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MODERN SHORT STORIES 
 
 A BOOK FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 
 
 EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 FREDERICK HOUK LAW, Ph.D. 
 
 Lecturer in Eng'lish in New York University, and Head of 
 
 the Department of E,nglish in the Stuyvesant 
 
 High School, New York City 
 
 ■> a % 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1921 
 
Copyright, 1918, by 
 The Centuey Co. 
 
 
PREFACE 
 
 For many years high school teachers have wished for books 
 of short stories edited for high school use. They have known 
 that most novels, however interesting, are too long to hold 
 attention, and that too few novels can be read to give proper 
 appreciation of form in narration. The essay, as seen in The 
 Sir Roger de Coverley Papers, and in Irving 's Sketch Book^ 
 has been a poor substitute for the short story. High school 
 students have longed for action, for quickness, for life, for 
 climax, for something new and modern. Instead, they have 
 had hundreds of pages, long expositions, descriptions, leisurely 
 treatment, and material drawn from the past. They have 
 read such material because they must, and have turned, for 
 relief, to short stories in the cheaper magazines. 
 
 The short story is to-day our most common literary product. 
 It is read by everyone. Not every boy or girl will read novels 
 after leaving school, but every boy or girl is certain to read 
 short stories. It is important in the high school to guide 
 taste and appreciation in short story reading, so that the 
 reading of days when school life is over will be healthful 
 and upbuilding. This important duty has been recognized 
 in all the most recent suggestions for high school reading. 
 The short story is just beginning to take its important place 
 in the high school course. To make use of a book of short 
 stories in high school work is to fall in line with the most 
 modern developments in the teaching of literature in the 
 high school. 
 
 Most collections of short stories that have been prepared, 
 for school use, up to the present, are more or less alike in 
 
 • • • 
 
 m 
 
 •t Vv A^ Aw %J O 
 
iv PREFACE 
 
 drawing much of their material from the past. Authors and 
 content alike are dead. Here is a collection that is entirely 
 modern. The authors represented are among the leading 
 authors of the day, the stories are principally stories of 
 present-day life, the themes are themes of present-day thought. 
 The students who read this book will be more awake to the 
 present, and will be better citizens of to-day. 
 
 The great number of stories presented has given oppor- 
 tunity to illustrate different types of short story writing. 
 What could not be done by the class study of many novels 
 may be accomplished by the study of the different stories in 
 this book. The student will gain a knowledge of types, of 
 ways of construction, of style, that he could not gain other- 
 wise except by long-continued study. Class study of the short 
 story leads inevitably to keen appreciation of artistic effects in 
 fiction. 
 
 The introductory material, biographies, explanations, and 
 notes, have been made purely for high school students, in 
 order to help those who may have read comparatively little, 
 so that, — instead of being turned aside forever by a dry-as- 
 dust treatment, — they may wish to proceed further in their 
 study. 
 
 It is always pure delight to teach the short story to high 
 school classes, but it is even more delightful when the ma- 
 terial is especially fitted for high school work. This book, 
 we hope, will aid both teachers and pupils to come upon many 
 happy hours in the class room. 
 
 The editor acknowledges, with thanks, the kindly permis- 
 sions to use copyright material that have been granted by 
 the various authors and publishers. Complete acknowledg- 
 ments appear in the table of contents. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 . PAGE 
 
 Preface i^ 
 
 Introduction 
 
 I Our National Reading vii 
 
 II The Definition vii 
 
 III The Family Tree of the Short Story ix 
 
 IV A Good Story xi 
 
 V What Shall I Do with This Book? xiii 
 
 VI Where to Find Some Good Short Stories . . . xv 
 
 VII Some Interesting Short Stories xvi 
 
 VIII What to Read about the Short Story xix 
 
 The Adventures of Simon and Su- 
 sanna Joel Chandler Harris 3 
 
 From "Daddy Jake and the Runaways." 
 
 The Crow-Child Mary Mapes Dodge 9 
 
 From "The Land of Pluck." 
 The Soul of the Great Bell . . Lafcadio Hearn 17 
 
 From "Some Chinese Ghosts." 
 The Ten Trails Ernest Thompson Seton 22 
 
 From "Woodniyth and Fable." 
 Where Lo\^ is, There God is Also Count Leo Tolstoi 23 
 
 From "Tales and Parables." 
 
 Wood-Ladies Perceval Gihhon 38 
 
 From "Scribner's Magazine." 
 On the Fever Ship Bichard Harding Davis 53 
 
 From "The Lion and the Unicorn." 
 
vi CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Source of Irritation" .... Stacy Aumonier 60 
 
 From ''The Century Magazine." 
 
 MoTi Guj — Mutineer .... Rudyard Kipling 84 
 
 From "Plain Tales from the Hills." 
 
 Gulliver the Great Walter A. Dyer 92 
 
 From "Gulliver the Great and Other Stories." 
 
 Sonny's Schoolin' Ruth McEnery Stuart 105 
 
 From "Sonny, a Christmas Guest." 
 
 Her First Horse Show .... David Gray 117 
 
 From "Gallops 2." 
 
 My Husband's Book James Matthew Barrie 135 
 
 From "Two of Them." 
 
 War Jack London 141 
 
 From "The Night-Bom." 
 
 The Battle op the Monsters . . Morgan Robertson 147 
 
 From "Where Angels Fear to Tread." 
 
 A Dilemma S. Weir Mitchell 160 
 
 From "Little Stories." 
 
 The Red-Headed League . . . .A. Conan Doyle 166 
 
 From "Adventures of Sherlock Holmes." 
 
 One Hundred in the Dark . . . Owen Johnson 192 
 
 From "Murder in Any Degree." /' 
 
 A Retrieved Reformation ... 0. Henry 212 
 
 From "Roads of Destiny." 
 
 Brother Leo Phyllis Bottome 221 
 
 From "The Derelict and Other Stories." 
 
 A Fight with Death Ian Maclaren 238 
 
 From "Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush." 
 
 The Dan-nan-ron Fiona Maeleod 248 
 
 From "The Dominion of Dreams, Under the Dark Star." 
 
 Notes and Comments 275 
 
 Suggestive Questions for Class Use 296 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 OUR NATIONAL READING 
 
 Is there anyone who has not read a short story? Is there 
 anyone who has not stopped at a news-stand to buy a short- 
 story magazine ? Is there anyone who has not drawn a volume 
 of short stories from the library, or bought one at the book- 
 store? Short stories are everywhere. There are bed-time 
 stories and fairy stories for little children; athletic stories, 
 adventure stories, and cheerful good-time stories for boys and 
 girls; humorous stories for those who like to laugh, and 
 serious stories for those who like to think. The World and 
 his Wife still say, "Tell me a story," just as they did a 
 thousand years ago. Our printing presses have fairly roared 
 an answer, and, at this moment, are busy printing short 
 stories. Even the newspapers, hardly able to find room for 
 news and for advertisements, often give space to re-printing 
 short stories. Our people are so fond of soda water that 
 some one has laughingly called it our national drink. Our 
 people of every class, young and old, are so fond of short 
 stories that, with an equal degree of truth, we may call the 
 short story our national reading. 
 
 II 
 
 THE DEFINITION 
 
 The short story and the railroad are about equally old, — 
 or, rather, equally new, for both were perfected in distinctly 
 recent times. The railroad is the modern development of 
 older ways of moving people and goods from one place to an- 
 other, — of litters, carts, and wagons. The short story is the 
 
 vii 
 
viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 modem development of older ways of telling what actually 
 had happened, or might happen, or what might be imagined 
 to happen, — of tales, fables, anecdotes, and character studies. 
 A great number of men led the way to the locomotive, but it 
 remained for the nineteenth century, in the person of George 
 Stephenson, to perfect it. In like manner, many authors led 
 the way to the short story of to-day, but it remained for the 
 nineteenth century, and particularly for Edgar Allan Poe, 
 to perfect it, and give it definition. 
 
 Before Poe's time the short story had sometimes been 
 written well, and sometimes poorly. It had often been of 
 too great length, wandering, and without point. Poe wrote 
 stories that are different from many earlier stories in that they 
 are all comparatively short. Another difference is that Poe's 
 stories do not wander, producing now one effect, and now an- 
 other. Like a Roman road, every one goes straight to the 
 point that the maker had in mind at the beginning, and 
 produces one single effect. In the older stories the writers 
 often turned from the principal subject to introduce other 
 matter. Poe excluded everything, — no matter how inter- 
 esting, — that did not lead directly to the effect he wished to 
 produce. The earlier stories often ended inconclusively. The 
 reader felt that more might be said, or that some other end- 
 ing might be possible. Poe tried to write so that the story 
 should be absolutely complete, and its ending the one neces- 
 sary ending, with no other ending even to be thought of. 
 With it all, he tried to write so that, — no matter how im- 
 probable the story really might be, — it should, at least, seem 
 entirely probable, — as real as though it had actually hap- 
 pened. 
 
 In general, Poe's definition of the short story still holds 
 true. There are many kinds of stories today, — just as there 
 are many kinds of engines, — but the great fundajuental prin- 
 ciples hold true in both. We may still define the modern 
 short story as: 
 
 1. A narrative that is short enough to be read easily at a 
 single sitting; 
 
INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 2. That is written to produce a single impression on the 
 mind of the reader; 
 
 3. That excludes everything that does not lead to that 
 single impression ; 
 
 4. That is complete and final in itself; 
 
 5. That has every indication of reality. 
 
 Ill 
 
 THE FxVMILY TREE OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Everyone knows his father and mothers Very few, except 
 those of noble descent, know even the names of their great- 
 great grandparents. As if of the noblest, even of royal de- 
 scent, the short story knows its family tree. Its ancestry, 
 like that of the American people, goes back to Europe ; draws 
 strength from many races, and finally loses itself some- 
 where in the prehistoric East, — in 'ancient Greece, India, or 
 Egypt. 
 
 In the royal galleries kings look at pictures oi their great 
 ancestors, and somewhat realize remote the past. Many of 
 the ancestors of the short story still live. They drank of the 
 fountain of youth, and are as strong and full of life as ever. 
 Such immortal ancestors of the short story of today are The 
 Story of Polyphemus (ninth century B.C.), 'The Story of 
 Pandora and her Box (ninth century, B.C.), The Book of 
 Esther (second century, b. c), The City Mouse and the Coun- 
 try Mouse (first century, B.C.), and The Fahles of jJEsop 
 (third century, a. d.). There are still existing many Egyp- 
 tian short stories, some of which are of the most remote 
 antiquity, the Tales of the Magicians going back to 4000 b. c. 
 
 All the stories just named, — and many others equally 
 familiar, drawn from every ancient land, — affected the short 
 story in English. 
 
 In the earliest days in England, in the fifth and in a few 
 succeeding centuries, the priests made collections of short 
 stories from which they could select illustrative material for 
 the instruction of their hearers. They drew many such stories 
 from Latin, which, in turn, had drawn them from still more 
 
X INTRODUCTION 
 
 aneient sources. Then, or a little later, came folk stories, 
 romantic stories of adventure, and other stories for mere 
 amusement. 
 
 In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries the Italians 
 became very skilful in telling short stories, or ''novelle." 
 Their ''new" tales had a lasting effect on short story telling 
 in English. 
 
 Chaucer's Canterbury Tales , in the fourteenth century, 
 although in verse, told in a most delightfully realistic way all 
 kinds of stories from all kinds of sources, particularly from 
 the literatures of Italy and of France. Chaucer told his 
 stories so remarkably well, with such humor and reality, that 
 he is one of the great forces in the history of the short story 
 in English. 
 
 In the sixteenth century stories from France, Spain, and 
 other lands, also gave new incentives to the development of 
 the short story in English. 
 
 In the eighteenth century Addison's Spectator published 
 very short realistic narratives that often presented closely 
 drawn character studies. These are hardly to be called 
 short stories, but they influenced the short story form. 
 
 About the beginning of the nineteenth century, partly be- 
 cause of German influence, it became the fashion to write 
 stories of mystery and horror, such as many of those by Ir- 
 ving, Hawthorne, and Poe. Irving softened such stories by 
 the touch of realistic humor; Hawthorne gave them artistic 
 form and nobility; Poe developed the full value of the short 
 story as a literary type, and pointed out the five principles 
 named above. The genius of these men led the way to the 
 modern short story. 
 
 Since their time the short story has moved on in its de- 
 velopment, including every kind of subject, tending to speak 
 more and more realistically of persons and places, but not 
 losing its romantic nature. Popular short stories of today 
 are closely localized, and are frequently quick, incisive, and 
 emphatic. 
 
 Today there are all kinds of short stories, — folk-lore tales, 
 local color stories, animal stories, humorous stories, stories of 
 
INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 society, of satire, of science, of character, of atmosphere, and 
 scores of other types, all virile, interesting, and profitable. 
 
 However well-dressed the modern short story may be in 
 form and style, it is worth little, unless, like its immortal an- 
 cestors, it has the soul of goodness, truth, and beauty, and does 
 something to reveal nobility in the life of man. 
 
 IV 
 
 A GOOD STORY 
 
 With houses and stories it is much the same. As any one 
 may build a hut, so any one may compose a short story. In 
 both cases the materials may be common and cheap, and the 
 construction careless. The one may give shelter from the 
 storm, and the other may hold attention for a moment. 
 Neither may be worth much. Somewhat better are the ordi- 
 nary house, and the ordinary story. Both are good, and 
 fairly well constructed, but the material is frequently com- 
 monplace, and the general characteristics ordinar}^ To lift 
 either a house or a story out of the ordinary there must be fine 
 material, artistic workmanship, close and tender association 
 with life, — something beautiful, or good, or true. For the 
 highest beauty there is need of something other than obedi- 
 ence to rule in construction. Any architect can tell how to 
 build a beautiful house, but there is a fine beauty no mere 
 architect can give, a beauty that comes with years, or the 
 close touch of human joys and sorrows. It is the same with 
 stories. We can not analyze the finer quality, but we can, at 
 least, tell some of the characteristics that make short stories 
 good. 
 
 As Poe said, the best short story is short enough to be read 
 at a sitting, so that it produces a single effect. It includes 
 nothing that does not lead to that effect, and it produces 
 the effect as inevitably as an arrow flies to its mark. The 
 ending is necessarj^, the one solution to which everything has 
 moved from the beginning. In some way the story is close to 
 life, and is so realistically told that the reader is drawn into 
 its magic, and half believes it real. 
 
xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 It has a combination of plot and characters, — the nature 
 / of the characters making the action, and the action affecting 
 the persons involved. 
 
 Without action of some sort there would, of course, be no 
 story, but the action, — usually built up of two opposing forces, 
 — must be woven into plot, that is, into a combination of 
 events that lead to a definite result, perhaps not known at 
 first by the reader, but known from the beginning by the 
 author. The plot is somewhat simple, for the story is too 
 short to allow of much complexity. The action and the 
 characters are based on some experience, imaginary or 
 otherwise, and are honestly presented. In the best short 
 story there is no pronounced artificiality or posing. 
 
 There is always a certain harmony of content, so that plot 
 and characters work together naturally, every detail strictly 
 in keeping with the nature of the story. 
 
 The best story has an underlying idea, — not necessarily a 
 moral, — a thought or theme, very often concerned with ideals 
 of conduct, that can be expressed in a sentence. 
 
 Closely associated with everything is an indefinable some- 
 thing, that rises from the story somewhat as the odor of 
 sandalwood rises from an oriental box, a sort of fragrance, or 
 charm, a deeply appealing characteristic that we call "at- 
 mosphere.'' 
 
 Some stories may emphasize one point, and others another, 
 — the plot, the characters, the setting, the theme, or the 
 atmosphere. As they vary thus they reveal new lights, colors, 
 and effects. 
 
 Still more do they vary in the charm that comes from apt 
 choice of words, and originality or beauty of phrasing. 
 
 Altogether, the best short story is truly an artistic product. 
 The old violins made in Cremona by Antonius Stradivarius 
 have such perfect harmony of material and form, and were 
 made with such loving skill, that they are vibrant with ten- 
 derly beautiful over-tones. So the best short story is per- 
 fectly harmonious in every part, is made from chosen ma- 
 terial, is put together with sympathetic care, and is rich 
 with the over-tones of love, and laughter, and sorrow. 
 
 / 
 
INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 V 
 
 WHAT SHALL I DO WITH THIS BOOK? 
 
 Here is a book of more than twenty excellent short stories, 
 not one of which was written with the slightest thought that 
 any one would ever wish to study it as part of school work. 
 Every story was written (1) because its author had a story 
 to tell, (2) because he had a definite aim in telling the story, 
 (3) because he felt that by certain methods of form and 
 style he could interest and delight his readers. The magician 
 opens his box, and holds the ring of spectators enthralled. 
 Here is no place for study. One must simply stand in the 
 circle, and look, and wonder, enjoy to his utmost, and applaud 
 the entertainer when he makes his final bow. But the spec- 
 tator is always privileged to look, not only idly but also as 
 sharply as he pleases. So the reader is entitled to notice 
 in every case the three reasons for writing the story. 
 
 The best way, then, to study this book is not to "study" 
 it. It is not a geography, nor a book of rules, nor any kind 
 of book to be memorized. It is a book to be read with an ap- 
 preciative mind and a sympathetic heart. Read the stories 
 one by one in the order in which they are printed. Read 
 with the expectation of having a good time, — that is what 
 every author intended you to have. But keep your eyes 
 open. Make sure you really know the story the author is 
 telling. One way of testing your understanding is to tell 
 the story in a very few words, either orally or in writing, so 
 that some friend, who has not read it, may know the bare 
 story, and know it clearly. If you find yourself confused, or 
 if you lose yourself in details and can not tell the story 
 briefly, you have not found the story the author has to tell. 
 
 A second test is to tell in one sentence, or in one very 
 short paragraph, exactly what purpose the writer had in 
 telling the story. This will be more difficult but it will need 
 little thought if you really have understood and appreciated 
 the story. Do not make the mistake of thinking that a pur- 
 pose must be a moral. A man who makes a chair, a clown in 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 a circus, an artist, a violinist, a boy playing a game, — all have 
 purposes in what they do, but the purpose is not primarily 
 moral. If you are puzzled in finding the purpose of the 
 story you should look the story over until its purpose flashes 
 upon 3^ou. 
 
 Thirdly, you should see if you can put into four or five 
 unconnected sentences, either oral or written, the methods 
 of form and style by which the author has interested you, and 
 pleased you. These methods will include means of awaken- 
 ing interest, means of presenting the action, preparation for 
 the climax, way of telling the climax, and way of ending 
 the story. They will also include choice of words, use of lan- 
 guage effects, and the means of producing atmosphere in the 
 story. 
 
 If it happens that there are words that are not familiar, look 
 them up in the dictionary. You can not hope to understand 
 a story until you understand its language. 
 
 A good way to test your appreciation of story telling as an 
 art, — and to help you to appreciate even more keenly, — is to 
 write short stories of your own. Try, in every case, to imi- 
 tate some method employed in a particular story by a well- 
 known author. Do not imitate too much. Be original. 
 Be yourself. If some of our best short story writers had done 
 nothing but imitate they would never have succeeded. Make 
 your short stories different from those by anyone else in 
 your class. Write your story in such a way that no one will 
 draw pictures, or look out of the window, or whisper to his 
 neighbor, when it comes your turn to read. There are three 
 ways to bring that about : 
 
 1. Write about something that you, and your class, know 
 about, and like to hear about. 
 
 2. Think of a good, emphatic, or surprising climax, and 
 then make a plot that will lead to the climax with ab- 
 solute certainty. 
 
 3. Tell your story in a way that will be different from the 
 way employed by any of your classmates. 
 
INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 In general, the stories in this book are to be read and en- 
 joyed, worked over, and talked about, in a simple manner, as 
 one might discuss stories at a reading club. To treat the 
 stories in any other way would be to make displeasing work 
 out of what should be pure pleasure. 
 
 In the back of the book is a small amount of biographical 
 and explanatory material, such as a friendly teacher might 
 tell to his class. There are also a few questions that will 
 help you to appreciate and enjoy the best effects in every 
 story. The notes have been given merely for reference, as if 
 they were contained in a sort of handy encyclopedia. They 
 are not for hard, systematic study. 
 
 A class studying this book should forget that it is a class 
 in school, and resolve itself into a reading club, whose object, 
 — written in its constitution, in capital letters, — is pure en- 
 joyment of all that is best in short stories, and in short story 
 telling. 
 
