I
must be going. Have you seen your daughter-in-
law, Matthew?”
“Yes," answered the gamekeeper. “I gave
her a lift to Moreton. She's gone to her aunt's.
She told me to tell you that she'd be in the yard
of the White Hart' afore seven o'clock. I hear
poor Rix Parkinson be set on speaking to her afore
he dies."
“Yes; we're going there now. Much may come
of it.”
“A wasted life," mused Mr. Beer. " An' a
man of great parts was Rix Parkinson. God never
made such a thirst afore. He'll have to lift that
excuse at Judgment-not that excuses will alter
the set of things there. Yet they'm a part of
human nature, come to think of it. Adam's self
began it. He ate of the tree, then said 'twas she.


DANIEL SWEETLAND
243
• Drunkard Parkinson's cruel thirst have driven
him from bad to worse; and though he often had
“D.T.'s," he never was seen upon his knees.' If
I had to write his tombstone, that would be the
rhyme of it,” said Mr. Beer.
" 'Tis wrong to admire him, but I never could
help doing so," confessed Sim. “ As a sportsman
myself, I always felt his cleverness. He've had
many and many a bird as you bred, Matthew."
“ If he knows aught as would clear Daniel, I'll
forgive him all,” answered the old keeper.
“I hope to goodness it may be so,"replied Titus.
" My ear will be quick to hear it, I promise you.
And this I'd say: leave it to Mrs. Sweetland's good
time. If poor Parkinson have got any dark thing
to get off his conscience, he won't want it brought
to the light of day while yet he lives."
" You make my flesh creep,” said Beer. “ Why
for don't the man call parson to him? You can
only hear; but parson can both hear and forgive."
The ancient in the corner spoke up again.
“Don't you know no wiser than that rot? You
read your Bible better, Johnny Beer, an' you'll
very soon find that nobody can forgive sins but
God alone. An' I lay it takes Him all His holy
time, with such a rotten world as this.”
“ No politics,” said the man behind the bar.


244 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“No politics, an' no religion, Mister Hext, if you
please.”
“You'm getting too cross-grained to deal with,
Gaffer," answered Mr. Beer mildly. “ 'Tis well
known in a general way that the clergy have power
to forgive sins; an' 'tis a very proper accomplish-
ment, come to think of it, for their calling. Now,
for my part- "
In the yard a voice broke into Beer's argument,
and a venerable rhyme ascended from an ostler's
throat:
««• Old Harry Trewin
Had no breeches to wear,
So he stole a ram's skin
To make him a pair.
The skinny side out
And the woolly side in,
And thus he doth go-old Harry Trewin!'"
" There's a proper song for 'e!” said Bartley.
When you can turn a verse like that, you may
call yourself a clever chap, John Beer.”
“The rhyme's nought-'tis the tune," retorted
Beer. “ The verse be very vulgar, an’ so's the
subject. You don't understand these things, as
how should a policeman? Take "Widecombe


DANIEL SWEETLAND 247
poor thing upon her lofty pedestal. Somebody
moved at the lodge-gate, and he knew that it was
his mother. Instinctively he turned his head away
and hurried forward. But there are no more pro-
found disguises than a silent tongue and a black
face. Even Titus Sim had not the least suspicion
that Sweetland now lived at his elbow and lis-
tened to his every utterance. But Sim's subtle
genius never deserted him. No man had heard
him say one unkind word of Daniel; many had lis-
tened to his fierce reproofs when others ventured
to criticise the vanished man. Perfectly he played
his part, and Daniel often warmed to the friend
who could thus defend him and fight for his good
rame, even though, with the rest of the world,
he supposed that his old comrade was dead and
buried deep in the blue waters of the Caribbean.
va


CHAPTER XVII
THE CONFESSION
Rıx PARKINSON had been a handsome man, but
now disease and the shadow of death were upon
his countenance; he had long sunk into a chronic
lethargy, and only his eyes, that shone from a
wasted and besotted face, retained some natural
beauty. He was dying, but vitality still flashed
up in him, and no physician could with certainty
predict whether a week or a month might still
remain to him. Parkinson's home adjoined that
wherein young Samuel Prowse lived with his
mother; and this woman it was who of her char-
ity ministered to the sufferer, and carried out the
doctor's orders.
“Blood is thicker than water," said a neigh-
bor. “Whyfor don't the man's relations come to
him?"
But Mrs. Prowse shook her head. “ An’ Chris-
tianity's thicker than blood,” she answered.
“ An' as for the poor soul's relations, why, 'tis
surely given to the Christian to scrape kinship


DANIEL SWEETLAND 251
I heard nothing until next morning. Then there
comed the news that Thorpe was dead, and that
Dan Sweetland's new gun had been found along-
side the place where he was shot. That inter-
ested me, and I began to wonder what my pal had
been up to. There was no chance to ax him just
then. 'Twas his affair, anyway, not mine. And
then I began to take a new interest in my life and
find out what a damned fine thing it was to be
alive and free. They nabbed Sweetland and I
watched 'em do it. If it had come to hanging,
I'd have given myself up for him; but instead of
that, he gived 'em the slip. And the rest you
know. Now he's dead, they tell me, and, as I
shall be after him afore the corn's ripe, I want to
clear his memory for evermore. He had no hand
in that job, and, so far I know, wasn't within
miles of the place. The matter of the gun be on
my pal's shoulders. He denied it when I taxed
him. But right well I know that he put it there
for his own ends. I'll say no more about that.
But God in Heaven can witness that I'd never
have let 'em hang Daniel. My pal and me had one
or two other little affairs afterwards, as we'd had
many before; then my health gived away, an' now
I'm rotting alive and shan't be sorry to go. As
any questions you like. Mr. Sim here will tes-


DANIEL SWEETLAND 255
• Come,” said Sim. “ We will leave him now.”
Titus rose and turned to get his hat. He was
only removed from them a moment, but in that
space the sufferer beckoned Minnie with his eyes,
and she leant her head toward him.
“Don't marry that man!” he whispered under
his breath; then continued aloud, to mask his
message, “ Good-by-say 'good-by' to a sin-
ner, who can go fearless now-aye, an' thankful,
too. Fearless an' thankful, because you could
forgive him. 'Tis your goodness, Widow Sweet-
land, that has lifted me to trust the goodness of
God; 'tis your pardon hath made me trust in His.
I'll go to my punishment without flinching or
fearing, for I know He'll forgive me at the end."
Mrs. Prowse entered with food for the sick
man, and Minnie and Sim took their eternal leave
of him.
Within half an hour Parkinson was again
sleeping peacefully, and while Titus ran home
without stopping, for he was late, Minnie walked
slowly to the Moor. Her sad face shone with this
blessed news. She longed to cry it from the
housetops; she thirsted to tell each passer-by that
her husband was innocent of the evil linked with
his name. She thought of his mother first and
then his father; she even felt more tenderly


258 DANIEL SWEETLAND
great communication which told Dan's wife that
she was not a widow.
Events now rushed upon each other with such
speed that to tell the story of them in exact se-
quence becomes difficult. For the present we are
concerned with the meeting between Sim and the
woman he desired to marry.
At another time Sim would have inspected the
letter that he carried, and, perhaps, noting that
it came from Henry Vivian, whose hand he well
knew, the footman, in obedience to his instincts,
might have mastered the contents before deliver-
ing it. But Sim was full of his own affairs to-
night. They had reached a climax. Much hung
upon the next few hours, and his own devious
career was destined to culminate before another
sun rose. A great enterprise awaited him, and
upon it he now prepared to embark.
Minnie sat alone beside her lamp, and the man
approached her with his face full of news. Some-
thing in the way that he touched her hand told
her of what was coming.
“Rix Parkinson is dead!” she cried.
“ He is, Minnie; but how did you know that?”
She marked his use of her Christian name. It
savored of a sort of insolent right, and she re-
sun
sav


DANIEL SWEETLAND 259
sented it with a look, but not in words. Then she
replied to his question.
“I knew it the moment that you came in, Mr.
Sim. Your face told me. He has not left us long
to wait, poor fellow. I hope he saw Mr. Thornton
before he died?"
“Mr. Thornton was with him at the end. He
went easily."
" We must wait until the earth closes over him
—then my Dan— "
“ There is one thing first.”
He put his hand into his pocket and felt for
the letter.
“I had forgotten. Beer gave me this for you.
But first listen to me. You can read when I have
gone.”
“ Speak,” she said, and put the letter on the
mantel-shelf.
“I've said it once before, but you had no ears
then, for your eyes were full of that terrible news
from the West Indies. By some sad trick Provi-
dence willed that I should actually be asking you
to marry me at the moment when you saw the fact
of your husband's death staring at you in print.
Of course I said no more then. But now it's dif-
ferent. Now you know that poor Dan is at rest
and is happy. Now you know he was innocent


DANIEL SWEETLAND 261
“ If man can, I will; but leave that for the pres-
ent. I'm as set on it as you. 'Tis the task first
to my hand after we are man and wife.”
“ Man and wife we never shall be. I'd sooner
far, and prouder far, be my Daniel's widow than
wife of any man. No call to stare. Stare into
your own heart, not into my face. I'll never
marry anybody. Let that content you. You've
done your work; now go your way.”
“You'd drop me so? By God! you make my
fingers itch! D’you know what lies between love
and hate? A razor-edge. Don't scorn me so quiet
and cold. Don't turn away from the worship and
adoration of a man whose very life be built upon
your nod. I can't stand that. 'Tis fatal. My
days are nought to me without you. They are
narrowed to a word: you, you, you! Think what
I can give you if you've no liking for myself.
I've got heaps of money-a small fortune. Hun-
dreds of pounds-all for you. Never another
stroke of work. Your own servant you shall have,
and your own slave, too. I'll be that. Let me
show you what love for a woman is—what love
for a woman can do. Be content to share life
with me. Don't drive me mad by saying 'no'
again. Don't turn my love into gall. For 'twill
be poison, and that poison will mean death."