 VI 
 
 WHERE TO FIND SOME GOOD SHORT STORIES 
 
 Baldwin, Charles Sears . . . American Short Stories 
 
 Cody, Sherwin The World's Best Short Stories 
 
 Dawson, W. J. and C. W.. .Great English Short Story Writers 
 Esenwein, Joseph Berg... Short Story Masterpieces 
 
 Firkins, I. T. E Index to Short Stories 
 
 Hawthorne, Julian Library of the World 's Best Mys- 
 tery and Detective Stories 
 
 Jessup, Alexander Little French Masterpieces 
 
 Jessup, A. and Canby, 
 
 H. S The Book of the Short Story 
 
 Matthews, Brander The Short Story 
 
 Patten, William Great Short Stories 
 
 Patten, William Short Story Classics 
 
 Charles Scribner's Sons .. Stories by American Authors 
 Charles Scribner's Sons. .Stories by English Authors 
 Charles Scribner 's Sons . . Stories by Foreign Authors 
 
x^/i INTRODUCTION 
 
 VII 
 
 SOME INTERESTING SHORT STORIES 
 
 R. H. Davis: The Bar Sinister; Washington Irving: The 
 Rose of the Alhambra ; The Legend of Sleepy Hollow ; Rip Van 
 Winkle; The Three Beautiful Princesses; Rudyard Kipling: 
 Garm, A Hostage; The Arabian Nights: Aladdin; Ali Baba; 
 Annie Trumbull Slosson: Butterneggs; Ruth McEnery 
 Stuart : Sonny 's Diploma ; Frederick Remington : How Order 
 No. 6 Went Through; Mark Twain: The Jumping Frog; 
 Henry Van Dyke : The First Christmas Tree. 
 
 H. C. Andersen: The Ugly Duckling; Grimm Brothers: Lit- 
 tle Briar Rose ; Rudyard Kipling : Mowgli 's Brothers ; Toomai 
 of the Elephants; Her Majesty's Servants; -^sop : The Coun- 
 try Mouse and the City Mouse; Joel Chandler Harris: The 
 Wonderful Tar Baby Story; How Black Snake Caught the 
 Wolf; Brother Mud Turtle's Trickery; A French Tar Baby; 
 George Ade : The Preacher Who Flew His Kite. 
 
 Henry Van Dyke: The Other Wise Man; Nathaniel Haw- 
 thorne: Rapaccini's Daughter; David Swan; The Snow 
 Image; The Great Stone Face; Lady Eleanor's Mantle; The 
 Minister's Black Veil; The Birth Mark; E. A. Poe: William 
 Wilson; Rudyard Kipling: The Ship that Found Herself; 
 Henry James : The Madonna of the Future ; R. L. Stevenson : 
 Will o' the Mill ; Joseph Addison : The Vision of Mirza. 
 
 Howard Pyle: The Ruby of Kishmore; Rudyard Kipling: 
 The Man Who Would Be King; Drums of the Fore and Aft; 
 Tiger, Tiger; Kaa's Hunting; R. H. Davis: Gallegher; Van 
 Bibber's Burglar; R. L. Stevenson: The Sire de Maletroit's 
 Door; Joseph Conrad: Youth; E. A. Poe: The Pit and the 
 Pendulum; F. R. Stockton: My Terminal Moraine; Jesse 
 Lynch Williams: The Stolen Story. 
 
 Henry Van Dyke: Messengers at the Window; M. R. S. 
 Andrews: A Messenger; Bulwer Lytton : The Haunted and 
 the Haunters; Fitz James O'Brien; The Diamond Lens; What 
 Was It?; M. E. Wilkins Freeman: Shadows on the Wall; 
 R. W. Chambers: The Tree of Heaven; Marion Crawford: 
 
INTRODUCTION xvii 
 
 The Upper Berth; H. W. Jacobs: The Monkey's Paw; Rud- 
 yard Kipling: At the End of the Passage; The Brushwood 
 Boy ; They ; Prosper Merimee : The Venus of llle. 
 
 E. A. Poe: The Gold Bug; The Purloined Letter; Conan 
 Doyle: The Dancing Men; the Speckled Band; Henry Van 
 Dyke : The Night Call ; Fitz James 'Brien : The Golden Ingot ; 
 Anton Chekhoff: The Safety Match; R. L. Stevenson: The 
 Pavillion on the Links; Egerton Castle: The Baron's Quarry; 
 Wilkie Collins: The Dream Woman; Rudyard Kipling: The 
 Sending of Dana Da. 
 
 G. B. McCutcheon: The Day of the Dog; H. C. Bunner: The 
 Love Letters of Smith; A Sisterly Scheme; 0. Henry: The 
 Ransom of Red Chief; While the Auto Waits; Samuel Min- 
 turn Peck: The Trouble at St. James; T. B. Aldrich: Goliath; 
 R. M. S. Andrews: A Good Samaritan; The Grandfathers of 
 Bob; E. P. Butler: Pigs is Pigs; Josephine Dodge Daskam: 
 Edgar, the Choir Boy Uncelestial ; T. A. Janvier : The Passing 
 of Thomas; Myra Kelly: A Christmas Present for a Lady; 
 Ruth McEnery Stuart: The Woman's Exchange of Simpkins- 
 ville. 
 
 P. Hopkinson Smith : The Veiled Lady of Stamboul ; Stuart 
 Edward Wliite : The Life of the Winds of Heaven ; T. B. 
 Aldrich: Pere Antoine's Date Palm; Booth Tarkington: Mon- 
 sieur Beaucaire ; R. H. Davis : The Princess Aline ; Alice 
 Brown: A IMap of the Country; M. R. S. Andrews: The 
 Bishop's Silence; Honore de Balzac: A Passion in the Desert; 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne: The White Old Maid. 
 
 Irvin Cobb : Up Clay Street ; M. E. Wilkins Freeman : The 
 Revolt of Mother ; A Humble Romance ; Prosper Merimee : 
 Mateo Falcone; Alphonse Daudet: The Last Class; G. W. 
 Cable: Belles Demoiselles Plantation; Bret Harte: The Luck 
 of Roaring Camp ; Ruth McEnery Stuart : The Widder John- 
 sing; Owen Wister: Specimen Jones; T. A. Janvier: The Sage 
 Brush Hen. 
 
 T. B. Aldrich: Marjory Daw; Mademoiselle Olimpe Za- 
 briskie; Miss :\Iehetabel's Son; 0. Henry: The Gift of the 
 Magi; The Cop and the Anthem; The Whirligig of Life; 
 Guy de Maupassant: The Diamond Necklace; F. R. Stock- 
 
xviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 ton: The Lady or the Tiger; John Fox, Jr.: The Purple 
 Ehododendron ; R. W. Chambers : A Young Man in a Hurry ; 
 E. A. Poe: Three Sundays in a Week; Ambrose Bierce: The 
 Man and the Snake; FitzJames O'Brien: The Bohemian; 
 Frank Norris : A Deal in Wheat. 
 
 Mark Twain: A Dog's Tale; W. D. Howell's: Editha; E. 
 T. Seton: The Biography of a Grizzly; Brander Matthews: 
 The Story of a Story; Bjornstjerne Bjornson: The Father; 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne: The Ambitious Guest; Jacob A. Riis: 
 The Burgomaster's Christmas; Charles Dickens: A Christ- 
 mas Carol; Henry Van Dyke: The Mansion; E. E. Hale: The 
 Man Without a Country. 
 
 M. R. S. Andrews: The Perfect Tribute; Frangois Coppee: 
 The Substitute; J. B. Connolly: Sonny Boy's People; S. 0. 
 Jewett: The Queen's Twin; James Lane Allen: King Solomon 
 of Kentucky; Bret Harte: Tennessee's Partner; Jack London: 
 The God of His Fathers ; John Galsworthy : Quality. 
 
 Thomas Nelson Page : Marse Chan ; Meh Lady ; R. L. Steven- 
 son: The Merry Men; E. A. Poe: The Masque of the Red 
 Death; The Fall of the House of Usher; Irvin Cobb: White 
 and Black; F. J. Stimson: Mrs. Knollys; John Fox, Jr.: 
 Christmas Eve on Lonesome; H. G. Dwight: In the Pasha's 
 Garden; Honore de Balzac: An Episode Under the Terror; 
 Jack London: Thanksgiving on Slav Creek; Charles Lamb: 
 Dream Children; H. C. Brunner: Our Aromatic Uncle. 
 
 Bret Harte: The Outcasts of Poker Flat; R. L. Stevenson: 
 Markheim; Guy de Maupassant: A Piece of String; A 
 Coward; E. A. Poe: The Cask of Amontillado; Edith Whar- 
 ton : The Bolted Door ; A Journey ; Henry Van Dyke : A Lover 
 of Music; S. R. Crockett: Elsie's Dance for Her Life; Jack 
 London : The White Silence. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 VIII 
 
 WHAT TO READ ABOUT THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Albright, Evelyn May The Short Story, its Principles and 
 
 Structure 
 
 Barrett, Charles R Short Story Writing 
 
 Buck, Gertrude, and Mor- 
 ris, Elizabeth Wood- 
 bridge A Course in Narrative Writing 
 
 Canby, Henry Seidel The Short Story in English 
 
 Cody, Sherwin Story Writing and Journalism 
 
 Dye, Charity The Story Teller's Art 
 
 Esenwein, Joseph Berg. ..Writing the Short Story 
 
 Hamilton, Clayton Materials and Methods of Fiction 
 
 Matthews, Brander The Philosophy of the Short Story 
 
 Perry, Bliss A Study of Prose Fiction 
 
 Pitkin, Walter B Short Story Writing 
 
 Wells, Carolyn The Technique of the Mysterv 
 
 Story 
 
MODERN SHORT STORIES 
 
', ■> » 
 
 THE 
 MODERN SHORT STORY 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON AND SUSANNA ^ 
 By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 a 
 
 I GOT one tale on my minV* said Uncle Remus to the ; 
 
 little boy one night. *'I got one tale on my min' dat I ain't ; 
 
 ne 'er tell you ; I dunner how come ; I speck it des kaze I git i 
 
 mixt up in my idees. Deze is busy times, mon, en de mo' you '\ 
 
 does de mo' you hatter do, en w'en dat de case, it ain't ter be i 
 
 'spected dat one ole broke-down nigger kin 'member 'bout ! 
 eve 'ything. ' ' 
 
 ''What is the story, Uncle Remus?" the little boy asked. 
 
 ''Well, honey," said the old man, wiping his spectacles, j 
 
 "hit sorter run dis away: One time dey wuz a man w'at ^ 
 
 had a mighty likely daughter." i 
 
 "Was he a white man or a black man?" the little boy I 
 
 asked. ' 
 
 "I 'clar' ter gracious, honey!" exclaimed the old man, 
 
 "you er pushin' me mos' too close. Fer all I kin tell you, de i 
 
 man mout er bin ez w 'ite ez de driven snow, er he mout er bin j 
 
 de blackes' Affi'kin er de whole kit en bilin'. I 'm des tellin' ' 
 you de tale, en you kin take en take de man en whitewash 'im, 
 or you kin black 'im up des ez you please. Dat 's de way I 
 
 looks at it. I 
 
 1 It may be of interest to those who approach Folk-Lore stories from 
 the scientific side, to know that this story was told to one of my little 
 boys three years ago by a negro named John Holder. I have since 
 found a variant (or perhaps the original) in Tlieal's "Kaffir Folk-Lore." 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris, 1889, ; 
 
 3 ! 
 
4 TEh] AI'VENTLFRES of SIMON AND SUSANNA 
 
 *'Well, one time dey wuz a man, en dish yer man he had 
 a mighty likely daughter. She wuz so purty dat she had 
 mo' beaus dan w'at you got fingers en toes. But de gal daddy, 
 he got his spishuns 'bout all un um, en he won 't let um come 
 'roun' de house. But dey kep' on pesterin' 'im so, dat bimeby 
 he give word out dat de man w'at kin clear up six acres er 
 Ian' en roll up de logs, en pile up de bresh in one day, dat man 
 kin marry his daughter. 
 
 "In co'se, dis look like it unpossible, en all de beaus drap 
 off 'ceppin' one, en he wuz a great big strappin' chap w'at 
 look like he kin knock a steer down. Dis chap he wuz name 
 Simon, en de gal, she wuz name Susanna. Simon, he love 
 Susanna, en Susanna, she love Simon, en dar it went. 
 
 "Well, sir, Simon, he went ter de gal daddy, he did, en he 
 say dat ef anybody kin clear up dat Ian', he de one kin do it, 
 least 'ways he say he gwine try mighty hard. De ole man, 
 he grin en rub his ban's terge'er, he did, en tole Simon ter 
 start in in de mornin '. Susanna, she makes out she wuz fixin ' 
 sumpin in de cubberd, but she tuck 'n kiss 'er han' at Simon, 
 en nod 'er head. Dis all Simon want, en he went out er dar 
 des ez happy ez a jay-bird atter he done robbed a sparrer-nes'. 
 
 ' * Now, den, ' ' Uncle Remus continued, settling himself more 
 comfortably in his chair, "dish yer man wuz a witch." 
 
 "Why, I thought a witch was a woman," said the little 
 boy. 
 
 The old man frowned and looked into the fire. 
 
 "Well, sir," he remarked with some emphasis, "ef you er 
 gwine ter tu'n de man into a 'oman, den dey won't be no tale, 
 kaze dey 's bleege ter be a man right dar whar I put dis un. 
 Hit 's des like I tole you 'bout de color er de man. Black 'im 
 er whitewash 'im des ez you please, en ef you want ter put a 
 frock on 'im ter boot, hit ain 't none er my business ; but I 'm 
 gwine ter 'low he wuz a man ef it 's de las' ac'." 
 
 The little boy remained silent, and Uncle Remus went on : 
 
 "Now, den, dish yer man was a witch. He could cunjer 
 folks, mo' 'speshually dem folks w'at ain't got no rabbit foot. 
 He bin at his cunjerments so long, dat Susanna done learn 
 mos' all his tricks. So de nex' mornin' w'en Simon come by 
 
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 5 
 
 de house fer ter borry de ax, Susanna she run en got it fer 
 'im. She got it, she did, en den she sprinkles some black san ' 
 on it, en say, 'Ax, cut; cut, ax.' Den she rub 'er ha'r 'cross 
 it, en give it ter Simon. He tuck de ax, he did, en den 
 Susanna say: 
 
 " ' Go down by de branch, git sev 'n w 'ite pebbles, put um in 
 dis little cloth bag, en whenever you want the ax ter cut, 
 shake um up.' 
 
 ' ' Simon, he went off in de woods, en started in ter clearin ' 
 up de six acres. Well, sir, dem pebbles en dat ax, dey done 
 de work — dey did dat. Simon could 'a' bin done by de time 
 de dinner-horn blowed, but he hung back kaze he ain't want 
 de man fer ter know dat he doin' it by cunjerments. 
 
 "Wen he shuck de pebbles de ax 'ud cut, en de trees 'ud 
 fall, en de lim's 'ud drap off, en de logs 'ud roll up terge'er, 
 en de bresh 'ud pile itself up. Hit went on dis away twel 
 by de time it wuz two hours b' sun, de whole six acres wuz 
 done cleaned up. 
 
 ** 'Bout dat time de man come 'roun', he did, fer ter see 
 how de work gittin' on, en, mon! he wuz 'stonish'. He ain't 
 know w'at ter do er say. He ain't want ter give up his daugh- 
 ter, en yit he ain't know how ter git out 'n it. He walk 'roun' 
 en 'roun', en study, en study, en study how he gwine rue de 
 bargain. At las' he walk up ter Simon, he did, en he say: 
 
 ' ' ' Look like you sort er forehanded wid your work. ' 
 
 "Simon, he 'low: 'Yasser, w'en I starts in on a job I 'm 
 mighty restless twel I gits it done. Some er dis timber is 
 rough en tough, but I bin had wuss jobs dan dis in my time.' 
 
 ' ' De man say ter hisse 'f : ' W 'at kind er folks is dis chap ? ' 
 Den he say out loud: 'Well, sence you er so spry, dey 's two 
 mo' acres 'cross de branch dar. Ef you '11 clear dem up 'fo' 
 supper you kin come up ter de house en git de gal. ' 
 
 "Simon sorter scratch his head, kaze he dunner whedder 
 de pebbles gwine ter hoi' out, yit he put on a bol' front en he 
 tell de man dat he '11 go 'cross dar en clean up de two acres 
 soon ez he res' a little. 
 
 "De man he went off home, en soon 's he git out er sight, 
 Simon went 'cross de branch en shook de pebbles at de two 
 
ii ( 
 
 6 THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON AND SUSANNA 
 
 acres er woods, en 't want no time skacely 'f o ' de trees wuz all 
 cut down en pile up. 
 
 De man, he went home, he did, en call up Susanna, en say : 
 Daughter, dat man look like he gwine git you, sho'.' 
 ** Susanna, she hang 'er head, en look like she fretted, en 
 den she say she don 't keer nuthin ' f er Simon, nohow. ' ' 
 
 < ' Why, I thought she wanted to marry him, ' ' said the little 
 
 boy. 
 
 ''Well, honey, w'en you git growed up, en git whiskers on 
 yo' chin, en den atter de whiskers git gray like mine, you '11 
 fin' out sump'n 'n'er 'bout de wimmin folks. Dey ain't ne'er 
 say 'zackly w'at dey mean, none er um, mo' 'speshually w'en 
 dey er gwine on 'bout gittin' married. 
 
 ''Now, dar wuz dat gal Susanna what I 'm a-tellin' you 
 'bout. She mighty nigh 'stracted 'bout Simon, en yit she 
 make 'er daddy b'lieve dat she 'spize 'im. I ain't blamin' 
 Susanna," Uncle Remus went on with a judicial air, "kase she 
 know dat 'er daddy wuz a witch en a mighty mean one in de 
 bargain. 
 
 "Well, atter Susanna done make 'er daddy b'lieve dat she 
 ain't keerin' nothin' 't all 'bout Simon, he 'gun ter set his 
 traps en fix his tricks. He up 'n tell Susanna dat atter 'er en 
 Simon git married dey mus' go upsta'rs in de front room, en 
 den he tell 'er dat she mus' make Simon go ter bed fus'. Den 
 de^^man went upsta'rs en tuck 'n tuck all de slats out'n de bed- 
 stid ceppin one at de head en one at de foot. Atter dat he 
 tuck 'n put some foot-valances 'roun' de bottom er de bed — 
 des like dem w'at you bin see on yo' gran 'ma bed. Den he 
 tuck 'n sawed out de floor und' de bed, en dar wuz de trap all 
 ready. 
 
 "Well, sir, Simon come up ter de house, en de man make like 
 he mighty glad fer ter see 'im, but Susanna, she look like she 
 mighty shy. No matter 'bout dat ; atter supper Simon en 
 Susanna got married. Hit ain't in de tale wedder dey sont 
 fer a preacher er wedder dey wuz a squire browsin' 'roun' in 
 de neighborhoods, but dey had cake wid reezins in it, en some 
 er dish yer silly-bug w'at got mo' foam in it dan dey is dram, 
 en dey had a mighty happy time. 
 
1 3 
 
 5 •> 1 15 1 
 
 1 •> , ' 
 
 D J ■> 5 J 1 1 1 1 1 , , , 
 
 
 Simon shakes the pebbles 
 
f f c t 
 
 f (. a r c c c 
 
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 7 
 
 ''Wen bedtime come, Simon en Susanna went upsta'rs, 
 en w'en dey got in de room, Susanna kotch 'im by de ban', en 
 belt up ber finger. Den sbe wbisper en tell 'im dat ef dey 
 don 't run away f um dar dey bof e gwine ter be kilt. Simon ax 
 'er how come, en sbe say dat 'er daddy want ter kill 'im kase 
 be secb a nice man. Dis make Simon grin ; yit be wuz sorter 
 restless 'bout gittin' 'way fum dar. But Susanna, sbe say 
 wait. Sbe say: 
 
 "■ *Pick up yo' bat en button up yo' coat. Now, den, take 
 dat stick er wood dar en bol ' it 'bove yo ' bead. ' 
 
 ''Wiles be stan'in' dar, Susanna got a ben Qgg out 'n a 
 basket, den sbe got a meal-bag, en a skillet. Sbe 'low : 
 
 " 'Now, den, drap de wood on de bed.' 
 
 *' Simon done des like sbe say, en time de wood struck de 
 bed de tick en de mattruss went a-tumblin ' tboo de floor. Den 
 Susanna tuck Simon by de ban ' en dey run out de back way ez 
 hard ez dey kin go. 
 
 "De man, be wuz down dar waitin' fer de bed ter drap. 
 He bad a big long knife in be ban', en time de bed drapped, 
 he lit on it, be did, en stobbed it scan 'lous. He des natcbuUy 
 ripped de tick up, en w'en be look, bless gracious, dey ain't 
 no Simon dar. I lay dat man wuz mad den. He snorted 
 'roun' dar twel blue smoke come out'n bis nose, en his eye 
 look red like varmint eye in de dark. Den be run upsta'rs 
 en dey ain't no Simon dar, en nudder wuz dey any Susanna. 
 
 "Gentermens! den be git madder. He rush out, be did, 
 en look 'roun', en 'way off yander be see Simon en Susanna 
 des a-runnin', en a-boldin' one nudder 's ban'." 
 
 "Why, Uncle Remus," said the little boy, "I thought 
 you said it was night?" 
 
 "Dat w'at I said, honey, en I '11 stan' by it. Yit, bow 
 many times dis blessed night is I got ter tell you dat de man 
 wuz a witch? En bein' a witch, co'se be kin see in de dark. 
 
 "Well, dish yer witch-man, he look off en he see Simon 
 en Susanna runnin' ez hard ez dey kin. He put out atter 
 um, be did, wid his knife in his ban', an' be kep' on a gainin' 
 on um. Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna say ter Simon : 
 Fling down yo' coat«' 
 
 Hi 
 
8 THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON AND SUSANNA 
 
 ii\ 
 
 Time de coat tech de groun*, a big thick woods sprung 
 up whar it fell. But de man, he cut his way thoo it wid de 
 knife, en kep' on a-pursuin' atter um. 
 
 "Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna drap de egg on de 
 groun', en time it fell a big fog riz up fum de groun', en a 
 little mo' en de man would a got los'. But atter so long a 
 time fog got blowed away by de win', en de man kep' on 
 a-pursuin' atter um. 
 
 "Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna drap de meal-sack, 
 en a great big pon' er water kivered de groun' whar it fell. 
 De man wuz in sech a big hurry dat he tried ter drink it dry, 
 but he ain't kin do dis, so he sot on de bank en blow'd on 
 de water wid he hot breff, en atter so long a time de water 
 made hits disappearance, en den he kep' on atter um. 
 
 ''Simon en Susanna wuz des a-runnin', but run ez dey 
 would, de man kep' a-gainin' on um, en he got so close dat 
 Susanna drapped de skillet. Den a big bank er darkness fell 
 down, en de man ain't know which away ter go. But atter 
 so long a time de darkness lif up, en de man kep' on a-pur- 
 suin' atter um. Mon, he made up fer los' time, en he got 
 so close dat Susanna say ter Simon : 
 Drap a pebble.' 
 Time Simon do dis a high hill riz up, but de man clum 
 it en kep ' on atter um. Den Susanna say ter Simon : 
 Drap nudder pebble.' 
 Time Simon drap de pebble, a high mountain growed 
 up, but de man crawled up it en kep' on atter um. Den 
 Susanna say: 
 
 Drap de bigges' pebble.' 
 No sooner is he drap it dan a big rock wall riz up, en hit 
 wuz so high dat de witch -man can't git over. He run up en 
 down, but he can 't find no end, en den, atter so long a time, he 
 turn 'roun' en go home. 
 
 *'0n de yuther side er dis high wall, Susanna tuck Simon 
 by de han', en say: 
 
 *' 'Now we kin res'.' 
 
 *'En I reckon," said the old man slyly, "dat we all better 
 
 6i I 
 
 er 
 
 
 res'." 
 
THE CROW-CHILD 
 
 By MARY MAPES DODGE 
 
 Midway between a certain blue lake and a deep forest 
 there once stood a cottage, called by its owner "The Rook- 
 ery." 
 
 The forest shut out the sunlight and scowled upon the 
 ground, breaking with shadows every ray that fell, until only 
 a few little pieces lay scattered about. But the broad lake 
 invited all the rays to come and rest upon her, so that some- 
 times she shone from shore to shore, and the sun winked and 
 blinked above her, as though dazzled by his own reflection. 
 The cottage, which was very small, had sunny windows and 
 dark windows. Only from the roof could you see the moun- 
 tains beyond, where the light crept up in the morning and 
 down in the evening, turning all the brooks into living silver 
 as it passed. 
 
 But something brighter than sunshine used often to look 
 from the cottage into the forest, and something even more 
 gloomy than shadows often glowered from its windows upon 
 the sunny lake. One was the face of little Ruky Lynn ; and 
 the other was his sister's when she felt angry or ill-tem- 
 pered. 
 
 They were orphans, Cora and Ruky, living alone in the 
 cottage with an old uncle. Cora — or "Cor," as Ruky called 
 her — was nearly sixteen years old, but her brother had seen 
 the forest turn yellow only four times. She was, therefore, 
 almost mother and sister in one. The little fellow was her 
 companion night and day. Together they ate and slept, and 
 — when Cora was not at work in the cottage — together they 
 rambled in the wood, or floated in their little skiff upon the 
 lake. 
 
 Ruky had bright, dark eyes, and the glossy blackness of 
 
 9 
 
10 THE CROW-CHILD 
 
 his hair made his cheeks look even rosier than they were. 
 He had funny ways for a boy, Cora thought. The quick, 
 bird-like jerks of his raven-black head, his stately baby gait, 
 and his habit of pecking at his food, as she called it, often made 
 his sister laugh. Young as he was, the little fellow had 
 learned to mount to the top of a low-branching tree near the 
 cottage, though he could not always get down alone. Some- 
 times when, perched in the thick foliage, he would scream, 
 '*Cor! Cor! Come, help me down!" his sister would an- 
 swer, as she ran out laughing, ''Yes, little Crow! I 'm com- 
 ing." 
 
 Perhaps it was because he reminded her of a crow that 
 Cora called him her little bird. This was when she was 
 good-natured and willing to let him see how much she loved 
 him. But in her cloudy moments, as the uncle called them, 
 Cora was another girl. Everything seemed ugly to her, or 
 out of tune. Even Ruky was a trial; and, instead of giving 
 him a kind word, she would scold and grumble until he 
 would steal from the cottage door, and, jumping lightly from 
 the door-step, seek the shelter of his tree. Once safely perched 
 among its branches he knew she would finish her work, for- 
 get her ill-humor, and be quite ready, when he cried "Cor! 
 Cor!" to come from the cottage with a cheery, "Yes, little 
 Crow ! I 'm coming ! I 'm coming ! ' ' 
 
 No one could help loving Ruky, with his quick, affection- 
 ate ways; and it seemed that Ruky, in turn, could not help 
 loving every person and thing around him. He loved his 
 silent old uncle, the bright lake, the cool forest, and even 
 his little china cup with red berries painted upon it. But 
 more than all, Ruky loved his golden-haired sister, and the 
 great dog, who would plunge into the lake at the mere point- 
 ing of his chubby little finger. In fact, that finger and the 
 commanding baby voice were "law" to Nep at any time. 
 
 Nep and Ruky often talked together, and though one 
 used barks and the other words, there was a perfect under- 
 standing between them. Woe to the straggler that dared 
 to rouse Nep 's wrath, and woe to the bird or rabbit that ven- 
 tured too near ! — those great teeth snapped at their prey 
 
MARY MAPES DODGE 11 
 
 without even the warning of a growl. But Ruky could 
 safely pull Nep's ears or his tail, or climb his great shaggy 
 back, or even snatch away the untasted bone. Still, as I 
 said before, every one loved the child; so, of course, Nep 
 was no exception. 
 
 One day Ruky's "Cor! Cor!" had sounded oftener than 
 usual. His rosy face had bent saucily to kiss Cora's up- 
 turned forehead, as she raised her arms to lift him from the 
 tree; but the sparkle in his dark eyes had seemed to kindle 
 so much mischief in him that his sister's patience became 
 fairly exhausted. 
 
 "Has Cor nothing to do but to wait upon youf she cried, 
 "and nothing to listen to but your noise and your racket? 
 You shall go to bed early to-day, and then I shall have 
 some peace." 
 
 "No, no, Cor. Please let Rukj^ wait till the stars come. 
 Ruky wants to see the stars." 
 
 "Hush! Ruky is bad. He shall have a whipping when 
 Uncle comes back from town." 
 
 Nep growled. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" laughed Ruky, jerking his head saucily from 
 side to side; "Nep says 'No!' " 
 
 Nep was shut out of the cottage for his pains, and poor 
 Ruky was undressed, with many a hasty jerk and pull. 
 
 "You hurt. Cor!" he said, plaintively. "I 'm going to 
 take off my shoes my own self. ' ' 
 
 "No, you 're not," cried Cora, almost shaking him; and 
 when he cried she called him naughty, and said if he did 
 not stop he should have no supper. This made him cry all 
 the more, and Cora, feeling in her angry mood that he 
 deserved severe punishment, threw away his supper and 
 put him to bed. Then all that could be heard were Ruky's 
 low sobs and the snappish clicks of Cora's needles, as she 
 sat knitting, with her back to him. 
 
 He could not sleep, for his eyelids were scalded with tears, 
 and his plaintive "Cor! Cor!" had reached his sister's ears in 
 vain. She never once looked up from those gleaming knitting- 
 needles, nor even gave him his good-night kiss. 
 
12 THE CROW-CHILD 
 
 It grew late. The uncle did not return. At last Cora, 
 sulky and weary, locked the cottage door, blew out her 
 candle, and lay down beside her brother. 
 
 The poor little fellow tried to win a forgiving word, but 
 she was too ill-natured to grant it. In vain he whispered, 
 ''Cor, Cor!" He even touched her hand over and over 
 again with his lips, hoping she would turn toward him, and, 
 with a loving kiss, murmur, as usual, ''Good night, little 
 bird. ' ' 
 
 Instead of this, she jerked her arm angrily away, saying: 
 
 ' ' Oh, stop your pecking and go to sleep ! I wish you 
 were a crow in earnest, and then I 'd have some peace." 
 
 After this, Ruky was silent. His heart drooped within 
 him as he wondered what this "peace" was that his sister 
 wished for so often, and why he must go away before it 
 could come to her. 
 
 Soon, Cora, who had rejoiced in the sudden calm, heard 
 a strange fluttering. In an instant she saw by the starlight 
 a dark object circle once or twice in the air above her, then 
 dart suddenly through the open window. 
 
 Astonished that Ruky had not shouted with delight at the 
 strange visitor, or else clung to her neck in fear, she turned 
 to see if he had fallen asleep. 
 
 No wonder that she started up, horror-stricken, — Ruky 
 was not there ! 
 
 His empty place was still warm; perhaps he had slid 
 softly from the bed. With trembling haste she lighted the 
 candle, and peered into every corner. The boy was not to 
 be found ! 
 
 Then those fearful words rang in her ears: 
 
 "7 wish you were a crow in earnest!^' 
 
 Cora rushed to the door, and, with straining gaze, looked 
 out into the still night. 
 
 "Ruky! Ruky!" she screamed. 
 
 There was a slight stir in the low-growing tree. 
 
 "Ruky, darling, come back!" 
 
 "Caw, caw!" answered a harsh voice from the tree. Some- 
 thing black seemed to spin out of it, and then, in great sweep- 
 
MARY MAPES DODGE 13 
 
 ing circles, sailed upward, until finally it settled upon one 
 of the loftiest trees in the forest. 
 
 *'Caw, caw!" it screamed, fiercely. 
 
 The girl shuddered, but, with outstretched arms, cried out: 
 
 *'0h, Ruky, if it is yoUy come back to poor Cor.^" 
 
 ' ' Caw, caw ! ' ' mocked hundreds of voices, as a shadow like 
 a thunder-cloud rose in the air. It was an immense flock 
 of crows. She could distinguish them plainly in the star- 
 light, circling higher and higher, then lower and lower, un- 
 til, with their harsh ''Caw, caw!" they sailed far off into 
 the night. 
 
 ' ' Oh, Ruky, answer me ! " she cried. 
 
 Nep growled, the forest trees whispered softly together, 
 and the lake, twinkling with stars, sang a lullaby as it lifted 
 its weary little waves upon the shore: there was no other 
 sound. 
 
 It seemed that daylight never would come; but at last the 
 trees turned slowly from black to green, and the lake put out 
 its stars, one by one, and waited for the new day. 
 
 Cora, who had been wandering restlessly in every direc- 
 tion, now went weeping into the cottage. "Poor boy!" she 
 sobbed; "he had no supper." Then she scattered bread- 
 crumbs near the doorway, hoping that Ruky would come for 
 them; but only a few timid little songsters hovered about, 
 and, while Cora wept, picked up the food daintily, as though 
 it burned their bills. When she reached forth her hand, 
 though there were no crows among them, and called ' ' Ruky ! 
 Ruky!" they scattered and flew away in an instant. 
 
 Next she went to the steep-roofed barn, and, bringing out 
 an apronful of grain, scattered it all around his favorite tree. 
 Before long, to her great joy, a flock of crows came by. They 
 spied the grain, and soon were busily picking it up with 
 their short, feathered bills. One even came near the mound 
 where she sat. Unable to restrain herself longer, she fell upon 
 her knees with an imploring cry: 
 
 "Oh, Ruky! is this you?" 
 
 Instantly the entire flock set up an angry "caw," and, 
 surrounding the crow, who was hopping closer and closer to 
 
14 THE CROW-CHILD 
 
 Cora, hurried him off, until they all looked like mere specks 
 against the summer sky. 
 
 Every day, rain or shine, she scattered the grain, trembling 
 with dread lest Nep should leap among the hungry crows, 
 and perhaps kill her 'kittle bird" first. But Nep knew 
 better; he never stirred when the noisy crowd settled around 
 the cottage, excepting once, when one of them pounced upon 
 his back. Then he started up, wagging his tail, and barking 
 with uproarious delight. The crow flew off in a flutter, and 
 did not venture near him again. 
 
 Poor Cora felt sure that this could be no other than Ruky. 
 Oh, if she only could have caught him then! Perhaps with 
 kisses and prayers she might have won him back to Ruky's 
 shape ; but now the chance was lost. 
 
 There was no one to help her ; for the nearest neighbor dwelt 
 miles away, and her uncle had not yet returned. 
 
 After awhile she remembered the little cup, and, filling 
 it with grain, stood it upon a grassy mound. When the 
 crows came, they fought and struggled for its contents with 
 many an angry cry. One of them made no effort to seize the 
 grain. He was content to peck at the berries painted upon 
 its sides, as he hopped joyfully around it again and again. 
 Nep lay very quiet. Only the tip of his tail twitched with 
 an eager, wistful motion. But Cora sprang joyfully toward 
 the bird. 
 
 '*It is Ruky!" she cried, striving to catch it. 
 
 Alas! the cup lay shattered beneath her hand, as, with a 
 taunting ''caw, caw," the crow joined its fellows and flew 
 away. 
 
 Next, gunners came. They were looking for other birds; 
 but they hated the crows, Cora knew, and she trembled 
 for Ruky. She heard the sharp crack of fowling-pieces 
 in the forest, and shuddered whenever Nep, pricking up his 
 ears, darted with an angry howl in the direction of the 
 sound. She knew, too, that her uncle had set traps for the 
 crows, and it seemed to her that the whole world was against 
 the poor birds, plotting their destruction. 
 
 Time flew by. The leaves seemed to flash into bright colors 
 
MARY MAPES DODGE 15 
 
 and fall off almost in a day. Frost and snow came. Still the 
 uncle had not returned, or, if he had, she did not know it. 
 Her brain was bewildered. She knew not whether she ate or 
 slept. Only the terrible firing reached her ears, or that living 
 black cloud came and went with its ceaseless "caw." 
 
 At last, during a terrible night of wind and storm, Cora 
 felt that she must go forth and seek her poor bird. 
 
 ''Perhaps he is freezing — dying!" she cried, springing 
 frantically from the bed, and casting her long cloak over her 
 night-dress. 
 
 In a moment, she was trudging barefooted through the 
 snow. It was so deep she could hardly walk, and the sleet 
 was driving into her face ; still she kept on, though her numbed 
 feet seemed hardly to belong to her. All the way she was 
 praying in her heart ; promising never, never to be passionate 
 again, if she only could find her bird — not Ruky the boy, 
 but whatever he might be. She was willing to accept her 
 punishment. Soon a faint cry reached her ear. With eager 
 haste, she peered into every fold of the drifted snow. A black 
 object caught her eye. It was a poor storm-beaten crow, lying 
 there benumbed and stiff. 
 
 For Ruky's sake she folded it closely to her bosom, and 
 plodded back to the cottage. The fire cast a rosy light on 
 its glossy wing as she entered, but the poor thing did not stir. 
 Softly stroking and warming it, she wrapped the frozen bird 
 in soft flannel and blew into its open mouth. Soon, to her 
 great relief, it revived, and even swallowed a few grains of 
 wheat. 
 
 Cold and weary, she cast herself upon the bed, still fold- 
 ing the bird to her heart. ' ' It may be Ruky ! It is all I 
 ask," she sobbed. "I dare not ask for more." 
 
 Suddenly she felt a peculiar stirring. The crow seemed 
 to grow larger. Then, in the dim light, she felt its feathers 
 pressing lightly against her cheek. Next, something soft 
 and warm wound itself tenderly about her n?eck, and she 
 heard a sweet voice saying: 
 
 "Don't cry, Cor,— I 11 be good." 
 
 She started up. It was, indeed, her own darling! The 
 
16 THE CROW-CHILD 
 
 i 
 
 starlight shone into the room. Lighting her candle, she | 
 
 looked at the clock. j 
 
 It was just two hours since she had uttered those cruel ] 
 
 words! Sobbing, she asked: j 
 
 Have I been asleep, Ruky, dear?" \ 
 
 I don't know, Cor. Do people cry when they 're asleep?" i 
 
 Sometimes, Ruky," clasping him very close.   
 
 Then you have been asleep. But Cor, please don't let 
 
 Uncle whip Ruky." i 
 
 **No, no, my little bird — I mean, my brother. Good night, i 
 
 darling!" \ 
 
 *' Good night." ! 
 
 
THE SOUL OF THE GREAT BELL^ 
 
 By LAFCADIO HEARN 
 
 She hath spoken, and her words still resound in his ears. 
 
 Hao-Khieou-Tchouan : c. ix. 
 
 The water-clock marks the hour in the Ta-chung sz\ — in 
 the Tower of the Great Bell : now the mallet is lifted to smite 
 the lips of the metal monster, — the vast lips inscribed with 
 Buddhist texts from the sacred Fa-hwa-King, from the chap- 
 ters of the holy Ling -yen-King! Hear the great bell re- 
 sponding! — how mighty her voice, though tongueless! — 
 KO-NGAI! All the little dragons on the high-tilted eaves 
 of the green roofs shiver to the tips of their gilded tails under 
 that deep wave of sound; all the porcelain gargoyles tremble 
 on their carven perches; all the hundred little bells of the 
 pagodas quiver with desire to speak. KO-NGAI! — all the 
 green-and-gold tiles of the temple are vibrating; the wooden 
 goldfish above them are writhing against the sky ; the uplifted 
 finger of Fo shakes high over the heads of the worshippers 
 through the blue fog of incense! KO-NGAI! — What a thun- 
 der tone was that ! All the lacquered goblins on the palace 
 cornices wriggle their fire-colored tongues ! And after each 
 huge shock, how wondrous the multiple echo and the great 
 golden moan and, at last, the sudden sibilant sobbing in the 
 ears when the immense tone faints away in broken whispers 
 of silver, — as though a woman should whisper, ''Hiai!'* 
 Even so the great bell hath sounded every day for well-nigh 
 five hundred years, — Ko-Ngai: first with stupendous clang, 
 then with immeasurable moan of gold, then with silver mur- 
 muring of '^Eiai!" And there is not a child in all the many- 
 
 1 From Some Chinese Ohosts. Copyright, 1887, by Little, Brown & 
 Company. 
 
 17 
 
18 THE SOUL OF THE GREAT BELL 
 
 colored ways of the old Chinese city who does not know the 
 story of the great bell, — who cannot tell you why the great 
 bell says Ko-Ngai and Hiai! 
 
 Now, this is the story of the great bell in the Ta-chung sz', 
 as the same is related in the Pe-Hiao-Tou-Choue, wiitten by 
 the learned Yu-Pao-Tchen, of the City of Kwang-tchau-fu. 
 
 Nearly five hundred years ago the Celestially August, the 
 Son of Heaven, Yong-Lo, of the "Illustrious," or Ming 
 dynasty, commanded the worthj^ official, Kouan-Yu, that he 
 should have a bell made of such size that the sound thereof 
 might be heard for one hundred li. And he further ordained 
 that the voice of the bell should be strengthened with brass, 
 and deepened with gold, and sweetened with silver; and that 
 the face and the great lips of it should be graven with 
 blessed sayings from the sacred books, and that it should 
 be suspended in the centre of the imperial capital, to sound 
 through all the many-colored ways of the City of Pe-king. 
 
 Therefore the worthy mandarin, Kouan-Yu, assembled the 
 master-moulders and the renowned bellsmiths of the empire, 
 and all men of great repute and cunning in foundry work; 
 and they measured the materials for the alloy, and treated 
 them skilfully, and prepared the moulds, the fires, the instru- 
 ments, and the monstrous melting-pot for fusing the metal. 
 And they labored exceedingly, like giants, — neglecting only 
 rest and sleep and the comforts of life ; toiling both night and 
 day in obedience to Kouan-Yu, and striving in all things to 
 do the behest of the Son of Heaven. 
 
 But when the metal had been cast, and the earthen mould 
 separated from the glovving casting, it was discovered that, 
 despite their great labor and ceaseless care, the result was 
 void of worth ; for the metals had rebelled one against the 
 other, — the gold had scorned alliance with the brass, the silver 
 would not mingle with the molten iron. Therefore the moulds 
 had to be once more prepared, and the fires rekindled, and 
 the metal remelted, and all the work tediously and toilsomely 
 repeated. The Son of Heaven heard, and was angry, but 
 spake nothing. 
 