262 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“I must face all that you can threaten," she
said. “I've spoken. I'll marry no man. 'Tis
enough to live alone with the blessing of my Dan's
good name.”
" That rests with me!” he answered. “ Don't
fool yourself to think everything's going as you
please. If you will make me show my teeth, 'tis
your fault, not mine. I'm human. I've fought
and toiled and sweated for you, and only you.
I've done deeper things than ever a man did for
love of you. Gray's come into my hair for love
of you. And now-? No, by Godi the time's ripe
for payment. There's only two living souls on
earth know that Daniel Sweetland's innocent of
murder, and them two must be man and wife, or
that man's memory shall stink of blood for ever-
more! That's love! You stare, but I've spoken.
You refuse me, but in so doing you leave your
husband's memory foul. Your testimony is
nothing without mine. 'Tis an easy invention for
a pious wife; but when they come to me, I shake
my head and say I fear the wish was father to
the thought, for Parkinson said no such thing.'
Tell them! I'd rather die than tell them. I'll
cut my own throat rather than clear him. That's
love on the razor-edge. And a mind on a razor-
edge, too! Have a care, Minnie, for I'm at a pass


DANIEL SWEETLAND 263
when life or death be bubbles. You've made me
desperate. You don't know-you can't guess-a
girl like you with ice for a heart-what a man's
raging fires may be. Speak-don't look at me
with them steady, watch-fire eyes, or I'll strangle
you!"
She had never seen any man driven into a des-
peration that came so near actual madness. She
was alive to her own danger, and yet, knowing a
thing hidden from him, could spare a moment
of thankfulness at her own prescience in the past.
For Minnie had never trusted Titus Sim. Even
before the prospect of going with him into the
presence of death, she had feared his honesty.
Because she knew him to be a liar and believed
him capable of any crime.
“Leave me now,” she said steadily, with her
eyes upon his face. “This be no time for more
speech between us. You have declared that my
dead husband's innocence hangs upon your
speech. To prove him honest is all the world's
got left for me to do. And I will do it. At any
cost-even to marriage with you I'll do it. If
'tis only by marrying you that Daniel's name can
be cleared, then I'll marry you, Titus Sim."
He fell on his knees and made wild, incoherent
sounds. He seized her hands and covered them


264
D
DANIEL SWEETLAND
with kisses. He uttered inarticulate cries and
praised God. She endured it with difficulty and
continually implored him to depart from her. At
last he rose, restrained himself and spoke more
calmly.
“Why did you make me say those cruel
things? Why did you rouse the devil in me like
that? Right well you know I never meant them.
'Twas only the very madness of disappointed
love made me think of such vile things. Forget
them, Minnie! Forget them and forgive them.
I only want your happiness. Marry me and leave
the rest to me. You'll never be sorry. I've got
love enough for both of us. Wait and see. You'll
turn to me yet, and trust me, and be sorry for me.
Then, please God, you'll come to love me a little."
“Go now," she said. “You've got my
answer."
“ And sweeter words never fell on a sad man's
ear, my blessed wife to be! We'll wait till the
dead is buried. We promised him to say nothing
until then. And afterwards all people shall know
that your Daniel was innocent."
He left her and she locked the cottage door be-
hind him. After that Minnie fell shivering upon
a seat beside the fire, and buried her face in her
hands. She did not fear for herself; she was only


DANIEL SWEETLAND 269
Henry Vivian wrote carefully and came to the
tremendous truth as gently as possible; but it had
to be told, and when she heard it, when the
mighty fact fell upon her ear that Daniel was not
dead, but alive and well and close at hand, ready
to visit her on the dawn of the morrow-she
fainted in a heap; and Jane Beer very nearly did
the same. Happily, the poet and publican kept
his head. His own lady he summoned to resolu-
tion by the force of his uplifted voice. Then he
loosed the champagne cork, which happily flew
without hesitation, and soon had the wine at Min-
nie's white lips.
It was long before she could listen to the end of
the letter. Then the writer warned her that Dan-
iel found it beyond human power to keep longer
from her side, and that on the following morning,
when a black man came thundering at the door of
“ Hangman's Hut,” she must on no account re-
fuse him admission.
“ God's light!” cried Mr. Beer. “ 'Tis after
midnight now. I lay the man will be dressing
hisself to come to his wife in an hour or two! To
think-to think that underneath that skin so
black Dan Sweetland to his home came back!
But 'tis a dead secret. Me an' my missus didn't
ought to know it.”


270 DANIEL SWEETLAND
" 'Tis safe enough with us, I'm sure,” said
Mrs. Beer rather indignantly.
“Trust us for that. And now we'll drain the
flowing bowl to that brave hero. 'Black but
comely.' And I wonder if he's black all
over? Ban't likely, I should think. I hope not,
for your sake, my dear. Drink again-drink to
the bottom. 'Tis for him. And don't you go for
to meet him in that dress. There's enough black
'pon Dan without you being in black, too."
“ That's good advice-just like Johnny's sense.
Don't you appear afore him like a widow
woman," said Mrs. Beer. “ 'Twould be awful bad
luck. You just put on your pretty print wi’ the
lilac pattern. And, after breakfast, I'll step over
in my dandy-go-russet gown-out of respect. I
must see the young youth. 'Twill be a great
adventure, I'm sure.”
She prattled on to distract Minnie's mind from
the force of this shock. The girl hardly spoke,
but sat with her hand in Mrs. Beer's. Sometimes
she sighed, and at last merciful tears came to her
eyes and she wept convulsively.
“Now you come home along of us,” said
Johnny. “I ban't going to let you bide here by
yourself. You come back an' have a good sleep
with Jane, and I'll call you at peep o' day. Then