LAFCADIO HEARN 19 
 
 A second time the bell was cast, and the result was even 
 worse. Still the metals obstinately refused to blend one with 
 the other; and there was no uniformity in the bell, and the 
 sides of it were cracked and fissured, and the lips of it were 
 slagged and split asunder; so that all the labor had to be 
 repeated even a third time, to the great dismay of Kouan-Yu. 
 And when the Son of Heaven heard these things, he was 
 angrier than before ; and sent his messenger to Kouan-Yu with 
 a letter, written upon lemon-colored silk, and sealed with the 
 seal of the Dragon, containing these words: — 
 
 . /'From the Mighty Yong-Lo, the Sublime T ait-Sung, the 
 Celestial and August, — whose reign is called 'Ming/ — to 
 Kouan-Yu the Fuh-yin: Twice thou hast betrayed the trust 
 we have deigned graciously to place in thee; if thou fail a 
 third time in fulfilling our commandy thy head shall he severed 
 from thy neck. Tremble, and obey!'^ 
 
 Now, Kouan-Yu had a daughter of dazzling loveliness, whose 
 name — Ko-Ngai — was ever in the mouths of poets, and whose 
 heart was even more beautiful than her face. Ko-Ngai loved 
 her father with such love that she had refused a hundred 
 worthy suitors rather than make his home desolate by her ab- 
 sence; and when she had seen the awful yellow missive, 
 sealed with the Dragon-Seal, she fainted away with fear 
 for her father's sake. And when her senses and her strength 
 returned to her, she could not rest or sleep for thinking of 
 her parent's danger, until she had secretly sold some of her 
 jewels, and with the money so obtained had hastened to an 
 astrologer, and paid him a great price to advise her by what 
 means her father might be saved from the peril impending 
 over him. So the astrologer made observations of the heavens, 
 and marked the aspect of the Silver Stream (which we call 
 the Milky Way), and examined the signs of the Zodiac, — the 
 Hicang-tao, or Yellow Road, — and consulted the table of the 
 Five Bin, or Principles of the Universe, and the mystical 
 books of the alchemists. And after a long silence, he made 
 answer to her, saying: "Gold and brass will never meet in 
 
20 THE SOUL OF THE GREAT BELL 
 
 wedlock, silver and iron never will embrace, until the flesh 
 of a maiden be melted in the crucible; until the blood of a 
 virgin be mixed with the metals in their fusion." So Ko- 
 Ngai returned home sorrowful at heart ; but she kept secret all 
 that she had heard, and told no one what she had done. 
 
 At last came the awful day when the third and last effort 
 to cast the great bell was to be made; and Ko-Ngai, together 
 with her waiting-woman, accompanied her father to the 
 foundry, and they took their places upon a platform over- 
 looking the toiling of the moulders and the lava of liquefied 
 metal. All the workmen wrought their tasks in silence ; there 
 was no sound heard but the muttering of the fires. And the 
 muttering deepened into a roar like the roar of typhoons ap- 
 proaching, and the blood-red lake of metal slowly brightened 
 like the vermilion of a sunrise, and the vermilion was trans- 
 muted into a radiant glow of gold, and the gold whitened 
 blindingly, like the silver face of a full moon. Then the 
 workers ceased to feed the raving flame, and all fixed their 
 eyes upon the eyes of Kouan-Yu ; and Kouan-Yu prepared to 
 give the signal to cast. 
 
 But ere ever he lifted his finger, a cry caused him to turn his 
 head ; and all heard the voice of Ko-Ngai sounding sharply 
 sweet as a bird's song above the great thunder of the fires, — 
 **For thy sake, O my Father!'^ And even as she cried, she 
 leaped into the white flood of metal; and the lava of the 
 furnace roared to receive her, and spattered monstrous flakes 
 of flame to the roof, and burst over the verge of the earthen 
 crater, and cast up a whirling fountain of many-colored fires, 
 and subsided quakingly, with lightnings and with thunders 
 and with mutterings. 
 
 Then the father of Ko-Ngai, wild with his grief, would have 
 leaped in after her, but that strong men held him back and 
 kept firm grasp upon him until he had fainted away and they 
 could bear him like one dead to his home. And the serving- 
 woman of Ko-Ngai, dizzy and speechless for pain, stood before 
 the furnace, still holding in her hands a shoe, a tiny, dainty 
 shoe, with embroidery of pearls and flowers, — the shoe of her 
 
LAFCADIO HEARN 21 
 
 beautiful mistress that was. For she had sought to grasp Ko- 
 Ngai by the foot as she leaped, but had only been able to 
 clutch the shoe, and the pretty shoe came olf in her hand; 
 and she continued to stare at it like one gone mad. 
 
 But in spite of all these things, the command of the Celes- 
 tial and August had to be obeyed, and the work of the 
 moulders to be finished, hopeless as the result might be. Yet 
 the glow of the metal seemed purer and whiter than before; 
 and there was no sign of the beautiful body that had been 
 entombed therein. So the ponderous easting was made; and 
 lo! when the metal had become cool, it was found that the 
 bell was beautiful to look upon, and perfect in form, and 
 wonderful in color above all other bells. Nor was there any 
 trace found of the body of Ko-Ngai ; for it had been totally 
 absorbed bj^ the precious alloy, and blended with the well- 
 blended brass and gold, with the intermingling of the silver 
 and iron. And when they sounded the bell, its tones were 
 found to be deeper and mellower and mightier than the tones 
 of any other bell, — reaching even beyond the distance of one 
 hundred li, like a pealing of summer thunder; and yet also 
 like some vast voice uttering a name, a woman's name, — the 
 name of Ko-Ngai! 
 
 And still, between each mighty stroke there is a long low 
 moaning heard; and ever the moaning ends with a sound of 
 sobbing and complaining, as though a weeping woman should 
 murmur, "BiaiV And still, when the people hear that great 
 golden moan they keep silence ; but when the sharp, sweet 
 shuddering comes in the air, and the sobbing of "Uiai!" 
 then, indeed, do all the Chinese mothers in all the many- 
 colored ways of Pe-king whisper to their little ones : ^'Listen! 
 that is Ko-Ngai crying for her shoe! That is Ko-Ngai call- 
 ing for her shoeT' 
 
THE TEN TRAILS 
 By ERNEST THOMPSON SETON 
 
 Once there were two Indians who went out together to 
 hunt. Hapeda was very strong and swift and a wonderful 
 bowman. Chatun was much weaker and carried a weaker 
 bow; but he was very patient. 
 
 As they went through the hills they came on the fresh 
 track of a small Deer. Chatun said: "My brother, I shall 
 follow that." 
 
 But Hapeda said: "You may if you like, but a mighty 
 hunter like me wants bigger game." ' 
 
 So they parted. 
 
 Hapeda went on for an hour or more and found the track 
 of ten large Elk going different ways. He took the trail 
 of the largest and followed for a long way, but not coming 
 up with it, he said: "That one is evidently traveling. J 
 should have taken one of the others." 
 
 So he went back to the place where he first found it, and 
 took up the trail of another. After a hunt of over an hour 
 in which he failed to get a shot, he said: "I have followed 
 another traveler. I '11 go back and take up the trail of. one 
 that is feeding." 
 
 But again, after a short pursuit, he gave up that one to go 
 back and try another that seemed more promising. Thus he 
 spent a whole day trying each of the trails for a short time, 
 and at night came back to camp with nothing, to find that 
 Chatun, though his inferior in all other ways, had proved 
 wiser. He had stuck doggedly to the trail of the one little 
 Deer, and now had its carcass safelj^ in camp. 
 
 Moral : The Prize is always at the end of the trail. 
 
 22 
 
WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO ^ 
 
 By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI 
 
 In a certain town there lived a shoemaker named Martin 
 Avdeitch. He lived in a basement room which possessed but 
 one window. This window looked onto the street, and through 
 it a glimpse could be caught of the passers-by. It is true that 
 only their legs could be seen, but that did not matter, as 
 Martin could recognize people by their boots alone. He had 
 lived here for a long time, and so had many acquaintances. 
 There were very few pairs of boots in the neighbourhood 
 which had not passed through his hands at least once, if not 
 twice. Some he had resoled, others he had fitted with side- 
 pieces, others, again, he had resewn where they were split, 
 or provided with new toe-caps. Yes, he often saw his handi- 
 work through that window. He was given plenty of custom, 
 for his work lasted well, his materials were good, his prices 
 moderate, and his word to be depended on. If he could do a 
 job by a given time it should be done ; but if not, he would 
 warn you beforehand rather than disappoint you. Every- 
 one knew Avdeitch, and no one ever transferred his custom 
 from him. He had always been an upright man, but with 
 the approach of old age he had begun more than ever to think 
 of his soul, and to draw nearer to God. 
 
 His wife had died while he was still an apprentice, leav- 
 ing behind her a little boy of three. This was their only child, 
 indeed, for the two elder ones had died previously. At first 
 Martin thought of placing the little fellow with a sister of 
 his in the country, but changed his mind, thinking: "My 
 
 1 Reprinted from the Everyman Edition of Tolstoi's Tales and Parables, 
 by special permission of the publishers. Copyright by E. P. Button & 
 Company. 
 
 23 
 
24 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 
 
 Kapitoshka would not like to grow up in a strange family, so 
 I will keep him by me." Then Avdeitch finished his ap- 
 prenticeship, and went to live in lodgings with his little boy. 
 But God had not seen fit to give Avdeitch happiness in his 
 children. The little boy was just growing up and beginning 
 to help his father and to be a pleasure to him, when he fell ill, 
 was put to bed, and died after a week's fever. 
 
 Martin buried the little fellow and was inconsolable. In- 
 deed, he was so inconsolable that he began to murmur against 
 God. His life seemed so empty that more than once he prayed 
 for death and reproached the Almighty for taking away his 
 only beloved son instead of himself, the old man. At last he 
 ceased altogether to go to church. 
 
 Then one day there came to see him an ancient peasant- 
 pilgrim — one who was now in the eighth year of his pil- 
 grimage. To him Avdeitch talked, and then went on to com- 
 plain of his great sorrow. 
 
 "I no longer wish to be a God-fearing man," he said. "I 
 only wish to die. That is all I ask of God. I am a lonely, 
 hopeless man." 
 
 ''You should not speak like that, Martin," replied the old 
 pilgrim. "It is not for us to judge the acts of God. We 
 must rely, not upon our own understanding, but upon the 
 Divine wisdom. God saw fit that your son should die and 
 that you should live. Therefore it must be better so. If you 
 despair, it is because you have wished to live too much for 
 your own pleasure." 
 
 "For what, then, should I live?" asked Martin. 
 
 "For God alone," replied the old man. "It is He who 
 gave you life, and therefore it is He for whom you should live. 
 When you come to live for Him you will cease to grieve, and 
 your trials will become easy to bear." 
 
 Martin was silent. Then he spoke again. 
 
 "But how am I to live for God?" he asked. 
 
 "Christ has shown us the way," answered the old man. 
 "Can you read? If so, buy a Testament and study it. You 
 will learn there how to live for God. Yes, it is all shown you 
 there." 
 
COUNT LEO TOLSTOI 25 
 
 These words sank into Avdeitch's soul. He went out the 
 same day, bought a large-print copy of the New Testament, 
 and set himself to read it. 
 
 At the beginning Avdeitch had meant only to read on 
 festival days, but when he once began his reading he found 
 it so comforting to the soul that he came never to let a day 
 pass without doing so. On the second occasion he became so 
 engrossed that all the kerosene was burnt away in the lamp 
 before he could tear himself away from the book. 
 
 Thus he came to read it every evening, and, the more he 
 read, the more clearly did he understand what God required 
 of him, and in what way he could live for God; so that his 
 heart grew ever lighter and lighter. Once upon a time, when- 
 ever he had lain down to sleep, he had been used to moan and 
 sigh as he thought of his little Kapitoshka; but now he only 
 said— ''Glory to Thee, Lord! Glory to Thee! Thy will 
 be done!" 
 
 From that time onwards Avdeitch's life became completely 
 changed. Once he had been used to go out on festival days 
 and drink tea in a tavern, and had not denied himself even an 
 occasional glass of vodka. This he had done in the company 
 of a boon companion, and, although no drunkard, would fre- 
 quently leave the tavern in an excited state and talk much non- 
 sense as he shouted and disputed with this friend of his. But 
 now he had turned his back on all this, and his life had be- 
 come quiet and joyous. Early in the morning he would sit 
 down to his work, and labor through his appointed hours. 
 Then he would take the lamp down from a shelf, light it, and 
 sit down to read. And the more he read, the more he under- 
 stood, and the clearer and happier he grew at heart. 
 
 It happened once that Martin had been reading late. He 
 had been reading those verses in the sixth chapter of the 
 Gospel of St. Luke which run : 
 
 "And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer 
 also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloke forbid 
 not to take thy coat also. Give to every man that asketh 
 of thee ; and of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not 
 
26 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 
 
 again. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye 
 also to them likewise." 
 
 Then, further on, he had read those verses where the Lord 
 says : 
 
 "And why call ye Me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things 
 which I say ? Whosoever cometh to Me and heareth my say- 
 ings, and doeth them, I will show you to whom he is like : He is 
 like a man which built an house, and digged deep, and laid the 
 foundation on a rock : and when the flood arose, the storm beat 
 vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it: for it 
 was founded upon a rock. But he that heareth and doeth not, 
 is like a man that without a foundation built an house upon 
 the earth ; against which the stream did beat vehemently, and 
 immediately it fell ; and the ruin of that house was great. 
 
 Avdeitch read these words, and felt greatly cheered in 
 soul. He took off his spectacles, laid them on the book, 
 leaned his elbows upon the table, and gave himself up to 
 meditation. He set himself to measure his own life by those 
 words, and thoiight to himself: 
 
 ''Is my house founded upon a rock or upon sand? It is 
 well if it be upon a rock. Yet it seems so easy to me as I 
 sit here alone. I may so easily come to think that I have 
 done all that the Lord has commanded me, and grow careless 
 and — sin again. Yet I will keep on striving, for it is goodly 
 so to do. Help Thou me, Lord." 
 
 Thus he kept on meditating, though conscious that it was 
 time for bed ; yet he was loathe to tear himself away from 
 the book. He began to. read the seventh chapter of St. Luke, 
 and read on about the centurion, the widow's son, and the 
 answer given to John's disciples; until in time he came to the 
 passage where the rich Pharisee invited Jesus to his house, and 
 the woman washed the Lord's feet with her tears and He 
 justified her. So he came to the forty-fourth verse and read: 
 
 **And He turned to the woman, and said unto Simon, 
 Seest thou this woman ? T entered into thine house, and thou 
 gavest Me no water for My feet: but she hath washed My 
 feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. 
 Thou gavest Me no kiss: but this woman since the time I 
 
COUNT LEO TOLSTOI 27 
 
 came in hath not ceased to kiss My feet. My head with 
 oil thou didst not anoint: but this woman hath anointed My 
 feet with ointment." 
 
 He read these verses and thought: 
 
 " 'Thou gavest Me no water for My feet' . . . 'Thou gavest 
 Me no kiss' . . . 'My head with oil thou didst not anoint' 
 . . . ' ' — and once again he took off his spectacles, laid them on 
 the book, and became lost in meditation. 
 
 "I am even as that Pharisee," he thought to himself. "I 
 drink tea and think only of my own needs. Yes, I think 
 only of having plenty to eat and drink, of being warm and 
 clean — but never of entertaining a guest. And Simon too 
 was mindful only of himself, although the guest who had come 
 to visit him was — who? Why, even the Lord Himself! If, 
 then, He should come to visit me, should I receive Him any 
 better?" — and, leaning forward upon his elbows, he was 
 asleep almost before he was aware of it. 
 
 ** Martin!" someone seemed to breathe in his ear. 
 
 He started from his sleep. 
 
 **Who is there?" he said. He turned and looked towards 
 the door, but could see no one. Again he bent forward over 
 the table. Then suddenlv he heard the words: 
 
 « 
 
 ''Martin, Martin! Look thou into the street to-morrow, 
 for I am coming to visit thee." 
 
 Martin roused himself, got up from the chair, and rubbed 
 his eyes. He did not know whether it was dreaming or 
 awake that he had heard these words, but he turned out the 
 lamp and went to bed. 
 
 The next morning Avdeitch rose before daylight and said 
 his prayers. Then he made up the stove, got ready some 
 cabbage soup and porridge, lighted the samovar^ slung his 
 leather apron about him, and sat down to his work in the 
 window. He sat and worked hard, yet all the time his 
 thougrhts were centred upon last night. He was in two 
 ideas about the vision. At one moment he would think that 
 it must have been his fancy, while the next moment he would 
 find himself convinced that he had really heard the voice. 
 
 Yes, it must have been so," he concluded. 
 
 (( 
 
28 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 
 
 As Martin sat thus by the window he kept looking out of 
 it as much- as working. Whenever a pair of boots passed with 
 which he was acquainted he would bend down to glance up- 
 wards through the window and see their owner's face as well. 
 The doorkeeper passed in new felt boots, and then a water- 
 carrier. Next, an old soldier, a veteran of Nicholas' army, in 
 old, patched boots, and carrying a shovel in his hands, halted 
 close by the window. Avdeitch knew him by his boots. His 
 name was Stepanitch, and he was kept by a neighboring 
 tradesman out of charity, his duties being to help the door- 
 keeper. He began to clear away the snow from in front of 
 Avdeitch 's window, while the shoemaker looked at him and 
 then resumed his work. 
 
 "I think I must be getting into my dotage,'' thought 
 Avdeitch with a smile. ''Just because Stepanitch begins 
 clearing away the snow I at once jump to the conclusion that 
 Christ is about to visit me. Yes, I am growing foolish now, 
 old greybeard that I am." 
 
 Yet he had hardly made a dozen stitches before he was 
 craning his neck again to look out of the window. He could 
 see that Stepanitch had placed his shovel against the wall, 
 and was resting and trying to warm himself a little. 
 
 "He is evidently an old man now and broken," thought 
 Avdeitch to himself. "He is not strong enough to clear 
 away snow. Would he like some tea, I wonder? That re- 
 minds me that the samovar must be ready now." 
 
 He made fast his awl in his work and got up. Placing the 
 samovar on the table, he brewed the tea, and then tapped with 
 his finger on the window-pane. Stepanitch turned round and 
 approached. Avdeitch beckoned to him, and then went to 
 open the door. 
 
 "Come in and warm yourself," he said. "You must be 
 frozen. ' ' 
 
 "Christ requite you!" answered Stepanitch. "Yes, my 
 bones are almost cracking." 
 
 He came in, shook the snow off himself, and, though tot- 
 tering on his feet, took pains to wipe them carefully, that he 
 might not dirty the floor. 
 
COUNT LEO TOLSTOI 29 
 
 **Nay, do not trouble about that/' said Avdeitch. ''I will 
 wipe your boots myself. It is part of my business in this 
 trade. Come you here and sit down, and we will empty 
 this tea-pot together." 
 
 He poured out two tumblerfuls, and offered one to his 
 guest; after which he emptied his own into the saucer, and 
 blew upon it to cool it. Stepanitch drank his tumblerful, 
 turned the glass upside down, placed his crust upon it, and 
 thanked his host kindly. But it was plain that he wanted 
 another one. 
 
 "You must drink some more," said Avdeitch, and refilled 
 his guest's tumbler and his own. Yet, in spite of himself, he 
 had no sooner drunk his tea than he found himself looking out 
 into the street again. 
 
 ''Are you expecting anyone?" asked his guest. 
 
 "Am — am I expecting anyone? Well, to tell the truth, 
 yes. That is to say, I am, and I am not. The fact is that 
 some words have got fixed in my memory. Whether it was 
 a vision or not I cannot tell, but at all events, my old friend, 
 I was reading in the Gospels last night about Our Little 
 Father Christ, and how He walked this earth and suffered. 
 You have heard of Him, have you not ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, yes, I have heard of Him," answered Stepanitch; 
 "but we are ignorant folk and do not know our letters." 
 
 "Well, I was reading of how He walked this earth, and 
 how He went to visit a Pharisee, and yet received no wel- 
 come from him at the door. All this I read last night, my 
 friend, and then fell to thinking about it — to thinking how 
 some day I too might fail to pay Our Little Father Christ due 
 honor. 'Suppose,' I thought to myself, 'He came to me or 
 to anyone like me? Should we, like the great lord Simon, not 
 know how to receive Him and not go out to meet Him ? ' Thus 
 I thought, and fell asleep where I sat. Then as I sat sleep- 
 ing there I heard someone call my name ; and as I raised my- 
 self the voice went on (as though it were the voice of some- 
 one whispering in my ear) : 'Watch thou for me to-morrow, 
 for I am coming to visit thee.' It said that twice. And 
 so those words have got into my head, and, foolish though I 
 
30 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 
 
 know it to be, I keep expecting Him — the Little Father — 
 every moment." 
 
 Stepanitch nodded and said nothing, but emptied his glass 
 and laid it aside. Nevertheless Avdeitch took and refilled it. 
 