DANIEL SWEETLAND 273
They retired and talked on, full of this great
matter, until dawn touched their white window-
blind, and Johnny slept.
A moment later sounds of a galloping horse
broke the tremendous silence of the Moor, and
Jane Beer leapt from her bed and ran to the
window.
A rider passed swiftly in the dull beginning of
light. Beyond the inn he turned from the high-
way and proceeded in the direction of Hangman's
Hut.
“He wasn't the black man-that I'm sure!”
she exclaimed; but her husband did not hear, and
his only answer was a snore.
Mrs. Beer crept back to his side.
" White as a dog's tooth his face was!" she
said to herself. “Even in the cock-light I could
see that."
She reflected uneasily. Then an explanation
came.
“ Why, the chap washed hisself, to be sure!
No doubt the black comes off, like the Christy's
Minstrels us seed to Exeter. He wouldn't go to
see his wife like a black gorilla.”
This solution of the difficulty seemed good to
Mrs. Beer. “The good Lord bless 'em!" she
said.
18


274 DANIEL SWEETLAND
Then she also prepared to sleep; but a hideous
din in her ear awoke her. A bellowing as of a
thousand bulls came up from the road. It woke
Mr. Beer, as it was meant to do, and with his wife
he hastened to peep into the dawn. Jane then
told her husband what she had already seen, and
this, combined with the spectacle now before
them, roused both effectually. In another mo-
ment the publican was pulling on his clothes.


CHAPTER XIX
MR. SIM TELLS THE TRUTH
Titus Sim returned home with the spirit of a
conqueror. The long struggle was over and the
battle won. Minnie Sweetland had promised to
marry him, if only by so doing her late husband
could be proved innocent; and he well knew there
was no alternative. She would keep her word;
that he also knew.
At supper in the servants' hall of Middlecott
Court, Titus, who arrived as the others were fin-
ishing their meal, showed such evident lightness
of heart that Mr. Hockaday, the butler, inquired
the cause. Sim ate and spoke together. He an-
nounced his approaching marriage with the widow
of Daniel Sweetland; and Dan, who sat smoking
his pipe in a corner of the kitchen by the fire,
heard his friend's news and witnessed his joy.
“At last!” said Mr. Hockaday. “Well, she
have taken her time, no doubt; but you can't
wonder at that. It had to be; anshe was worth
waiting for. So there'll be more changes, and


276 DANIEL SWEET LAND
you'll leave Middlecott, no doubt? When's the
nuptials ? "
“I don't know. That's for her to say. Soon,
I hope. I can't believe it, Hockaday; 'tis almost
too good to be true. My cup's full.”
Dan Sweetland's pipe went out and he rose,
knocked the ashes from it and retired to his
room. It was in the servants' quarters, and he
always took good care to lock the door. None
of the domestics had ever seen the inside of the
chamber since Dan became occupant. Had they
done so, it must have much surprised them to see
a little photograph of Minnie Sweetland upon
the mantelpiece.
To this secluded den “ Obi” now departed,
and his thoughts were a strange mixture of grave
and gay. Ile was to see his wife in the morning,
for that day had gone the letter from Henry
Vivian. But Minnie could not yet have read the
great news, since it seemed that within the hour
she had engaged herself to Titus Sim. The fact
struck with petrifying force upon Daniel's mind.
It woke a wide uneasiness and a great sorrow for
the awful disappointment that must await his
friend. Minnie's own attitude puzzled him deeply.
Could it be true that she had accepted Sim?
Could it be possible that his return to life would


278 DANIEL SWEETLAND
ing to let Titus into the great secret; but Henry
Vivian refused to allow him to do so.
It was past midnight when Daniel, acting upon
this new impulse, dressed himself and went to the
room near his own in which Titus slept. A light
was burning, and Mr. Sim, who had not retired,
turned from the writing of a letter to see the
black man standing in the door.
“Hullo, Obi'! Whatever do you want?” he
asked; then made the sign of a question.
But Daniel answered and Sim fell back speech-
less upon his bed to hear the long, silent tones.
" What nightmare's this? You can speak-
speak in that voice? What are you, then?”
"One as be your friend always-always-one
as can't live this lie no more-not for you, Titus.
It have hurt me to the soul doing it; it have tor-
mented me day by day to see your honest face and
hear your honest speech. But you must forgive
me for coming to life, old pal. 'Twas time an'
more than time I did so, seemingly. After to-night
I couldn't hide myself behind this black face and
this blank silence no more-not from you. Say
you forgive me, Titus. 'Twas life or death, re-
member."
“ Your life is my death,” answered the other
slowly. “Do you understand that?”


280 DANIEL SWEETLAND
me leave to go up-along an' hear what she've got
to tell me. Shake my hand-I ban't black except
my face. My heart's white an’ well you know it,
Titus.”
He offered his hand and the other took it me-
chanically.
“You've knocked me all of a heap,” he said.
“Let me hear your tale. 'Twill give my heart
time to still an' beat level again. You at my
elbow! And she-this very night-promised to
marry me. 'Tis more than a man's brain can
hold.”
“ Afore she knowed that I was back in life
again."
Sim desired to think. The crash of this news
confused him and unsettled his deep mind.
“ Tell your tale from the beginning, Daniel," he
said. “Let me hear it all; then I'll tell you mine,
and give you some idea of what I've been doing
while you was away.”
“You haven't cleared up the job in Middlecott
Lower Hundred?"
"Speak your speech," repeated Sim. " What
I've got to say I'll say afterwards.”
Thereupon Daniel told his long story from the
beginning. He described his escape, his visit to
Minnie, his journey to Plymouth, his experiences