 ' ' Drink it up ; it will do you good, ' ' he said. ' ' Do you 
 know," he went on, "I often call to mind how when Our 
 Little Father walked this earth, there was never a man, how- 
 ever humble, whom He despised, and how it was chiefly among 
 the common people that He dwelt. It was always with the^n 
 that He walked; it was from among them — from among such 
 men as you and I — from among sinners and working folk — 
 that He chose His disciples. 'Whosoever,' He said, 'shall 
 exalt himself^ the same shall be abased; and whosoever shall 
 abase himself, the same shall be exalted.' 'You,' He said 
 again, 'call me Lord; yet will I wash your feet.' 'Whoso- 
 ever,' He said, 'would be chief among you, let him be the 
 servant of all. Because,' He said, 'blessed are the lowly, the 
 peacemakers, the merciful, and the charitable.' " 
 
 Stepanitch had forgotten all about his tea. He was an old 
 man, and his tears came easily. He sat and listened, with 
 the tears rolling down his cheeks. 
 
 "Oh, but you must drink your tea," said Avdeitch; yet 
 Stepanitch only crossed himself and said the thanksgiving, 
 after which he pushed his glass away and rose. 
 
 "I thank you, Martin Avdeitch," he said. "You have 
 taken me in, and fed both soul and body." 
 
 "Nay, but I beg of you to come again," replied Avdeitch. 
 "I am only too glad of a guest." 
 
 So Stepanitch departed, while Martin poured out the last 
 of the tea and drank it. Then he cleaned the crockery, and 
 sat down again to his work by the window — to the stitching 
 of a back-piece. He stitched away, yet kept on looking 
 through the window — looking for Christ, as it were — and ever 
 thinking of Christ and His works. Indeed, Christ's many 
 sayings were never absent from Avdeitch 's mind. 
 
 Two soldiers passed the window, the one in military boots, 
 and the other in civilian. Next, there came a neighboring 
 
COUNT LEO TOLSTOI 31 
 
 householder, in polished goloshes ; then a baker with a basket. 
 All of them passed on. Presently a woman in woollen stock- 
 ings and rough country shoes approached the window, and 
 halted near the buttress outside it. Avdeitch peered up at 
 her from under, the lintel of his window, and could see that 
 she was a plain-looking, poorly-dressed woman and had a 
 child in her arms. It was in order to muffle the child up 
 more closely — little though she had to do it with ! — that she 
 had stopped near the buttress and was now standing there 
 with her back to the wind. Her clothing was ragged and 
 fit only for summer, and even from behind his window-panes 
 Avdeitch could hear the child crying miserably and its mother 
 vainly trying to soothe it. Avdeitch rose, went to the door, 
 climbed the steps, and cried out: "My good woman, my 
 good woman ! ' ' 
 
 She heard him and turned round. 
 
 "Why need you stand there in the cold with your baby?" 
 he went on. "Come into my room, where it is warm, and 
 where you will be able to wrap the baby up more comfortably 
 than you can do here. Yes, come in with you." 
 
 The woman was surprised to see an old man in a leather 
 apron and with spectacles upon his nose calling out to her, yet 
 she followed him down the steps, and they entered his room. 
 The old man led her to the bedstead. 
 
 "Sit you down here, my good woman," he said. "You will 
 be near the stove, and can warm yourself and feed your baby. ' ' 
 ^ "Ah," she replied. "I have had nothing to eat this morn- 
 ing." Nevertheless she put the child to her breast. 
 
 Avdeitch nodded his head approvingly, went to the table 
 for some bread and a basin, and opened the stove door. From 
 the stove he took and poured some soup into the basin, and 
 drew out also a bowl of porridge. The latter, however, was 
 not yet boiling, so he set out only the soup, after first laying 
 the table with a cloth. 
 
 "Sit down and eat, my good woman," he said, "while I 
 hold your baby. I have had little ones of my own, and know 
 how to nurse them." 
 
 The woman crossed herself and sat down, while Avdeitch 
 
32 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 
 
 seated himself upon the bedstead with the baby. He smacked 
 his lips at it once or twice, but made a poor show of it, for he 
 had no teeth left. Consequently the baby went on crying. 
 Then he bethought him of his finger, which he wriggled to 
 and fro towards the baby's mouth and back again — without, 
 however, actually touching the little one's lips, since the finger 
 was blackened with work and sticky with shoemaker's wax. 
 The baby contemplated the finger and grew quiet — then actu- 
 ally smiled. Avdeitch was delighted. Meanwhile the woman 
 had been eating her meal, and now she told him, unasked, who 
 she was and whither she was going. 
 
 *'I am a soldier's wife," she said, ''but my husband was 
 sent to a distant station eight months ago, and I have heard 
 nothing of him since. At first I got a place as cook, but when 
 the baby came they said they could not do with it and dis- 
 missed me. That was three months ago, and I have got noth- 
 ing since, and have spent all my savings. I tried to get taken 
 as a nurse, but no one would have me, for they said I was 
 too thin. I have just been to see a tradesman's wife where 
 our grandmother is in service. She had promised to take 
 me on, and I quite thought that she would, but when I arrived 
 to-day she told me to come again next week. She lives a long 
 way from here, and I am quite worn out and have tired my 
 baby for nothing. Thank Heaven, however, my landlady is 
 good to me, and gives me shelter for Christ's sake. Other- 
 wise I should not have known how to bear it all." 
 
 Avdeitch sighed and said : ' ' But have you nothing warm to 
 wear?" 
 
 ''Ah, sir,'' replied the woman, "although it is the time for 
 warm clothes I had to pawn my last shawl yesterday for two 
 
 grivenki.^' ^ 
 
 Then the woman returned to the bedstead to take her baby, 
 while Avdeitch rose and went to a cupboard. There he rum- 
 maged about, and presently returned with an old jacket. 
 
 "Here," he said. "It is a poor old thing, but it will serve 
 to cover you." 
 
 The woman looked at the jacket, and then at the old man. 
 
 1 The OTivenka = 10 copecks == about five cents. 
 
COUKT LEO TOLSTOI 33 
 
 Then she took the jacket and burst into tears. Avdeitch 
 turned away, and went creeping under the bedstead, whence 
 he extracted a box and pretended to rummage about in it 
 for a few moments ; after which he sat down again before the 
 woman. 
 
 Then the woman said to him: '*I thank you in Christ's 
 name, good grandfather. Surely it was He Himself who sent 
 me to your window. Otherwise I should have seen my baby 
 perish with the cold. When I first came out the day was 
 warm, but now it has begun to freeze. But He, Our Little 
 Father, had placed you in your window, that you might see 
 me in my bitter plight and have compassion upon me." 
 
 Avdeitch smiled and said : ' ' He did indeed place me there : 
 yet, my poor woman, it was for a special purpose that I was 
 looking out." 
 
 Then he told his guest, the soldier's wife, of his vision, and 
 how he had heard a voice foretelling that to-day the Lord Him- 
 self would come to visit him. 
 
 ' ' That may very well be, ' ' said the woman as she rose, took 
 the jacket, and wrapped her baby in it. Then she saluted him 
 once more and thanked him. 
 
 ''Also, take this in Christ's name," said Avdeitch, and gave 
 her a two-grivenka piece with which to buy herself a shawl. 
 The woman crossed herself, and he likewise. Then he led her 
 to the door and dismissed her. 
 
 When she had gone Avdeitch ate a little soup, washed up the 
 crockery again, and resumed his work. All the time, though, 
 he kept his eye upon the window, and as soon as ever a shadow 
 fell across it he would look up to see who was passing. Ac- 
 quaintances of his came past, and people whom he did not 
 know, yet never anyone very particular. 
 
 Then suddenly he saw something. Opposite his window 
 there had stopped an old pedlar-woman, with a basket of 
 apples. Only a few of the apples, however, remained, so that 
 it was clear that she was almost sold out. Over her shoulder 
 was slung a sack of shavings, which she must have gathered 
 near some new building as she was going home. Apparently, 
 
34 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 
 
 her shoulder had begun to ache under their weight, and she 
 therefore wished to shift them to the other one. To do this, 
 she balanced her basket of apples on the top of a post, lowered 
 the sack to the pavement, and began shaking up its contents. 
 As she was doing this, a boy in a ragged cap appeared from 
 somewhere, seized an apple from the basket, and tried to make 
 off. But the old woman, who had been on her guard, managed 
 to turn and seize the boy by the sleeve, and although he 
 struggled and tried to break away, she clung to him with both 
 hands, snatched his cap off, and finally grasped him by the 
 hair. Thereupon the youngster began to shout and abuse his 
 captor. Avdeitch did not stop to make fast his awl, but threw 
 his work down upon the floor, ran to the door, and went stum- 
 bling up the steps — losing his spectacles as he did so. Out 
 into the street he ran, where the old woman was still clutching 
 the boy by the hair and threatening to take him to the police, 
 while the boy, for his part, was struggling in the endeavor 
 to free himself. 
 
 ''I never took it," he was saying. ''What are you beating 
 me for? Let me go." 
 
 Avdeitch tried to part them as he took the boy by the 
 hand and said: 
 
 "Let him go, my good woman. Pardon him for Christ's 
 sake. ' ' 
 
 ''Yes, I will pardon him," she retorted, "but not until he 
 has tasted a new birch-rod. I mean to take the young rascal 
 to the police." 
 
 But Avdeitch still interceded for him. 
 
 "Let him go, my good woman," he said. "He will never do 
 it again. Let him go for Christ's sake." 
 
 The old woman released the boy, who was for making off 
 at once had not Avdeitch stopped him. 
 
 "You must beg the old woman's pardon," he said, 
 "and never do such a thing again. I saw you take the 
 apple. ' ' 
 
 The boy burst out crying, and begged the old woman's 
 pardon as Avdeitch commanded. 
 
 "There, there," said Avdeitch. "Now I will give you 
 
COUNT LEO TOLSTOI 35 
 
 one. Here you are," — and he took an apple from the basket 
 and handed it to the boy. "I will pay you for it, my good 
 woman, ' ' he added. 
 
 *'Yes, but you spoil the young rascal by doing that," she 
 objected. ''He ought to have received a reward that would 
 have made him glad to stand for a week." 
 
 "Ah, my good dame, my good dame," exclaimed Avdeitch. 
 ''That may be our way of rewarding, but it is not God's. If 
 this boy ought to have been whipped for taking the apple, 
 ought not we also to receive something for our sins T ' 
 
 The old woman was silent. Then Avdeitch related to her 
 the parable of the master who absolved his servant from the 
 great debt which he owed him, whereupon the servant de- 
 parted and took his own debtor by the throat. The old woman 
 listened, and also the boy. 
 
 "God has commanded us to pardon one another," went on 
 Avdeitch, " or fl^e will not pardon us. We ought to pardon all 
 men, and especially the thoughtless." 
 
 The old woman shook her head and sighed. 
 
 "Yes, that may be so," she said, "but these young rascals 
 are so spoilt already ! ' ' 
 
 "Then it is for us, their elders, to teach them better," he 
 replied. 
 
 "That is what I say myself at times," rejoined the old 
 woman. "I had seven of them once at home, but have only 
 one daughter now, ' ' And she went on to tell Avdeitch where 
 she and her daughter lived, and how they lived, and how many 
 grandchildren she had. 
 
 "I have only such strength as you see," she said, "yet I 
 work hard, for my heart goes out to my grandchildren — the 
 bonny little things that they are ! No children could run to 
 meet me as they do. Aksintka, for instance, will go to no one 
 else. 'Grandmother,' she cries, 'dear grandmother, you are 
 tired' " — and the old woman became thoroughly softened. 
 "Everyone knows what boys are," she added presently, 
 referring to the culprit. "May God go with him !" 
 
 She was raising the sack to her shoulders again when the 
 boy darted forward and said : 
 
36 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 
 
 *'Nay, let me carry it, grandmother. It will be all on my 
 way home." 
 
 The old woman nodded assent, gave up the sack to the 
 boy, and went away with him down the street. She had quite 
 forgotten to ask Avdeitch for the money for the apple. He 
 stood looking after them, and observing how they were talk- 
 ing together as they went. 
 
 Having seen them go, he returned to his room, finding his 
 spectacles — unbroken — on the steps as he descended them. 
 Once more he took up his awl and fell to work, but had done 
 little before he found it difficult to distinguish the stitches, and 
 the lamplighter had passed on his rounds. "I too must light 
 up," he thought to himself. So he trimmed the lamp, hung 
 it up, and resumed his work. He finished one boot completely, 
 and then turned it over to look at it. It was all good work. 
 Then he laid aside his tools, swept up the cuttings, rounded off 
 the stitches and loose ends, and cleaned his awl. Next he 
 lifted the lamp down, placed it on the table, and took his 
 Testament from the shelf. He had intended opening the book 
 at the place which he had marked last night with a strip of 
 leather, but it opened itself at another instead. The instant it 
 did so, his vision of last night came back to his memory, and, as 
 instantly, he thought he heard a movement behind him as of 
 someone moving towards him. He looked round and saw in 
 the shadow of a dark corner what appeared to be figures — 
 figures of persons standing there, yet could not distinguish 
 them clearly. Then the voice whispered in his ear: 
 
 ''Martin, Martin, dost thou not know me?" 
 
 ''Who art Thou?" said Avdeitch. 
 
 "Even I!" whispered the voice again. "Lo, it is I!" — 
 and there stepped from the dark corner Stepanitch. He 
 smiled, and then, like the fading of a little cloud, was gone. 
 
 "It is I ! " whispered the voice again — and there stepped 
 from the same corner the woman with her baby. She smiled, 
 and the baby smiled, and they were gone. 
 
 "And it is I!" whispered the voice again — and there 
 stepped forth the old woman and the boy with the apple. 
 They smiled, and were gone. 
 
COUNT LEO TOLSTOI 37 
 
 Joy filled the soul of Martin Avdeitch as he crossed himself, 
 put on his spectacles, and set himself to read the Testament at 
 the place where it had opened. At the top of the page he 
 read : 
 
 "For I was an hungred, and ye gave Me meat: I was 
 thirsty, and ye gave Me drink : I was a stranger, and ye took 
 Me in." 
 
 And further down the page he read : 
 
 * ' Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these 
 my brethren ye have done it unto Me." 
 
 Then Avdeitch understood that the vision had come true, 
 and that his Saviour had in very truth visited him that day, 
 and that he had received Him. 
 
WOOD-LADIES ^ 
 
 By PERCEVAL GIBBON 
 
 The pine-trees of the wood joined their branches into a 
 dome of intricate groinings over the floor of ferns where the 
 children sat, sunk to the neck in a foam of tender green. The 
 sunbeams that slanted in made shivering patches of gold about 
 them. Joyce, the elder of the pair, was trying to explain why 
 she had wished to come here from the glooms of the lesser wood 
 beyond. 
 
 "I wasn't 'zactly frightened," she said. "I knew there 
 was n 't any lions or robbers, or anything like that. But ' ' 
 
 "Tramps?" suggested Joan. 
 
 " No ! You know I don 't mind tramps, Joan. But as we 
 was going along under all those dark bushes where it was so 
 quiet, I kept feeling as if there was — something — behind me. 
 I looked round and there wasn't anything, but — well, it felt 
 as if there was. ' ' 
 
 Joyce's small face was knit and intent with the efforts to 
 convey her meaning. She was a slim erect child, as near seven 
 years of age as makes no matter, with eyes that were going to 
 be gray, but had not yet ceased to be blue. Joan, who was a 
 bare five, a mere huge baby, was trying to root up a fern that 
 grew between her feet. 
 
 *'I know," she said, tugging mightily. The fern gave sud- 
 denly, and Joan fell over on her back, with her stout legs 
 sticking up stiffly. In this posture she continued the conver- 
 sation undisturbed. "I know, Joj^ It was wood-ladies!" 
 
 "Wood-ladies!" Joyce frowned in faint perplexity as Joan 
 rolled right side up again. Wood-ladies were dim inhabitants 
 of the woods, being of the order of fairies and angels and even 
 
 1 By permission of the author. Copyright by Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
 38 
 
PERCEVAL GIBBON 39 
 
 vaguer, for there was nothing about them in the story-books. 
 Joyce, who felt that she was getting on in years, was willing 
 to be sceptical about them, but could not always manage it. 
 In the nursery, with the hard clean linoleum underfoot and 
 the barred window looking out on the lawn and the road, it 
 was easy; she occasionally shocked Joan, and sometimes her- 
 self, by the license of her speech on such matters; but it was 
 a different affair when one came to the gate at the end of the 
 garden, and passed as through a dream portal from the sun- 
 shine and frank sky to the cathedral shadows and great whis- 
 pering aisles of the wood. There the dimness was like the 
 shadow of a presence; as babies they had been aware of it, 
 and answered their own questions by inventing wood-ladies 
 to float among the trunks and people the still green chambers. 
 Now, neither of them could remember how they had first 
 learned of wood-ladies. 
 
 "Wood-ladies," repeated Joyce, and turned with a little 
 shiver to look across the ferns to where the pines ended and 
 the lesser wood, dense with undergrowth, broke at their edge 
 like a wave on a steep beach. It was there, in a tunnel of a 
 path that writhed beneath overarching bushes, that she had 
 been troubled with the sense of unseen companions. Joan, 
 her fat hands struggling with another fern, followed her 
 glance. 
 
 "That 's where they are," she said casually. "They like 
 being in the dark." 
 
 "Joan!" Joyce spoke earnestly. "Say truly — truly, 
 mind! — do you think there is wood-ladies at all?" 
 
 " 'Course there is," replied Joan cheerfully. "Fairies in 
 fields and angels in heaven and dragons in caves and wood- 
 ladies in woods." 
 
 "But," objected Joyce, "nobody ever sees them." 
 
 Joan lifted her round baby face, plump, serene, bright with 
 innocence, and gazed across at the tangled trees beyond the 
 ferns. She wore the countenance with which she was wont 
 to win games, and Joyce thrilled nervously at her certainty. 
 Her eyes, which were brown, seemed to seek expertly ; then she 
 nodded. 
 
40 WOOD-LADIES 
 
 < i I 
 
 There 's one now/' she said, and fell to work with her 
 fern again. 
 
 Joyce, crouching among the broad green leaves, looked 
 tensely, dread and curiosity — the child's avid curiosity for the 
 supernatural — alight in her face. In the wood a breath of 
 wind stirred the leaves; the shadows and the fretted lights 
 shifted and swung ; all was vague movement and change. Was 
 it a bough that bent and sprang back or a flicker of draperies, 
 dim and green, shrouding a tenuous form that passed like a 
 smoke-wreath? She stared with wide eyes, and it seemed to 
 her that for an instant she saw the figure turn and the pallor 
 of a face, with a mist of hair about it, sway toward her. 
 There was an impression of eyes, large and tender, of an 
 infinite grace and fragility, of a coloring that merged into the 
 greens and browns of the wood; and as she drew her breath 
 it was all no more. The trees, the lights and shades, the stir 
 of branches were as before, but something was gone from 
 them. 
 
 *'Joan,'' she cried, hesitating. 
 
 *'Yes,'' said Joan, without looking up. ''What?" 
 
 The sound of words had broken a spell. Joyce was no 
 longer sure that she had seen anything. 
 
 ''I thought, just now, I could see something," she said. 
 ''But I s'pose I didn't." 
 
 "I did," remarked Joan. 
 
 Joyce crawled through the crisp ferns till she was close 
 to Joan, sitting solid and untroubled and busy upon the 
 ground, with broken stems and leaves all round her. 
 
 "Joan," she begged. "Be nice. You 're trying to 
 frighten me, aren't you?" 
 
 "I 'm not," protested Joan. *'I did see a wood-lady. 
 Wood-ladies does n 't hurt you ; wood-ladies are nice. You 're 
 a coward, Joyce." 
 
 "I can't help it," said Joyce, sighing. "But I won't go 
 into the dark parts of the wood any more." 
 
 "Coward," repeated Joan absently, but with a certain 
 relish. 
 
PERCEVAL GIBBON 41 
 
 *'You wouldn't like to go there by yourself/' cried Joyce. 
 **If I wasn't with you, you 'd be a coward too. You know 
 you would." 
 
 She stopped, for Joan had swept her lap free of debris and 
 was rising to her feet. Joan, for all her plumpness and in- 
 fantile softness, had a certain deliberate dignity when she was 
 put upon her mettle. She eyed her sister with a calm and 
 very galling superiority. 
 
 ' ' I 'm going there now, ' ' she answered ; ' ' all by mineself . ' ' 
 
 ' ' Go, then, ' ' retorted Joyce angrily. 
 
 Without a further word, Joan turned her back and began 
 to plough her way across the ferns toward the dark wood. 
 Joyce, watching her, saw her go, at first with wrath, for she 
 had been stung, and then with compunction. The plump 
 baby was so small in the brooding solemnity of the pines, 
 thrusting indefatigably along, buried to the waist in ferns. 
 Her sleek brown head had a devoted look; the whole of her 
 seemed to go with so sturdy an innocence toward those 
 peopled and uncanny glooms. Joyce rose to her knees to call 
 her back. 
 
 *'Joan!" she cried. The baby turned. "Joan! Come 
 back; come back an' be friends!" 
 
 Joan, maintaining her offing, replied only with a gesture. 
 It was a gesture they had learned from the boot-and-knife 
 boy, and they had once been spanked for practising it on the 
 piano-tuner. The boot-and-knife boy called it "cocking a 
 snook, ' ' and it consisted in raising a thumb to one 's nose and 
 spreading the fingers out. It was defiance and insult in 
 tabloid form. Then she turned and plodded on. The opaque 
 wall of the wood was before her and over her, but she knew 
 its breach. She ducked her head under a droop of branches, 
 squirmed through, was visible still for some seconds as a gleam 
 of blue frock, and then the ghostly shadows received her and 
 she was gone. The wood closed behind her like a lid. 
 