282
D
DANIEL SWEETLAND
disappointed passion, and stripped his heart to
the other's horrified gaze. Even in the full tem-
pest and springtide of his fury, Sim perceived
that he held the upper hand, and made that clear
to Sweetland. The truth, indeed, he told; but
without a witness; and it was beyond the listen-
er's power to prove anything. He might repeat
Sim's infamous confession, but there were none to
substantiate the story. Only one man could have
done so, and he lay waiting for his funeral on the
morrow.
“I've heard you; now hear me," said the foot-
man. “ The Devil's kept you for the rope, Dan
Sweetland; and 'twas I wove the rope and shall
live to know you've worn it. Your friend once,
your bitter enemy to the death from the day that
woman put you before me and chose you for her
husband. After that I cursed your shadow when
you passed, and only waited the right moment to
get you out of my road for evermore. In the
nick of time the chance fell, and I-that you
trusted as a pig trusts the butcher-I caught you
like a rabbit in a snare. Glare at me! Stare
your damned, black eyes out of your head! I
did it-did it all! And I've not done with you
yet-remember that. Rix Parkinson's a dead man
now-gone to have it out in hell with Adam


DANIEL SWEETLAND 283
Thorpe. 'Twas Rix that shot him, and 'twas I
that thrashed your father the same night. We
worked very well together-Rix and me. Look
out of the window. Only a six-foot drop-you'll
have the same drop presently-with a rope round
your neck. Down that wall I've gone a hundred
times. Rix drank damnation with his money; I
put my share away and let it grow. You was the
black sheep in everybody's mouth. I-that was
twice and twenty times the skilled sportsman
you was- I went my way quiet and unsuspected.
Many and many and many's the night me and
Parkinson thinned the pheasants. Then came
that hour when your old fool of a father and Adam
Thorpe blundered on us. The best men will make
a mistake now and again; yet, after all's said, the
mistake was theirs, for one lost his life and t’other
got his gray head broken. And then 'twas, after
we'd gathered our birds again and gone, that the
thought of what might be came to me. “Sweet-
land's the man for this dirty work,' says the
Devil to me; and in an hour, when Rix was away
with the birds, I went up over to your new home
and found you at hand. You almost walked on
top of me as you went away; then I slipped into
the hovel by unlatching a back window with a bit
of wire, and there was your gun waiting for me,


DANIEL SWEETLAND
285
you'll have. I must marry and get children; and
if I live long enough, I'll cheat the Devil yet; but
you-your thread's spun: dead and buried in
quicklime you shall be!”
Nothing could have exceeded the frantic pas-
sion with which Sim uttered this whirl of words.
They burst from him with explosions and nearly
choked him. His eyes blazed, his limbs worked
spasmodically. For the time he behaved like a
malignant lunatic.
Sweetland perceived that little was to be
gained by further speech with one insane. There-
fore he rose and went away, that Titus might
have time to reflect and recover his senses. How
much of this confession to believe, Daniel did not
know. At first, though dazed by such dreadful
tidings, he had credited the story and set it down
to love run mad; but when real madness blazed
on Sim's white face and he ceased to be coherent,
when the baffled rascal in his storm and hurricane
of disappointment raved of death and hell, Dan
began to suppose him insane in earnest. The wish
was father to the thought. Even in his bewilder-
ment and consternation at this result of his con-
fession to his friend, there came sorrow for Titus
Sim, and grief that such an awful catastrophe
had overtaken him. He longed to believe the


288 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“ Take this pistol,” he said. “This man's a
thousand times more dangerous than you dream
of. Either mad or sane, it would be better for
you to be in a cage with a tiger than with him.
If he touches you, fire on him and fire first. If
he obeys you, bring him here, and let him walk
in front of you. Be quick!”
Dan took the weapon and hurried back to Sim's
room, but it was empty. For a moment he stood
staring round it, and, in that silence, he heard a
horse gallop out of the stable yard not far distant.
Henry Vivian's fears were confirmed, and Titus
had made first move in the grim game that was
now to be played.
Dan rushed back with his news.
“ You were right, sir; he's gone- just galloped
out of the yard. He's off to the police station!”
"Not he," answered the other. “ Run for your
life-or her life-your wife, Dan! That's where
he's gone, and that's where you'll find him. Fly-
take my horse; but I'm afraid he has; and if so,
you'll never catch him. Nothing we've got will
overtake my gelding.”
But his last words were spoken to air, for Dan,
albeit he had been slow to rouse, was indeed alive
at last. In two minutes he had left the house. There
was no difficulty, for the doors stood open as Sim


DANIEL SWEETLAND
289
had left them. But Vivian's fast hack was not in
the stable, and nothing else there, under Dan's
heavy weight, stood the smallest chance of catch-
ing it.
The first tremor of dawn was in the sky, and its
ghostly ray touched a circle of plate glass. The
glass belonged to the great front lamp of Henry
Vivian's new motor car, and it stood there, the
incarnation of sleeping strength and speed. There
was no time to ask leave or return to the house,
but Daniel knew his master's only regret would
be that he could not accompany him. He under-
stood the great machine well, and had already
driven it on several occasions. It was of forty
horse-power, and easily able to breast the steep
acclivities that stretched between Middlecott
Court and the Moor; but the road was dangerous,
and a good horse had power to proceed more
swiftly over half of the ground than any vehicle
on wheels. Once in the Moor, however, it might
be possible to make up lost ground. For four or
five miles Daniel calculated that he could drive
the car many times as fast as a horse could gallop.
Thus he might get even with Sim at the finish.
As quickly as possible he lighted the lamp, set
the motor in motion and went upon his way. As
he departed, he hooted loudly, that Henry Vivian
might know the thing he had done.
19


DANIEL SWEETLAND 293
good, the road wide; and it was unlikely that any
vehicle would share the way with him or be
passed, either going or approaching. Ponies or
sheep might, indeed, interrupt him, but he trusted
to his hooter to frighten them away before he
reached them.
Dan set the powerful machine at work in earn-
est, and he felt it gather itself together beneath
him, like a living thing, hum like a hive of huge
bees, and leap forward with accelerated speed.
The road, glimmering in dawn light, seemed a
shining white ribbon that was wound by the car
as it flew onwards. There came a sensation that
he sat upon a huge, busy, but motionless monster
that was swallowing the track. The roadway
poured under his wheels like a river; the Moor
to right and left wound away like mighty wheels
whose axes were on the horizon.
Though Dan drove the five miles in rather less
than five minutes, the time to him seemed very
long. Twice he was in peril, and twice escaped
death by a shade. At a steep hill, where it became
absolutely necessary to slow down, he put on pace
again too soon while yet fifty yards of the decliv-
ity remained to be run. But the car responded
quicker than he expected, and on a little bridge,
which spanned the bottom of the coomb and


294 DANIEL SWEETLAND
crossed a stream, his right fore-wheel actually
touched the granite parapet. The hub of the
wheel struck a splinter from the stone, which shot
upward like a bullet and tore Dan's elbow to the
bone. Then came the last straight mile—a long
and level tract, upon whose left stood Bennett's
Cross, while to the right lay Furnum Regis, the
Oven of the King. Now a final rush began, and
straining his watering eyes to look ahead and see
if by chance Titus Sim might be in sight, Dan saw,
three hundred yards in front of him, a sheep
standing upon the middle of the road with its
back toward the car. He was now running more
than eighty miles an hour, and only seconds sep-
arated him from the creature. He sounded his
hooter, but the sheep did not move, and Dan had
barely time to grip the iron rail in front of him
when there came the crash of impact. The car
was now skimming the ground rather than run-
ning upon it; thus the full weight of the motor
struck the wether and it was hurled ten yards
forward and fell in a crushed heap of wool and
bones. The impact carried away the motor-lamp,
which dropped to the right, and the car had
passed between lamp and sheep, and was a hun-
dred yards beyond them before Dan drew his
breath. A bolt had given at one end of the bar


DANIEL SWEETLAND 297
with Minnie on her knees at his feet. Titus was
bending over her, and he had one hand on her
hair, dragging back her head. The other hand
held a jack-knife to his mouth, and he opened this
weapon with his teeth as Sweetland sprang in
upon him. Sim's hand went back for the blow,
but it was not delivered. Instead, his arm was
pinned to his side and he found himself wrestling
with a demon.
Both men were powerful, but both were spent.
Sweetland had lost much blood from his elbow,
and he found himself growing weak. Titus had
fared better, though he, too, blew hard after a
half-mile run.
He had come to kill Minnie Sweetland; now he
exulted and worked to tire out the other. The
knife had fallen out of his hand, but as Minnie
rushed to reach it from him, Sim put his foot
upon it.
“ So much the better!” he cried, going down
easily as Daniel threw him. “Do what you like-
go on-you're bleeding to death! But Death's
self shan't cheat me of you. Your death's
my-
He spoke no more, for Sweetland was now quite
aware that only moments separated him from
falling. He was growing weak fast and his head


DANIEL: SWEE TLAND 299
the time to come. You be free afore the world,
an’innocent afore the world. I can prove it, Dan.
I can prove it!”
For answer his head rolled back and he fell for-
ward from his knees to the ground. She stood
above the two unconscious men, herself tottering
and powerless to help either.
Then it was that Beer, in the lightest of attire,
and followed by his wife, rushed upon the scene.
Mrs. Sweetland bade him first tend her husband,
and Johnny soon propped Dan's head and tied up
the bleeding arm above the elbow. After that
Dan recovered consciousness and called to his
wife.
“Give me something to drink-spirits. I shall
be all right in an hour. You was right, Min.
'Twould have been a poor home-coming to kill
this devil. But your arm-that awful sound.”
“You go,” said Johnny to his wife. “ Get a
bottle of brandy and nip back as quick as light-
ning. And call the boy at the same time, an' tell
him to saddle the pony an' ride like hell for Doc-
tor Budd. This chap's dead, I'm thinking.”
He spoke of Sim, who had not recovered con-
sciousness.
" What May games be these, Dan Sweetland?”
asked Mr. Beer. Dan, however, had no leisure