 Joyce, squatting in her place, blinked a little breathlessly to 
 shift from her senses an oppression of alarm, and settled down 
 to wait for her. At least it was true that nothing ever hap- 
 
42 WOOD-LADIES 
 
 pened to Joan; even when she fell into a water-butt she suf- 
 fered no damage; and the wood was a place to which they 
 came every day. 
 
 ''Besides," she considered, enumerating her resources of 
 comfort; "besides, there can't be such things as wood-ladies 
 really.'^ 
 
 But Joan was a long time gone. The dome of pines took on 
 an uncanny stillness; the moving patches of sun seemed 
 furtive and unnatural ; the ferns swayed without noise. In 
 the midst of it, patient and nervous, sat Joyce, watching al- 
 ways that spot in the bushes where a blue overall and a 
 brown head had disappeared. The undernote of alarm which 
 stirred her senses died down; a child finds it hard to spin 
 out a mood; she simply sat, half-dreaming in the peace of 
 the morning, half-watching the wood. Time slipped by her 
 and presently there came mother, smiling and seeking through 
 the trees for her babies. 
 
 " Is n 't there a clock inside you that tells you when it 's 
 lunch-time?" asked mother. "You 're ever so late. Where 's 
 Joan ? ' ' 
 
 Joyce rose among the ferns, delicate and elfin, with a shy 
 perplexity on her face. It was difficult to speak even to 
 mother about wood-ladies without a pretence of scepticism. 
 
 "I forgot about lunch," she said, taking the slim cool hand 
 which mother held out to her. "Joan 's in there." She 
 nodded at the bushes. 
 
 "Is she?" said mother, and called aloud in her singing- 
 voice, that was so clear to hear in the spaces of the wood. 
 "Joan! Joan!" 
 
 A cheeky bird answered with a whistle and mother called 
 again. 
 
 "She said/* explained Joyce — "she said she saw a wood- 
 lady and then she went in there to show me she wasn't 
 afraid." 
 
 "What's a wood-lady, chick?" asked mother. "The 
 rascal ! ' ' she said, smiling, when Joyce had explained as best 
 she could. ' ' We '11 have to go and look for her. ' ' 
 
 They went hand in hand, and mother showed herself 
 
PERCEVAL GIBBON 43 
 
 clever in parting a path among the bushes. She managed 
 so that no bough sprang back to strike Joyce and without 
 tearing or soiling her own soft white dress; one could guess 
 that when she had been a little girl she, too, had had a wood 
 to play in. They cut down by the Secret Pond, where the 
 old rhododendrons were, and out to the edge of the fields; 
 and when they paused mother would lift her head and call 
 again, and her voice rang in the wood like a bell. By the 
 pond, which was a black water with steep banks, she paused 
 and showed a serious face ; but there were no marks of shoes 
 on its clay slopes, and she shook her head and went on. But 
 to all the calling there was no answer, no distant cheery 
 bellow to guide them to Joan. 
 
 "I wish she wouldn't play these tricks," said mother. 
 *'I don't like them a bit." 
 
 ''I expect she's hiding," said Joyce. ''There aren't 
 wood-ladies really, are there, mother?" 
 
 "There 's nothing worse in these woods than a rather 
 naughty baby," mother replied. "We '11 go back by the 
 path and call her again." 
 
 Joyce knew that the hand which held hers tightened as 
 they went and there was still no answer to mother's calling. 
 She could not have told what it was that made her suddenly 
 breathless; the wood about her turned desolate; an oppres- 
 sion of distress and bewilderment burdened them both. 
 "Joan, Joan!" called mother in her strong beautiful con- 
 tralto, swelling the word forth in powerful music, and when 
 she ceased the silence was like a taunt. It was not as if 
 Joan were there and failed to answer ; it was as if there were 
 no longer any Joan anywhere. They came at last to the 
 space of sparse trees which bordered their garden. 
 
 "We mustn't be silly about this," said mother, speaking 
 as much to herself as to Joyce. "Nothing can have happened 
 to her. And you must have lunch, chick." 
 Without waiting for Joan?" asked Joyce. 
 Yes. The gardener and the boot-boy must look for Joan," 
 said mother, opening the gate. 
 
 The dining-room looked very secure and home-like, with its 
 
 
44 WOOD-LADIES 
 
 big window and its cheerful table spread for lunch. Joyce's 
 place faced the window, so that she could see the lawn and 
 the hedge bounding the kitchen garden; and when mother 
 had served her with food, she was left alone to eat it. Pres- 
 ently the gardener and the boot-boy passed the window, each 
 carrying a hedge-stake and looking warlike. There reached 
 her a murmur of voices; the gardener was mumbling some- 
 thing about tramps. 
 
 "Oh, I don't think so," replied mother's voice. 
 
 Mother came in presently and sat down, but did not eat 
 anything. Joyce asked her why. 
 
 ' ' Oh, I shall have some lunch when Joan comes, ' ' answered 
 mother. ''I sha'n't be hungry till then. Will you have 
 some more, my pet?" 
 
 When Joyce had finished, they went out again to the wood to 
 meet Joan when she was brought back in custody. Mother 
 walked quite slowly, looking all the time as if she would like 
 to run. Joyce held her hand and sometimes glanced up at 
 her face, so full of wonder and a sort of resentful doubt, as 
 though circumstances were playing an unmannerly trick on 
 her. At the gate they came across the boot-boy. 
 
 ' ' I bin all acrost that way, ' ' said the boot-boy, pointing with 
 his stumpy black forefinger, ''and then acrost that way, an' 
 Mister Jenks" — Jenks was the gardener — *' 'e've gone about 
 in rings, 'e 'ave. And there ain't sign nor token, mum — 
 not a sign there ain't." 
 
 From beyond him sounded the voice of the gardener, 
 thrashing among the trees. "Miss Joan!" he roared. "Hi! 
 Miss Jo-an! You 're a-frightin' your ma proper. Where 
 are ye, then?" 
 
 "She must be hiding," said mother. "You must go on 
 looking, Walter. You must go on looking till you find her." 
 
 "Yes, 'm," said Walter. "If she 's in there, us 'II find 
 her, soon or late." 
 
 He ran off, and presently his voice was joined to Jenks 's, 
 calling Joan — calling, calling, and getting no answer. 
 
 Mother took Joyce's hand again. 
 
 "Come," she said. "We '11 walk round by the path, and 
 
PERCEVAL GIBBON 45 
 
 you must tell me again how it all happened. Did you really 
 see something when Joan told you to look ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' I expect I did n 't, " replied Joyce dolefully. ' ' But Joan 's 
 always saying there 's a fairy or something in the shadows 
 and I always think I see them for a moment. ' ' 
 
 "It could n't have been a live woman — or a man — that you 
 saw?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" Joyce was positive of that. Mother's hand 
 tightened on hers understandingly and they went on in silence 
 till they met Jenks. 
 
 Jenks was an oldish man with bushy gray whiskers, who 
 never wore a coat, and now he was wet to the loins with mud 
 and water. 
 
 "That there ol' pond," he explained. *'I 've been an' 
 took a look at her. Tromped through her proper, I did, an' 
 I '11 go bail there ain't so much as a dead cat in all the mud 
 of her. Thish yer 's a mistry, mum, an' no mistake." 
 
 Mother stared at him. "I can't bear this," she said 
 suddenly. "You must go on searching, Jenks, and Walter 
 must go on his bicycle to the police-station at once. Call 
 him, please!" 
 
 "Walter!" roared Jenks obediently. 
 
 "Co .ing!" answered the boot-boy and burst forth from 
 the bushes. In swift, clear words, which no stupidity could 
 mistake or forget, mother gave him his orders, spoken in a 
 tone that meant urgency. Walter went flying to execute them. 
 
 "Oh, mother, where do you think Joan can be?" begged 
 Joyce when Jenks had gone off to resume his search. 
 
 "I don't know," said mother. "It 's all so absurd." 
 
 "If there tvas wood-ladies, they wouldn't hurt a baby like 
 Joan," suggested Joyce, 
 
 "Oh, who could hurt her!" cried mother, and fell to call- 
 ing again. Her voice, of w^iich each accent was music, al- 
 ternated with the harsh roars of Jenks. 
 
 Walter on his bicycle must have hurried, in spite of his 
 permanently punctured front tire, for it was a very short 
 time before bells rang in the steep lane from the road and 
 Superintendent Farrow himself wheeled his machine in at 
 
46 WOOD-LADIES 
 
 the gate, massive and self-possessed, a blue-clad minister of 
 comfort. He heard mother's tale, which embodied that of 
 Joyce, with a half-smile lurking in his mustache and his big 
 chin creased back against his collar. Then he nodded, exactly 
 as if he saw through the whole business and could find Joan 
 in a minute or two, and propped his bicycle against the 
 fence. 
 
 ''I understand then," he said, "that the little girl's been 
 missing for rather more than an hour. In that case, she can't 
 have got far. I sent a couple o' constables round the roads 
 be'ind the wood before I started, an' now I '11 just 'ave a 
 look through the wood myself." 
 
 "Thank you," said mother. "I don't know why I 'm so 
 nervous, but " 
 
 "Very natural, ma'am," said the big superintendent com- 
 fortingly, and went with them to the wood. 
 
 It was rather thrilling to go with him and watch him. 
 Joyce and mother had to show him the place from which Joan 
 had started and the spot at which she had disappeared. He 
 looked at them hard, frowning a little and nodding to himself, 
 and went stalking mightily among the ferns. "It was 
 'ere she went ? " he inquired, as he reached the dark path, and 
 being assured that it was, he thrust in and commenced his 
 search. The pond seemed to give him ideas, which old Jenks 
 disposed of, and he marched on till he came out to the edge 
 of the fields, where the hay was yet uncut Joan could not 
 have crossed them without leaving a track in the tall grass as 
 clear as a cart-rut. 
 
 "We 'ave to consider the possibilities of the matter," said 
 the superintendent. "Assumin' that the wood 'as been thor- 
 oughly searched, where did she get out of it?" 
 
 * ' Searched ! ' ' growled old Jenks. ' ' There ain 't a inch as 
 I 'ave n't searched an' seen — not a inch." 
 
 "The kidnappin' the'ry," went on the superintendent, ig- 
 noring him and turning to mother, "I don't incline to. 
 'Owever, we must go to work in order, an' I '11 'ave my men 
 up 'ere and make sure of the wood. All gypsies an' tramps 
 will be stopped and interrogated. I don't think there 's no 
 
PERCEVAL GIBBON 4? 
 
 cause for you to feel anxious, ma'am. I 'ope to 'ave some 
 news for you in the course of the afternoon. ' ' 
 
 They watched him free-wheel down the lane and shoot 
 round the corner. 
 
 ''Oh, dear," said mother then; "why doesn't the baby 
 come? I wish daddy weren't away." 
 
 Now that the police had entered the affair, Joyce felt that 
 there remained nothing to be done. Uniformed authority was 
 in charge of events ; it could not fail to find Joan. She had a 
 vision of the police at work, stopping straggling families of 
 tramps on distant by-roads, looking into the contents of their 
 dreadful bundles, flashing the official bull's-eye lantern into 
 the mysterious interior of gypsy caravans, and making ragged 
 men and slatternly women give an account of their wander- 
 ings. No limits to which they would not go ; how could 
 they fain She wished their success seemed as inevitable 
 to her mother as it did to her. 
 
 "They 're sure to bring her back, mother," she repeated. 
 
 "Oh, chick," said mother, "I keep telling myself so. 
 But I wish — I wish " 
 
 "What, mother?" 
 
 "I wish," said mother, in a sudden burst of speech, as if 
 she were confessing something that troubled her — "I wish 
 you hadn't seen that wood-lady." 
 
 The tall young constables and the plump fatherly sergeant 
 annoyed old Jenks by searching the wood as though he had 
 done nothing. It was a real search this time. Each of 
 them took a part of the ground and went over it as though 
 he were looking for a needle which had been lost, and no less 
 than three of them trod every inch of the bottom of the 
 Secret Pond. They took shovels and opened up an old fox's 
 earth ; and a sad-looking man in shabby plain clothes arrived 
 and walked about smoking a pipe — a detective! Up from 
 the village, too, came the big young curate and the squire's 
 two sons, civil and sympathetic and eager to be helpful ; they 
 all thought it natural that mother should be anxious, but 
 refused to credit for an instant that anything could have 
 happened to Joan. 
 
48 WOOD-LADIES 
 
 "That baby!" urged the curate. ''Why, my dear lady, 
 Joan is better known hereabouts than King George himself. 
 No one could take her a mile without having to answer ques- 
 tions. I don 't know what 's keeping her, but you may be sure 
 she 's all right." 
 
 " 'Course she is," chorused the others, swinging their sticks 
 light-heartedly. " 'Course she 's all right." 
 
 "Get her for me, then," said mother. "I don't want to 
 be silly and you 're awfully good. But I must have her; 
 I must have her. I — I want her." 
 
 The squire 's sons turned as if on an order and went toward 
 the wood. The curate lingered a moment. He was a huge 
 youth, an athlete and a gentleman, and his hard, clean- 
 shaven face could be kind and serious. 
 
 "We 're sure to get her," he said, in lower tones. "And 
 you must help us with your faith and courage. Can you?" 
 
 Mother's hand tightened on that of Joyce. 
 
 ' ' We are doing our best, ' ' she said, and smiled — she smiled ! 
 The curate nodded and went his way to the wood. 
 
 A little later in the afternoon came Colonel Warden, the 
 lord and master of all the police in the county, a gay, trim sol- 
 dier whom the children knew and liked. With him, in his big 
 automobile, were more policemen and a pair of queer liver- 
 colored dogs, all baggy skin and bleary eyes — blood-hounds ! 
 Joyce felt that this really must settle it. Actual living blood- 
 hounds would be more than a match for Joan. Colonel War- 
 den was sure of it too. 
 
 "Saves time," he was telling mother, in his high snappy 
 voice. "Shows us which way she 's gone, you know. Best 
 hounds in the country, these two ; never known 'cdi fail yet. 
 
 The dogs were limp and quiet as he led them through the 
 wood, strange ungainly mechanisms which a whiff of a scent 
 could set in motion. A pinafore which Joan had worn at 
 breakfast was served to them for an indication of the work 
 they had to do; they snuffed at it languidly for some seconds. 
 Then the colonel unleashed them. 
 
 They smelled round and about like any other dogs for a 
 while, till one of them lifted his great head and uttered a long 
 
PERCEVAL GIBBON 49 
 
 moaning cry. Then, noses down, the men running behind 
 them, they set off across the ferns. Mother, still holding 
 Joyce's hand, followed. The hounds made a straight line for 
 the wood at the point at which Joan had entered it, slid in like 
 frogs into water, while the men dodged and crashed after 
 them. Joyce and mother came up with them at a place where 
 the bushes stood back, enclosing a little quiet space of turf 
 that lay open to the sky. The hounds were here, one lying 
 down and scratching himself, the other nosing casually and 
 clearly without interest about him. 
 
 *'Dash it all," the colonel was saying; ''she can't — she 
 simply can't have been kidnapped in a balloon." 
 
 They tried the hounds again and again, always with the 
 same result. They ran their line to the same spot unhesitat- 
 ingly, and then gave up as though the scent went no further. 
 Nothing could induce them to hunt beyond it. 
 
 ''I can't understand this," said Colonel Warden, dragging 
 at his mustache. ' ' This is queer. ' ' He stood glancing around 
 him as though the shrubs and trees had suddenly become 
 enemies. 
 
 The search was still going on when the time came for Joyce 
 to go to bed. It had spread from the wood across the fields, 
 reinforced by scores of sturdy volunteers, and automobiles 
 had puffed away to thread the mesh of little lanes that cov- 
 ered the country-side. Joyce found it all terribly exciting. 
 Fear for Joan she felt not at all. 
 
 "I know inside myself," she told mother, ''right down 
 deep in the middle of me, that Joan 's all right." 
 
 "Bless you, my chick," said poor mother. "I wish I 
 could feel like that. Go to bed now, like a good girl." 
 
 There was discomfort in the sight of Joan's railed cot 
 standing empty in the night nursery, but Joyce was tired and 
 had scarcely begun to be touched by it before she was asleep. 
 She had a notion that during the night mother came in 
 more than once, and she had a vague dream, too, all about 
 Joan and wood-ladies, of which she could not remember 
 much when she woke up. Joan was always dressed first in 
 the morning, being the younger of the pair, but now there was 
 
50 WOOD-LADIES 
 
 no Joan and nurse was very gentle with Joyce and looked 
 tired and as if she had been crying. 
 
 Mother was not to be seen that morning; she had been up 
 all night, "till she broke down, poor thing," said nurse, and 
 Joyce was bidden to amuse herself quietly in the nursery. 
 But mother was about again at lunch-time when Joyce went 
 down to the dining-room. She was very pale and her eyes 
 looked black and deep, and somehow she seemed suddenly 
 smaller and younger, more nearly Joyce's age, than ever be- 
 fore. They kissed each other and the child would have tried 
 to comfort. 
 
 "No," said mother, shaking her head. "No, dear. Don't 
 let 's be sorry for each other yet. It would be like giving 
 up hope. And we haven't done that, have we?" 
 
 '^I haven't," said Joyce. "I know it 's all right." 
 
 After lunch — again mother said she would n't be hungry till 
 Joan came home — they went out together. There were no 
 searches now in the wood and the garden was empty ; the police 
 had left no inch unscanned and they were away, combing 
 the country-side and spreading terror among the tramps. 
 The sun was strong upon the lawn and the smell of the roses 
 was heavy on the air; across the hedge the land rolled away 
 to clear perspectives of peace and beauty. 
 
 "Let 's walk up and down," suggested mother. *' Any- 
 thing 's better than sitting still. And don't talk, chick — not 
 just now." 
 
 They paced the length of the lawn, from the cedar to the 
 gate which led to the wood, perhaps a dozen times, hand in 
 hand and in silence. It was while their backs were turned 
 to the wood that they heard the gate click, and faced about to 
 see who was coming. A blue-sleeved arm thrust the gate 
 open and there advanced into the sunlight, coming forth from 
 the shadow as from a doorway — Joan ! Her round baby face, 
 with the sleek brown hair over it, the massive infantile body, 
 the sturdy bare legs, confronted them serenely. Mother ut- 
 tered a deep sigh — it sounded like that — and in a moment 
 she was kneeling on the ground with her arms round the 
 baby." 
 
PERCEVAL GIBBON 51 
 
 < ( 
 
 
 Joan, Joan," she said^ over and over again. '*My little, 
 little baby ! " 
 
 Joan struggled in her embrace till she got an arm free and 
 then rubbed her eyes drowsily. 
 
 ' ' Hallo ! " she said. 
 
 "But where have you been?" cried mother. ''Baby-girl, 
 where have you been all this time?" 
 
 Joan made a motion of her head and her free arm toward 
 the wood, the wood which had been searched a dozen times 
 over like a pocket. "In there," she answered carelessly. 
 
 Wiv the wood-ladies. I 'm hungry ! ' ' 
 My darling!" said mother, and picked her up and car- 
 ried her into the house. 
 
 In the dining-room, with mother at her side and Joyce 
 opposite to her, Joan fell to her food in her customary work- 
 man-like fashion, and between helpings answered questions 
 in a fashion which only served to darken the mystery of her 
 absence. 
 
 "But there aren't any wood-ladies really, darling," re- 
 monstrated mother. 
 
 "There is," said Joan. "There 's lots. They wanted to 
 keep me but I wouldn't stay. So I comed home, 'cause I 
 was hungry." 
 
 "But,** began mother, "where did they take you to?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "I don't know," said Joan. "The one what I went to 
 speak to gave me her hand and tooked me to where there 
 was more of them. It was a place in the wood wiv grass to 
 sit on and bushes all round, and they gave me dead flowers to 
 play wiv. Howwid old dead flowers ! ' ' 
 
 " Yes ? " said mother. ' ' What else ? ' ' 
 
 There was anuvver little girl there," went on Joan. 1 
 Not a wood-lady, but a girl like me, what they 'd tooked 
 from somewhere. She was wearing a greeny sort of dress like \ 
 they was, and they wanted me to put one on too. But I i 
 wouldn't." ! 
 
 Why would n 't you ? ' ' asked Joyce. 
 Cause I didi^'t want to be a wood-lady," replied Joan. 
 
 ( < 
 
 (i u 
 
52 WOOD-LADIES - 
 
 ''Listen to me, darling," said mother. "Didn't these 
 people whom you call wood-ladies take you away out of the 
 wood? We searched the whole wood, you know, and you 
 weren't there at all." 
 
 ''I was," said Joan. ''I was there all the time an' I 
 heard Walter an' Jenks calling. I cocked a snook at them 
 an' the wood-ladies laughed like leaves rustling." 
 
 **But where did you sleep last night?" 
 
 *'I didn't sleep," said Joan, grasping her spoon anew. 
 **I 'se very sleepy now." 
 
 She was asleep as soon as they laid her in bed, and mother 
 and Joyce looked at each other across her cot, above her rosy 
 and unconscious face. 
 
 ''God help us," said mother, in a whisper. "What is the 
 truth of this?" 
 
 There was never any answer, any hint of a solution, save 
 Joan's. And she, as soon as she discovered that her experi- 
 ences amounted to an adventure, began to embroider them, 
 and now she does not even know herself. She has reached 
 the age of seven, and it is long since she has believed in any- 
 thing so childish as wood-ladies. 
 
ON THE FEVER SHIP^ 
 
 By RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 
 
 There were four rails around the ship's sides, the three 
 lower ones of iron and the one on top of wood, and as he 
 looked between them from the canvas cot he recognized them 
 as the prison-bars which held him in. Outside his prison lay 
 a stretch of blinding blue water which ended in a line of 
 breakers and a yellow coast with ragged palms. Beyond that 
 again rose a range of mountain-peaks, and, stuck upon the 
 loftiest peak of all, a tiny block-house. It rested on the brow 
 of the mountain against the naked sky as impudently as a 
 cracker-box set upon the dome of a great cathedral. 
 
 As the transport rode on her anchor-chains, the iron bars 
 around her sides rose and sank and divided the landscape 
 with parallel lines. From his cot the officer followed this 
 phenomenon with severe, painstaking interest. Sometimes the 
 wooden rail swept up to the very block-house itself, and for 
 a second of time blotted it from sight. And again it sank to 
 the level of the line of breakers, and wiped them out of the 
 picture as though they were a line of chalk. 
 
 The soldier on the cot promised himself that the next swell 
 of the sea would send the lowest rail climbing to the very top 
 of the palm-trees or, even higher, to the base of the moun- 
 tains ; and when it failed to reach even the palm-trees he felt 
 a distinct sense of ill use, of having been wronged by some 
 one. There was no other reason for submitting to this ex- 
 istence save these tricks upon the wearisome, glaring land- 
 scape; and now, whoever it was who was working them did 
 not seem to be making this effort to entertain him with any 
 heartiness. 
 
 1 From The Lion and the Unicom. Copyright, 1899, by Charles Scrib- 
 ner's Sons. 
 
 53 
 
54 ON THE FEVER SHIP 
 
 It was most cruel. Indeed, he decided hotly, it was not to 
 be endured; he would bear it no longer, he would make his 
 escape. But he knew that this move, which could be con- 
 ceived in a moment's desperation, could only be carried to 
 success with great strategy, secrecy, and careful cunning. 
 So he fell back upon his pillow and closed his eyes, as though 
 he were asleep, and then opening them again, turned cau- 
 tiously, and spied upon his keeper. As usual, his keeper sat 
 at the foot of the cot turning the pages of a huge paper filled 
 with pictures of the war printed in daubs of tawdry colors. 
 His keeper was a hard-faced boy without human pity or 
 consideration, a very devil of obstinacy and fiendish cruelty. 
 To make it worse, the fiend was a person without a collar, in a 
 suit of soiled khaki, with a curious red cross bound by a 
 safety-pin to his left arm. He was intent upon the paper in 
 his hands ; he was holding it between his eyes and his prisoner. 
 His vigilance had relaxed, and the moment seemed propitious. 
 With a sudden plunge of arms and legs, the prisoner swept 
 the bed-sheet from him, and sprang at the wooden rail and 
 grasped the iron stanchion beside it. He had his knee pressed 
 against the top bar and his bare toes on the iron rail beneath 
 it. Below him the blue water waited for him. It was cool 
 and dark and gentle and deep. It would certainly put out 
 the fire in his bones, he thought ; it might even shut out the 
 glare of the sun which scorched his eyeballs. 
 
 But as he balanced for the leap, a swift weakness and 
 nausea swept over him, a weight seized upon his body and 
 limbs. He could not lift the lower foot from the iron rail, 
 and he swayed dizzily and trembled. He trembled. He who 
 had raced his men and beaten them up the hot hill to the 
 trenches of San Juan. But now he was a baby in the hands 
 of a giant, who caught him by the wrist and with an iron arm 
 clasped him around his waist and pulled him down, and 
 shouted, brutally, ''Help, some of youse, quick! he 's at it 
 again. I can't hold him." 
 
 More giants grasped him by the arms and by the legs. 
 One of them took the hand that clung to the stanchion in 
 
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 55 
 
 both of his, and pulled back the fingers one by one, saymg, 
 ''Easy now, Lieutenant — easy." 
 
 The ragged palms and the sea and block-house were swal- 
 lowed up in a black fog, and his body touched the canvas cot 
 again with a sense of home-coming and relief and rest. He 
 wondered how he could have cared to escape from it. He 
 found it so good to be back again that for a long time he 
 wept quite happily, until the fiery pillow was moist and 
 cool. 
 
 The world outside of the iron bars was like a scene in a 
 theater set for some great event, but the actors were never 
 ready. He remembered confusedly a play he had once wit- 
 nessed before that same .scene. Indeed, he believed he had 
 played some small part in it ; but he remembered it dimly, and 
 all trace of the men Avho had appeared with him in it w^as 
 gone. He had reasoned it out that they were up there be- 
 hind the range of mountains, because great heavy wagons and 
 ambulances and cannon were emptied from the ships at the 
 wharf above and were drawn away in long lines behind the 
 ragged palms, moving always toward the passes between the 
 peaks. At times he was disturbed by the thought that he 
 should be up and after them, that some tradition of duty 
 made his presence with them imperative. There was much 
 to be done back of the mountains. Some event of momentous 
 import was being carried forward there, in which he held a 
 part ; but the doubt soon passed from him, and he was content 
 to lie and watch the iron bars rising and falling between the 
 block-house and the w^hite surf. 
 
 If they had been only humanely kind, his lot would have 
 been bearable, but they starved him and held him down when 
 he wished to rise ; and they would not put out the fire in the 
 pillow, which they might easily have done by the simple ex- 
 pedient of throwing it over the ship's side into the sea. He 
 himself had done this twice, but the keeper had immediatelj^ 
 brought a fresh pillow already heated for the torture and 
 forced it under his head. 
 
 His pleasures were very simple, and so few he could not 
 
56 ON THE FEVER SHIP 
 
 understand why they robbed him of them so jealously. One 
 was to watch a green cluster of bananas that hung above him 
 from the awning, twirling on a string. He could count as 
 many of them as five before the bunch turned and swung 
 lazily back again, when he could count as high as twelve; 
 sometimes when the ship rolled heavily he could count to 
 twenty. It was a most fascinating game, and contented him 
 for many hours. But when they found this out they sent 
 for the cook to come and cut them down, and the cook carried 
 them away to his galley. 
 
 Then, one day, a man came out from the shore, swimming 
 through the blue water with great splashes. He was a most 
 charming man, who spluttered and dove and twisted and lay 
 on his back and kicked his legs in an excess of content and 
 delight. It was a real pleasure to watch him; not for days 
 had anything so amusing appeared on the other side of the 
 prison-bars. But as soon as the keeper saw that the man in 
 the water was amusing his prisoner, he leaned over the ship's 
 side and shouted, ' ' Sa-ay, you, don 't you know there 's sharks 
 in there?" 
 
 And the swimming man raced back to the shore like a 
 porpoise with great lashing of the water, and ran up the 
 beach half-way to the palms before he was satisfied to stop. 
 Then the prisoner wept again. It was so disappointing. 
 Life was robbed of everything now. He remembered that 
 in a previous existence soldiers who cried were laughed at 
 and mocked. But that was so far away and it was such an 
 absurd superstition that he had no patience with it. For 
 what could be more comforting to a man when he is treated 
 cruelly than to cry. It was so obvious an exercise, and when 
 one is so feeble that one cannot vault a four-railed barrier 
 it is something to feel that at least one is strong enough to 
 cry. 
 
 He escaped occasionally, traversing space with marvellous 
 rapidity and to great distances, but never to any successful 
 purpose; and his flight inevitably ended in ignominious re- 
 capture and a sudden awakening in bed. At these moments 
 the familiar and hated palms, the peaks, and the block-house 
 
RICHAEB HARDING DAVIS 57 
 
 were more hideous in their reality than the most terrifying 
 of his nightmares. 
 
 These excursions afield were always predatory ; he went 
 forth always to seek food. With all the beautiful world from 
 which to elect and choose, he sought out only those places 
 where eating was studied and elevated to an art. These 
 visits were much more vivid in their detail than any he had 
 ever before made to these same resorts. They invariably be- 
 gan in a carriage, which carried him swiftly over smooth 
 asphalt. One route brought him across a great and beautiful 
 square, radiating with rows and rows of flickering lights; 
 two fountains splashed in the center of the square, and six 
 women of stone guarded its approaches. One of the w^omen 
 was hung with wreaths of mourning. Ahead of him the late 
 twilight darkened behind a great arch, which seemed to rise 
 on the horizon of the world, a great window into the heavens 
 beyond. At either side strings of white and colored globes 
 hung among the trees, and the sound of music came joyfully 
 from theaters in the open air. He knew the restaurant under 
 the trees to which he was now hastening, and the fountain 
 beside it, and the very sparrows balancing on the fountain's 
 edge; he knew every waiter at each of the tables, he felt 
 again the gravel crunching under his feet, he saw the maitre 
 d'hotel coming forward smiling to receive his command, and 
 the waiter in the green apron bowing at his elbow, deferential 
 and important, presenting the list of wines. But his adven- 
 ture never passed that point, for he was captured again and 
 once more bound to his cot with a close burning sheet. 
 
 Or else, he drove more sedately through the London streets 
 in the late evening twilight, leaning expectantly across the 
 doors of the hansom and pulling carefully at his white gloves. 
 Other hansoms flashed past him, the occupant of each with 
 his mind fixed on one idea — dinner. He was one of a million 
 of people who were about to dine, or who had dined, or who 
 were deep in dining. He was so famished, so weak for food 
 of any quality, that the galloping horse in the hansom seemed 
 to crawl. The lights of the Embankment passed like the 
 lamps of a railroad station as seen from the window of an 
 
58 ON THE FEVER iSHlP 
 
 express ; and while his mind was still torn between the choice 
 of a thin or thick soup or an immediate attack upon cold 
 beef, he was at the door, and the chasseur touched his cap, and 
 the little chasseur put the wicker guard over the hansom's 
 wheel. As he jumped out he said, "Give him half-a-crown, " 
 and the driver called after him, "Thank you, sir." 
 
 It was a beautiful world, this world outside of the iron 
 bars. Everyone in it contributed to his pleasure and to 
 his comfort. In this world he was not starved nor man- 
 handled. He thought of this joyfully as he leaped up the 
 stairs, where young men with grave faces and with their hands 
 held negligently behind their backs bowed to him in polite 
 surprise at his speed. But they had not been starved on 
 condensed milk. He threw his coat and hat at one of them, 
 and came down the hall fearfully and quite weak with dread 
 lest it should not be real. His voice was shaking when he 
 asked Ellis if he had reserved a table. The place was all so 
 real, it must be true this time. The way Ellis turned and 
 ran his finger down the list showed it was real, because Ellis 
 always did that, even when he knew there would not be an 
 empty table for an hour. The room was crowded with beau- 
 tiful women; under the light of the red shades they looked 
 kind and approachable, and there was food on every table, 
 and iced drinks in silver buckets. It was with the joy of 
 great relief that he heard Ellis say to his underling, ^"Numero 
 cinq, sur la terrace, un couvert.'^ It was real at last. Out- 
 side, the Thames lay a great gray shadow. The lights of the 
 Embankment flashed and twinkled across it, the tower of the 
 House of Commons rose against the sky, and here, inside, the 
 waiter was hurrying toward him carrying a smoking plate of 
 rich soup with a pungent, intoxicating odor. 
 
 And then the ragged palms, the glaring sun, the immovable 
 peaks, and the white surf stood again before him. The iron 
 rails swept up and sank again, the fever sucked at his bones, 
 and the pillow scorched his cheek. 
 
 One morning for a brief moment he came back to real life 
 again and lay quite still, seeing everything about him with 
 clear eyes and for the first time, as though he had but just 
 
) > 
 
 ? > 
 
 RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 59 
 
 that instant been lifted over the ship's side. His keeper, 
 glancing up, found the prisoner's eyes considering him curi- 
 ously, and recognized the change. The instinct of discipline 
 brought him to his feet with his fingers at his sides. 
 
 "Is the Lieutenant feeling better?" 
 
 The Lieutenant surveyed him gravely. 
 
 "You are one of our hospital stewards. 
 
 "Yes, Lieutenant." 
 
 "Why aren't you with the regiment? 
 
 "I was wounded, too, sir. I got it same time you did. 
 Lieutenant. ' ' 
 
 * ' Am I wounded ? Of course, I remember. Is this a hospi- 
 tal ship ? ' ' 
 
 The steward shrugged his shoulders. "She 's one of the 
 transports. They have turned her over to the fever cases." 
 
 The Lieutenant opened his lips to ask another question ; 
 but his own body answered that one, and for a moment he lay 
 silent. 
 
 "Do they know up North that I — that I 'm all right?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, the papers had it in — there were pictures of the 
 Lieutenant in some of them." 
 
 "Then I 've been ill some time?" 
 
 *'0h, about eight days." 
 
 The soldier moved uneasily, and the nurse in him became 
 uppermost. 
 
 ' ' I guess the Lieutenant had n 't better talk any more, ' ' he 
 said. It was his voice now which held authority. 
 
 The Lieutenant looked out at the palms and the silent 
 gloomy mountains and the empty coastline, where the same 
 wave was rising and falling with weary persistence. 
 
 "Eight days," he said. His eyes shut quickly, as though 
 with a sudden touch of pain. He turned his head and 
 sought for the figure at the foot of the cot. Already" the 
 figure had grown faint and was receding and swaying. 
 
 "Has anyone written or cabled?" the Lieutenant spoke, 
 hurriedly. He was fearful lest the figure should disappear 
 altogether before he could obtain his answer. "Has anyone 
 come ? ' ' 
 
60 ON THE FEVER SHIP 
 
 **Why, they couldn't get here. Lieutenant, not yet." 
 
 The voice came very faintly. "You go to sleep now, and 
 I '11 run and fetch some letters and telegrams. When you 
 wake up, maybe I '11 have a lot for you." 
 
 But the Lieutenant caught the nurse by the wrist, and 
 crushed his hand in his own thin fingers. They were hot, and 
 left the steward's skin wet with perspiration. The Lieuten- 
 ant laughed gayly. 
 
 ''You see, Doctor," he said, briskly, "that you can't kill 
 me. I can 't die. I 've got to live, you understand. Because, 
 sir, she said she would come. She said if I was wounded, or 
 if I was ill, she would come to me. She didn't care what 
 people thought. She would come anyway and nurse me — 
 well, she will come. ' ' 
 
 "So, Doctor — old man — " He plucked at the steward's 
 sleeve, and stroked his hand eagerly, "old man — " he began 
 again, beseechingly, "you '11 not let me die until she comes, 
 will you? What? No, I know I won't die. Nothing made 
 by man can kill me. No, not until she comes. Then, after 
 that — eight days, she '11 be here soon, any moment? What? 
 You think so, too? Don't you? Surely, yes, any moment. 
 Yes, I '11 go to sleep now, and when you see her rowing out 
 from shore you wake me. You '11 know her ; you can 't make 
 a mistake. She is like — no, there is no one like her — but you 
 can't make a mistake." 
 
 That day strange figures began to mount the sides of the 
 ship, and to occupy its every turn and angle of space. Some 
 of them fell on their knees and slapped the bare deck with 
 their hands, and laughed and cried out, ' ' Thank God, I '11 see 
 God's country again!" Some of them were regulars, bound 
 in bandages; some were volunteers, dirty and hollow-eyed, 
 with long beards on boys' faces. Some came on crutches; 
 others with their arms around the shoulders of their comrades, 
 staring ahead of them with a fixed smile, their lips drawn 
 back and their teeth protruding. At every second step they 
 stumbled, and the face of each was swept by swift ripples of 
 pain. 
 
 They lay on cots so close together that the nurses could 
 
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 61 
 
 not walk between them. They lay on the wet decks, in the 
 scuppers and along the transoms and hatches. They were 
 like shipwrecked mariners clinging to a raft, and they asked 
 nothing more than that the ship's bow be turned toward 
 home. Once satisfied as to that, they relaxed into a state of 
 self-pity and miserable oblivion to their environment, from 
 which hunger nor nausea nor aching bones could shake them. 
 
 The hospital steward touched the Lieutenant lightly on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "We are going North, sir/' he said. *'The transport 's 
 ordered North to New York, with these volunteers and the 
 sick and the wounded. Do you hear me, sir?" 
 
 The Lieutenant opened his eyes. "Has she come?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Gee!" exclaimed the hospital steward. He glanced im- 
 patiently at the blue mountains and the yellow coast, from 
 which the transport was rapidly drawing away. 
 
 "Well, I can't see her coming just now," he said. "But 
 she will," he added. 
 
 "You let me know at once when she comes." 
 
 "Why, cert'nly, of course," said the steward. 
 
 Three trained nurses came over the side just before the 
 transport started North. One was a large, motherly looking 
 woman, with a German accent. She had been a trained nurse, 
 first in Berlin, and later in the London Hospital in White- 
 chapel, and at Bellevue. The nurse was dressed in white, 
 and wore a little silver medal at her throat; and she was 
 strong enough to lift a volunteer out of his cot and hold him 
 easily in her arms, while one of the convalescents pulled his 
 cot out of the rain. Some of the men called her "nurse"; 
 others, who wore scapulars around their necks, called her 
 "Sister"; and the officers of the medical staff addressed her 
 as Miss Bergen. 
 
 Miss Bergen halted beside the cot of the Lieutenant and 
 asked, "Is this the fever case you spoke about. Doctor — the 
 one you want moved to the officers' ward?" She slipped her 
 hand up under his sleeve and felt his wrist. 
 
 His pulse is very high," she said to the steward. "When 
 
 i i 
 
62 ON THE FEVER SHIP 
 
 did you take his temperature?*' She drew a little morocco 
 case from her pocket and from that took a clinical thermome- 
 ter, which she shook up and down, eying the patient mean- 
 while with a calm, impersonal scrutiny. The Lieutenant 
 raised his head and stared up at the white figure beside his 
 cot. His eyes opened and then shut quickly, with a startled 
 look, in which doubt struggled with wonderful happiness. 
 His hand stole out fearfully and warily until it touched her 
 apron, and then, finding it was real, he clutched it desper- 
 ately, and twisting his face and body toward her, pulled her 
 down, clasping her hands in both of his, and pressing them 
 close to his face and eyes and lips. He put them from him 
 for an instant, and looked at her through his tears. 
 
 *' Sweetheart, " he whispered, "sweetheart, I knew you 'd 
 come. ' ' 
 
 As the nurse knelt on the deck beside him, her thermometer 
 slipped from her fingers and broke, and she gave an exclama- 
 tion of annoyance. The young Doctor picked up the pieces 
 and tossed them overboard. Neither of them spoke, but they 
 smiled appreciatively. The Lieutenant was looking at the 
 nurse with the wonder and hope and hunger of soul in his 
 eyes with which a dying man looks at the cross the priest 
 holds up before him. What he saw where the German nurse 
 was kneeling was a tall, fair girl with great bands and masses 
 of hair, with a head rising like a lily from a firm, white 
 throat, set on broad shoulders above a straight back and 
 sloping breast — a tall, beautiful creature, half-girl, half- 
 woman, who looked back at him shyly, but steadily. 
 
 "Listen," he said. 
 
 The voice of the sick man was so sure and so sane that the 
 young Doctor started, and moved nearer to the head of the 
 cot. "Listen, dearest," the Lieutenant whispered. "I 
 wanted to tell you before I came South. But I did not dare ; 
 and then I was afraid something might happen to me, and I 
 could never tell you, and you would never know. So I wrote 
 it to you in the will I made at Baiquiri, the night before the 
 landing. If you had n 't come now, you would have learned 
 it in that way. You would have read there that there never 
 
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 63 
 
 was anyone but you ; the rest were all dream people, foolish, 
 silly — mad. There is no one else in the world but you ; you 
 have been the only thing in life that has counted. I thought 
 I might do something down here that would make you care. 
 But I got shot going up a hill, and after that I was n 't able 
 to do anything. It was very hot, and the hills were on fire; 
 and they took me prisoner, and kept me tied down here, 
 burning on these coals. I can't live much longer, but now 
 that I 've told you I can have peace. They tried to kill me 
 before you came ; but they did n 't know I loved you, they 
 didn't know that men who love you can't die. They tried 
 to starve my love for you, to burn it out of me ; they tried to 
 reach it with their knives. But my love for you is my soul, 
 and they can't kill a man's soul. Dear heart, I have lived 
 because you lived. Now that you know — now that you under- 
 stand — what does it matter ? ' ' 
 
 Miss Bergen shook her head with great vigor. ' ' Nonsense, ' ' 
 she said, cheerfully. "You are not going to die. As soon 
 as we move you out of this rain, and some food cook " 
 
 "Good God!" cried the young Doctor, savagely. "Do you 
 want to kill him?" 
 