300 DANIEL SWEETLAND
d
for Johnny. He lay quite still and fought to keep
consciousness.
“Us can't wait for Sim," he said; “ Minnie's
more than this here man. After I've took in a
tumbler of spirits, I'll stand up again and get to
the car. Then I'll drive her straight to the cot-
tage hospital and come back for Sim. He's not
dead. 'Twas that li'l broken arm there that saved
him."
“A masterpiece you be, sure enough! Black,
an' blue, an' bloody; an' yet the real old Dan
Sweetland, an' no other! Let me see your elbow
again. Yes, it have done bleeding now.”
“ Don't trouble about me,” said Dan. “ Listen
to his chest an' see if you can hear his heart beat-
ing. Ban't no odds if I've killed him; for if I
hadn't done it, he'd have killed me an' my wife,
too. A near shave, by God! He had her by the
hair an' a thicky, pig-sticking knife between his
teeth.”
“However comed you to let him in after last
night, my dear?” asked Johnny.
“I was on the watch," she answered. “I seed
a man with a black face running through the
dawnlight, an' I didn't stop to think, but rushed
to the door an'flinged it open for him. He was on
as O


CHAPTER XXI
JOHNNY BEER'S MASTERPIECE
MINNIE SWEETLAND had no time to lose, for well
she understood that the police would not wait her
pleasure. It behooved her, if possible, instantly to
prove her husband's innocence, and, in order to do
so, certain witnesses and a magistrate, before
whom they could testify upon oath, were neces-
sary. On the night of her mishap, before she
slept, Minnie was permitted to see Mrs. Prowse,
the widow who had attended to Rix Parkinson
during his last hours; and this woman, familiar
with the truth, promised to do all that was right
before the following day. Finally, the wife ob-
tained a physician's solemn promise that the police
should not take her husband until Sir Reginald
Vivian was familiar with the circumstances; then,
knowing that Dan was safe, she slept. But her re-
pose proved fitful and broken by pain. Thank-
fully she welcomed dawn and gladly prepared for
an ordeal now hastening upon her.


DANIEL SWEETLAND 305
At eleven o'clock a magistrate, with Sir Regi-
nald Vivian, Henry Vivian, Mrs. Prowse, her son,
Samuel Prowse, and a shorthand writer entered
the room where Minnie lay. Nurses were also in
attendance, and before Mrs. Sweetland told her
story Daniel and the physician of the hospital
appeared.
Then the wife made her statement. She spoke
calmly and clearly; there was no hesitation in her
voice; and those present were able to confirm her
account in every particular.
" When Titus Sim told me that poor Rix Park-
inson was going to die and wanted to see me
before he went, I was ready to visit him at once.
Mr. Sim said that he believed that Rix Parkinson
could prove my husband innocent. It was un-
derstood, also, that there must be a witness of
what was said. And Mr. Sim was to be that wit-
ness. I have never trusted him, so I thought that
it would be well if there was another witness. I
told Mrs. Prowse about it, and she agreed with me
that it might be safer. I had already spoken to
Sam Prowse here. He was always a friend to my
Daniel, and I trusted him. As he lived next door
to Mr. Parkinson, it was easy to have him there.
His mother took Samuel into the sick man's room
while Mr. Parkinson slept. He was hidden in a
20


DANIEL SWEETLAND 307
She had kept both articles, and, after sewing on
another button for him, was positive that the but-
ton found at Middlecott belonged to Sim's leg-
ging, by reason of its unusual pattern and notched
edge. To the button Sir Reginald attached no im-
portance, since Sim had been early upon the scene
of the murder in the wood; but the pipe was seri-
ous evidence.
Titus Sim himself proved not well enough to
be interrogated at this stage of affairs; but a week
later he left the hospital under arrest and, on the
same day, Sweetland also departed. The footman
confessed to nothing, but his wife's testimony
proved sufficient to free Daniel and prove him in-
nocent. A very genuine triumph, therefore,
awaited the young man. Even Mr. Corder from
Plymouth wrote and congratulated him; and in
the streets the sinall boys crowded behind him and
shouted “ hurrah!”
His father now wearied the world with Dan's
praises; his mother spent half her time on her
knees thanking God, and the other half running
after her son. But, thanks to Henry Vivian and
Sir Reginald, something more solid than popular-
ity awaited Daniel. The knight, who counted lit-
tle of first importance but the life and prosperity
INA


DANIEL SWEETLAND 309
ination is ended, some supper will be served for
you both.”
Sir Reginald retired, and for three hours Dan
and his old schoolmaster wrestled with figures.
After midnight the young man went home to Min-
nie with his head spinning.
A week later the mystery was solved, and
Sweetland received a letter from Middlecott which
much surprised him. It was an autograph com-
munication from Sir Reginald himself.
“My gratitude, young man,” he wrote, “ is al-
ready familiar to you. Under Heaven you were
instrumental in saving my son's life, and that
alone insures for you my active regard and inter-
est while I myself live. The only question in my
mind, since your acquittal, has been to find out
how best I may advance your welfare; and at the
instance of my son, whose brain is quicker than
my own, I agreed to offer you a very onerous and
responsible appointment-on one condition. The
work requires a clear head and some knowledge
of figures. Experience might also have been rea-
sonably demanded, but this I waived. You have
already shown qualities of mental readiness, nerve
and ability, which, had they been exercised upon
worthy instead of highly improper pursuits,
might have excited admiration instead of suspi-
Tea-


DANIEL SWEETLAND 311
here! Of course 'tis settled. To think of you
seeing the world! 'Exceedingly hot,' he says.
But I lay 'twon't be half so hot as 'twas last time
I was there!”
“If you'd let me read your letter, dear heart,
I should know a thought clearer what you was
talking about, and how to advise," answered Mrs.
Sweetland.
There came a merry night at the “ White
Hart," and the bar hummed with conversation
and laughter. Not a few friends were present;
not a few were missing.
“Have a drink along o' me, Matthew?” said
Mr. Beer. “You'll ax why I'm in this shop in-
stead of behind my own counter; but the missis
is to home, an' I told her that after saying' good-
by'to Dan and Minnie, I should make a night of
it along with a few of the best. Well, they be
gone after the sun. You bore yourself very stiff
at the station. If he'd been my boy, I should have
blubbered-such a soft fool am I. But I'm afraid
your missis felt it cruel.”
“She'll be all right," said Matthew Sweetland.
“ Think of the glory of it! Man's work he've
gone to do. An' no rough job neither. Figures!
It dries my old woman's eyes when I put it to her


DANIEL SWEETLAND 313
such a outrageous rip should appear here in this
peaceful an' honest town.”
“He wasn't Devonshire, however,” explained
Prowse. “ The man comed from over the border,
I believe.”
“Somerset's welcome to him," said Sweetland.
“ Anyway, he's out of mischief for five years.
Maybe Portland prison will drive the fear of God
into the man; but I'm not hopeful."
" 'Twas a near touch they didn't fetch him in
mad,” explained Bartley. “The chap who de-
fended him tried terrible hard to do it; and he
based his plea 'pon the fact that, even after he
was bowled out, Titus Sim wouldn't confess and
wouldn't support that last dying speech of Par-
kinson's."
“But he did afterwards," Sam Prowse re-
minded them. “He confessed after that he'd been
Parkinson's accomplice all along.".
“Yes, after he'd got his five years and knew
the worst,” returned Mr. Bartley. “He wasn't
mad, though he certainly had a great gift of lov-
ing a woman, which may be a sort of madness.”
“There were strong qualities in the man,” de-
clared Gaffer Hext; “ but once let the devil in,
he'll soon mix the ingredients of our natures and
turn all sour, however good the material.”


314 DANIEL SWEETLAND
“ They found four hundred and seventy-three
pounds, ten and eightpence to his name in the
bank,” said Johnny Beer. “Fifty pound more
than I began wedded life with. A very saving
man: the last of the big poachers, you might say.
There'll be none so great an' skilled as him an'
Rix Parkinson in the future.”
“I hope you'm right, Johnny, with all my
soul," answered Mr. Sweetland.
“To think of they two young brave hearts on
the rolling deep!” mused Mr. Bartley. “I won-
der if the ocean be fretful to-night?"
" What was you writing in your pocketbook,
Johnny, just after we given 'em three cheers an'
the train steamed out o' the station this morn-
ing?” asked Samuel Prowse.
" Why, be sure 'twas verses,” answered Mr.
Bartley. “At a rare time like that, 'tis well
known the rhyme rolls out of Beer like prespira-
tion off a man's brow at harvesting. Come,
Johnny, wasn't you turning a verse about it?”
“If truth must be told, I was,” confessed the
publican. “Upon such great occasions the fit
takes me, like drink will take another. I must
rhyme or be ill. 'Twas the same in the court-
house, while us was waiting for the verdict. And
though I ban't the best judge, my wife said of the


DANIEL SWEETLAND 315
poetry I done to Exeter assizes at the trial of
Sim, that it read like print an' made her go
goose-flesh down the spine. We all know she's
weak where I'm concerned, but notwithstanding
that same, few have got more sense than her; and
strangely enough, the rhyme about Titus Sim's
sentence and trial be in my pocket this minute by
a lucky accident. If anybody would like ?"
“Nothing upon that grim subject to-night,
Johnny,” said Matthew Sweetland; "but if
you've got the stuff you turned out at the station,
and if it's merry, us'll hear it patiently, I make
no doubt.”
Mr. Beer was disappointed; but the company
supported Daniel's father.
“ As you like, of course, but I haven't polished
it up, you know. Many of my best verses I've
often been knowed to write over twice. My wife
will bear witness of it. But as for merry rhymes,
I do think I'm better at solemn ones. There's
more sting to 'em. Mirth an' joy an' an extra
glass to the health of a lass, an' so on, be all very
well; but they read tame unless you was on the
spot yourself an' knowed how it tasted. Nothing
on God's earth be so uninteresting reading as the
account of other folks at a revel, if you wasn't
there. But with tragic matters, the creepiness be


318 DANIEL SWEETLAND
So we'll wish them a jolly long life-
Both young Daniel and his wife.
Also babies fat and hearty,
To make up the little party.
So us'll give him 'em three cheers and one cheer
more,
And hope they'll some day reach a Heavenly
Shore.”
“You must understand me, neighbors, 'tis not
worked up to concert pitch as yet; but such as
'tis, there 'tis."
Everybody shouted congratulations. Some
stamped their feet; some rapped their mugs on
the bar and on the table.
6. 'Tis a very fine rhyme an' meets the whole
case both in this world and the next, I'm sure,”
said Mr. Sweetland. “It does you credit, Beer,
an' I thank you for it.”.
“Specially that part about the foreign land
they've gone to,” declared Mr. Bartley. " To
hear you talk about palm trees as if you'd walked
under 'em all your life! Be blessed if I can't see
the place rise up in my mind like a picture.”
“Sir Reginald Vivian would thank you for a
copy, I reckon," continued Prowse. “He did
shake hands with 'em both. He was almost the
last to do it. I heard his final words to Dan.
• An' you tell my son that the sooner he's home


解一
​