 When she spoke, the patient had thrown his arms heavily 
 across his face, and had fallen back, lying rigid on the pillow. 
 
 The Doctor led the way across the prostrate bodies, apolo- 
 gizing as he went. "I am sorry I spoke so quickly," he said, 
 "but he thought you were real. I mean he thought you were 
 some one he really knew " 
 
 "He was just delirious," said the German nurse, calmly. 
 
 The Doctor mixed himself a Scotch and soda and drank it 
 with a single gesture. 
 
 "Ugh!" he said to the ward-room. "I feel as though I 'd 
 been opening another man's letters." 
 
 The transport drove through the empty seas with heavy, 
 clumsy upheavals, rolling like a buoy. Having been originally 
 intended for the freight-carrying trade, she had no sympathy 
 with hearts that beat for a sight of their native land, or for 
 lives that counted their remaining minutes by the throbbing 
 
64 ON THE FEVER SHIP 
 
 of her engines. Occasionally, without apparent reason, she 
 was thrown violently from her course; but it was invariably 
 the case that when her stern went to starboard, something 
 splashed in the water on her port side and drifted past her, 
 until, when it had cleared the blades of her propeller, a 
 voice cried out, and she was swung back on her home-bound 
 track again. 
 
 The Lieutenant missed the familiar palms and the tiny 
 block-house; and seeing nothing beyond the iron rails but 
 great wastes of gray water, he decided he was on board a 
 prison-ship, or that he had been strapped to a raft and cast 
 adrift. People came for hours at a time and stood at the 
 foot of his cot, and talked with him and he to them — people 
 he had loved and people he had long forgotten, some of whom 
 he had thought were dead. One of them he could have sworn 
 he had seen buried in a deep trench, and covered with 
 branches of palmetto. He had heard the bugler, with tears 
 choking him, sound ''taps"; and with his own hand he had 
 placed the dead man's campaign hat on the mound of fresh 
 earth above the grave. Yet here he was still alive, and he 
 came with other men of his troop to speak to him ; but when 
 he reached out to them they were gone — the real and the un- 
 real, the dead and the living — and even She disappeared 
 whenever he tried to take her hand, and sometimes the hospi- 
 tal steward drove her away. 
 
 **Did that young lady say when she was coming back 
 again?" he asked the steward. 
 
 ' ' The young lady ! What young lady ? ' ' asked the steward, 
 wearily. 
 
 "The one who has been sitting there," he answered. He 
 pointed with his gaunt hand at the man in the next cot. 
 
 "Oh, that young lady. Yes, she 's coming back. She 's 
 just gone below to fetch you some hard-tack." 
 
 The young volunteer in the next cot whined grievously. 
 
 "That crazy man gives me the creeps," he groaned. "He 's 
 always waking me up, and looking at me as though he was 
 going to eat me," 
 
 Shut your head," said the steward. "He 's a better man 
 
 < ( 
 
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 65 
 
 crazy than you '11 ever be with the little sense you 've got. 
 And he has two Mauser holes in him. Crazy, eh? It 's a 
 good thing for you that there was about four thousand of us 
 regulars just as crazy as him, or you 'd never seen the top of 
 the hill." 
 
 One morning there was a great commotion on deck, and 
 all the convalescents balanced themselves on the rail, shiver- 
 ing m their pajamas, and pointed one way. The transport 
 was moving swiftly and smoothly through water as flat as a 
 lake, and making a great noise with her steam-whistle. The 
 noise was echoed by many more steam-whistles; and the 
 ghosts of out-bound ships and tugs and excursion steamers 
 ran past her out of the mist and disappeared, saluting joy- 
 ously. All of the excursion steamers had a heavy list to the 
 side nearest the transport, and the ghosts on them crowded 
 to that rail and waved handkerchiefs and cheered. The fog 
 lifted suddenly, and between the iron rails the Lieutenant 
 saw high green hills on either side of a great harbor. Houses 
 and trees and thousands of masts swept past like a panorama ; 
 and beyond was a mirage of three cities, with curling smoke- 
 wreaths, and sky-reaching buildings, and a great swinging 
 bridge, and a giant statue of woman waving a welcome home. 
 
 The Lieutenant surveyed the spectacle with cynical dis- 
 belief. He was far too wise and far too cunning to be be- 
 witched by it. In his heart he pitied the men about him, 
 who laughed wildly, and shouted, and climbed recklessly to 
 the rails and ratlines. He had been deceived too often not 
 to know that it was not real. He knew from cruel experience 
 that in a few moments the tall buildings would crumble away, 
 the thousands of columns of white smoke that flashed like 
 snow in the sun, the busy, shrieking tug-boats, and the great 
 statue would vanish into the sea, leaving it gray and bare. 
 He closed his eyes and shut the vision out. It was so beau- 
 tiful that it tempted him: but he would not be mocked, and 
 he buried his face in his hands. They were carrying the 
 farce too far, he thought. It was really too absurd ; for now 
 they were at a wharf which was so real that, had he not known 
 by previous suffering, he would have been utterly deceived by 
 
66 ON THE FEVER SHIP 
 
 it. And there were great crowds of smiling, cheering people, 
 and a waiting guard of honor in fresh uniforms, and rows of 
 police pushing the people this way and that; and these men 
 about him were taking it all quite seriously and making ready 
 to disembark, carrying their blanket-rolls and rifles with 
 them. 
 
 A band was playing joyously, and the man in the next 
 cot, who was being lifted to a stretcher, said, ''There 's the 
 Governor and his staff; that 's him in the high hat." It was 
 really very well done. The Custom-house and the Elevated 
 Railroad and Castle Garden were as like to life as a photo- 
 graph, and the crowd was as well handled as a mob in a 
 play. His heart ached for it so that he could not bear the 
 pain, and he turned his back on it. It was cruel to keep it 
 up so long. His keeper lifted him in his arms, and pulled 
 him into a dirty uniform which had belonged, apparently, 
 to a much larger man — a man who had been killed probably, 
 for there were dark-brown marks of blood on the tunic and 
 breeches. When he tried to stand on his feet. Castle Garden 
 and the Battery disappeared in a black cloud of night, just 
 as he knew they would; but when he opened his eyes from 
 the stretcher, they had returned again. It was a most re- 
 markably vivid vision. They kept it up so well. Now the 
 young Doctor and the hospital steward were pretending to 
 carry him down a gangplank and into an open space ; and 
 he saw quite close to him a long line of policemen, and be- 
 hind them thousands of faces, some of them women's faces — 
 women who pointed at him and then shook their heads and 
 cried, and pressed their hands to their cheeks, still looking at 
 him. He wondered why they cried. He did not know them, 
 nor did they know him. No one knew him ; these people 
 were only ghosts. 
 
 There was a quick parting in the crowd. A man he had 
 once known shoved two of the policemen to one side, and he 
 heard a girl 's voice speaking his name, like a sob ; and She 
 came running out across the open space and fell on her knees 
 beside the stretcher, and bent down over him, and he was 
 clasped in two young, firm arms. 
 
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 67 
 
 **0f course it is not real, of course it is not She," he as- 
 sured himself. "Because She would not do such a thing. 
 Before all these people She would not do it." 
 
 But he trembled and his heart throbbed so cruelly that he 
 could not bear the pain. 
 
 She was pretending to cry. 
 
 "They wired us you had started for Tampa on the hospital 
 ship," She was saying, "and Aunt and I went all the way 
 there before we heard you had been sent North. We have 
 been on the cars a week. That is why I missed you. Do you 
 understand? It was not my fault. I tried to come. In- 
 deed, I tried to come." 
 
 She turned her head and looked up fearfully at the young 
 Doctor. 
 
 "Tell me, why does he look at me like that?" she asked. 
 "He doesn't know me. Is he very ill? Tell me the truth." 
 She drew in her breath quickly. * ' Of course you will tell me 
 the truth." 
 
 When she asked the question he felt her arms draw tight 
 about his shoulders. It was as though she was holding him 
 to herself, and from someone who had reached out for him. 
 In his trouble he turned to his old friend and keeper. His 
 voice was hoarse and very low. 
 
 "Is this the same young lady who was on the transport — 
 the one you used to drive away?" 
 
 In his embarrassment, the hospital steward blushed under 
 his tan, and stammered. 
 
 "Of course it 's the same young lady," the Doctor an- 
 swered, briskly. "And I won't let them drive her away." 
 He turned to her, smiling gravely. "I think his condition 
 has ceased to be dangerous, Madam," he said. 
 
 People who, in a former existence, had been his friends, and 
 Her brother^ gathered about his stretcher and bore !him 
 through the crowd and lifted him into a carriage filled with 
 cushions, among which he sank lower and lower. Then She 
 sat beside him, and he heard Her brother say to the coach- 
 man, "Home, and drive slowly and keep on the asphalt." 
 
 The carriage moved forward, and She put her arm about 
 
68 ON THE FEVER SHIP 
 
 him, and his head fell on her shoulder, and neither of them 
 spoke. The vision had lasted so long now that he was torn 
 with the joy that after all it might be real. But he could 
 not bear the awakening if it were not, so he raised his head 
 fearfully and looked up into the beautiful eyes above him. 
 His brows were knit, and he struggled with a great doubt 
 and an awful joy. 
 
 Dearest,'^ he said, "is it realT' 
 Is it real?" she repeated. 
 
 Even as a dream, it was so wonderfully beautiful that he 
 was satisfied if it could only continue so, if but for a little 
 while. 
 
 "Do you think," he begged again, trembling, "that it is 
 going to last much longer?" 
 
 She smiled, and bending her head slowly, kissed him. 
 It is going to last — always," she said. 
 
 ( i 
 i i 
 
 (< 
 
A SOURCE OF IRRITATION 
 By STACY AUMONIER 
 
 To LOOK at old Sam Gates you would never suspect him of 
 having nerves. His sixty-nine years of close application to 
 the needs of the soil had given him a certain earthy stolidity. 
 To observe him hoeing, or thinning out a broad field of tur- 
 nips, hardly attracted one 's attention, he seemed so much part 
 and parcel of the whole scheme. He blended into the soil 
 like a glorified swede. Nevertheless, the half-dozen people 
 who claimed his acquaintance knew him to be a man who 
 suffered from little moods of irritability. 
 
 And on this glorious morning a little incident annoyed him 
 unreasonably. It concerned his niece, Aggie. She was a 
 plump girl with clear, blue eyes, and a face as round and 
 inexpressive as the dumplings for which the county was 
 famous. She came slowly across the long sweep of the down- 
 land and, putting down the bundle wrapped in a red hand- 
 kerchief which contained his breakfast and dinner, she said: 
 
 ''Well, Uncle, is there any noos?" 
 
 Now, this may not appear to the casual reader to be a 
 remark likely to cause irritation, but it affected old Sam Gates 
 as a very silly and unnecessary question. It was, moreover, 
 the constant repetition of it which was beginning to anger him. 
 He met his niece twice a day. In the morning she brought 
 his bundle of food at seven, and when he passed his sister's 
 cottage on the way home to tea at five she was invariably hang- 
 ing about the gate, and she always said in the same voice: 
 
 "Well, Uncle, is there any noos?" 
 
 Noos! What noos should there be? For sixty-nine years 
 
 he had never lived farther than five miles from Halvesham. 
 
 For nearly sixty of those years he had bent his back above 
 
 the soil. There were, indeed, historic occasions. Once, for 
 
 69 
 
70 A SOURCE OF IRRITATION 
 
 instance, when lie had married Annie Hachet. And there was 
 the birth of his daughter. There was also a famous occasion 
 when he had visited London. Once he had been to a flower- 
 show at Market Roughborough. He either went or didn't 
 go to church on Sundays. He had had many interesting chats 
 with Mr. James at the Cowman, and three years ago had sold a 
 pig to Mrs. Way. But he couldn't always have interesting 
 noos of this sort up his sleeve. Did n 't the silly zany know 
 that for the last three weeks he had been hoeing and thinning 
 out turnips for Mr. Hodge on this very same field? What 
 noos could there be? 
 
 He blinked at his niece, and did n 't answer. She undid the 
 parcel and said : 
 
 Mrs. Goping's fowl got out again last night." 
 
 "Ah," he replied in a non-committal manner and began to 
 munch his bread and bacon. His niece picked up the hand- 
 kerchief and, humming to herself, walked back across the field. 
 
 It was a glorious morning, and a white sea mist added to 
 the promise of a hot day. He sat there munching, thinking of 
 nothing in particular, but gradually subsiding into a mood of 
 placid content. He noticed the back of Aggie disappear in 
 the distance. It was a mile to the cottage and a mile and a 
 half to Halvesham. Silly things, girls. They were all alike. 
 One had to make allowances. He dismissed her from his 
 thoughts, and took a long swig of tea out of a bottle. Insects 
 buzzed lazily. He tapped his pocket to assure himself that 
 his pouch of shag was there, and then he continued munching. 
 When he had finished, he lighted his pipe and stretched him- 
 self comfortably. He looked along the line of turnips he had 
 thinned and then across the adjoining field of swedes. Silver 
 streaks appeared on the sea below the mist. In some dim way 
 he felt happy in his solitude amidst this sweeping immensity 
 of earth and sea and sky. 
 
 And then something else came to irritate him : it was one of 
 ''these dratted airyplanes." * * Airyplanes " were his pet 
 aversion. He could find nothing to be said in their favor. 
 Nasty, noisy, disfiguring things that seared the heavens and 
 made the earth dangerous. And every day there seemed to be 
 
STACY AUMONIER 71 
 
 more and more of them. Of course *Hhis old war'* was re- 
 sponsible for a lot of them, he knew. The war was a ''plaguy 
 noosance." They were short-handed on the farm, beer and 
 tobacco were dear, and Mrs. Steven's nephew had been and 
 got wounded in the foot. 
 
 He turned his attention once more to the turnips; but an 
 ''airyplane" has an annoying genius for gripping one's atten- 
 tion. When it appears on the scene, however much we dislike 
 it, it has a way of taking the stage-center. We cannot help 
 constantly looking at it. And so it was with old Sam Gates. 
 He spat on his hands and blinked up at the sky. And sud- 
 denly the aeroplane behaved in a very extraordinary manner. 
 It was well over the sea when it seemed to lurch drunkenly 
 and skimmed the water. Then it shot up at a dangerous angle 
 and zigzagged. It started to go farther out, and then turned 
 and made for the land. The engines were making a curious 
 grating noise. It rose once more, and then suddenly dived 
 downward, and came plump down right in the middle of Mr. 
 Hodge's field of swedes. 
 
 And then, as if not content with this desecration, it ran 
 along the ground, ripping and tearing up twenty-five yards 
 of good swedes, and then came to a stop. 
 
 Old Sam Gates was in a terrible state. The aeroplane was 
 more than a hundred yards away, but he waved his arms and 
 called out: 
 
 "Hi, you there, you mustn't land in they swedes! 
 They 're Mister Hodge's.'^ 
 
 The instant the aeroplane stopped, a man leaped out and 
 gazed quickly round. He glanced at Sam Gates, and seemed 
 uncertain whether to address him or whether to concentrate 
 his attention on the flying-machine. The latter arrangement 
 appeared to be his ultimate decision. He dived under the 
 engine and became frantically busy. Sam had never seen any 
 one work with such furious energy; but all the same it was 
 not to be tolerated. It was disgraceful. Sam started out 
 across the field, almost hurrying in his indignation. When 
 he appeared within earshot of the aviator he cried out again : 
 Hi ! you must n 't rest your old airyplane here ! You 've 
 
 < ( 
 
72 A SOURCE OF IREITATION 
 
 kicked up all Mr. Hodge's swedes. A noice thing you 've 
 done ! ' ' 
 
 He was within five yards when suddenly the aviator turned 
 and covered him with a revolver ! And speaking in a sharp, 
 staccato voice, he said : 
 
 ''Old Grandfather, you must sit down. I am very much 
 occupied. If you interfere or attempt to go away, I shoot 
 you. So!" 
 
 Sam gazed at the horrid, glittering little barrel and gasped. 
 Well, he never ! To be threatened with murder when you 're 
 doing your duty in your employer's private property! But, 
 still, perhaps the man was mad. A man must be more or less 
 mad to go up in one of those crazy things. And life was very 
 sweet on that summer morning despite sixty-nine years. He 
 sat down among the swedes. 
 
 The aviator was so busy with his cranks and machinery that 
 he hardly deigned to pay him any attention except to keep the 
 revolver handy. He worked feverishly, and Sam sat watch- 
 ing him. At the end of ten minutes he appeared to havei 
 solved his troubles with the machine, but he still seemed very 
 scared. He kept on glancing round and out to sea. When his 
 repairs were complete he straightened his back and wiped the 
 perspiration from his brow. He was apparently on the point 
 of springing back into the machine and going off when a 
 sudden mood of f acetiousness, caused by relief from the strain 
 he had endured, came to him. He turned to old Sam and 
 smiled, at the same time remarking: 
 
 ''Well, old Grandfather, and now we shall be all right, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 He came close up to Sam, and then suddenly started back. 
 
 ''Gott!" he cried, "Paul Jouperts!" 
 
 Bewildered, Sam gazed at him, and the madman started 
 talking to him in some foreign tongue. Sam shook his head. 
 
 "You no roight," he remarked, "to come bargin' through 
 they swedes of Mr. Hodge's." 
 
 And then the aviator behaved in a most peculiar manner. 
 He came up and examined Sam 's face very closely, and gave a 
 
STACY AUIVIONIER 73 
 
 sudden tug at his beard and hair, as if to see whether they were 
 real or false. 
 
 ' ' What is your name, old man ? " he said. 
 
 ''Sam Gates." 
 
 The aviator muttered some words that sounded something 
 like "mare vudish," and then turned to his machine. He 
 appeared to be dazed and in a great state of doubt. He 
 fumbled with some cranks, but kept glancing at old Sam. At 
 last he got into the car and strapped himself in. Then he 
 stopped, and sat there deep in thought. At last he suddenly 
 unstrapped himself and sprang out again and, approaching 
 Sam, said very deliberately: 
 
 ' ' Old Grandfather, I shall require you to accompany me. ' ' 
 
 Sam gasped. 
 
 ' ' Eh r ' he said. ' ' What be talkin ' about ? 'Company ? I 
 got these 'ere loines o' turnips — I be already behoind — " 
 
 The disgusting little revolver once more flashed before his 
 eyes. 
 
 ''There must be no discussion," came the voice. ''It is 
 necessary that you mount the seat of the car without delay. 
 Otherwise I shoot you like the dog you are. So ! " 
 
 Old Sam was hale and hearty. He had no desire to die so 
 ignominiously. The pleasant smell of the Norfolk downland 
 was in his nostrils; his foot was on his native heath. He 
 mounted the seat of the car, contenting himself with a 
 mutter : 
 
 "Well, that be a noice thing, I must say! Flyin' about the 
 country with all they turnips on'y half thinned ! " 
 
 He found himself strapped in. The aviator was in a fever 
 of anxiety to get away. The engines made a ghastly splutter 
 and noise. The thing started running along the ground. 
 Suddenly it shot upward, giving the swedes a last contemptu- 
 ous kick. At twenty minutes to eight that morning old Sam 
 found himself being borne right up above his fields and out to 
 sea ! His breath came quickly. He was a little frightened. 
 ' ' God forgive me ! " he murmured. 
 The thing was so fantastic and sudden that his mind could 
 
74 A SOURCE OF IRRITATION 
 
 not grasp it. He only felt in some vague way that he was 
 going to die, and he struggled to attune his mind to the change. 
 He offered up a mild prayer to God, Who, he felt, must be 
 very near, somewhere up in these clouds. Automatically he 
 thought of the vicar at Halvesham, and a certain sense of com- 
 fort came to him at the reflection that on the previous day he 
 had taken a '^ cooking of runner beans" to God's representa- 
 tive in that village. He felt calmer after that, but the horrid 
 machine seemed to go higher and higher. He could not turn 
 in his seat and he could see nothing but sea and sky. Of 
 course the man was mad, mad as a March hare. Of what 
 earthly use could he be to any one? Besides, he had talked 
 pure gibberish, and called him Paul something, when he had 
 already told him that his name was Sam. The thing would 
 fall down into the sea soon, and they would both be drowned. 
 Well, well, he had almost reached three-score years and ten. 
 He was protected by a screen, but it seemed very cold. What 
 on earth would Mr. Hodge say? There was no one left to 
 work the land but a fool of a boy named Billy Whitehead at 
 Dene's Cross. On, on, on they went at a furious pace. His 
 thoughts danced disconnectedly from incidents of his youth, 
 conversations with the vicar, hearty meals in the open, a frock 
 his sister wore on the day of the postman's wedding, the 
 drone of a psalm, the illness of some ewes belonging to Mr. 
 Hodge. Everything seemed to be moving very rapidly, up- 
 setting his sense of time. He felt outraged, and yet at mo- 
 ments there was something entrancing in the wild experience. 
 He seemed to be living at an incredible pace. Perhaps he was 
 really dead and on his way to the kingdom of God. Per- 
 haps this was the way they took people. 
 
 After some indefinite period he suddenly caught sight of a 
 long strip of land. Was this a foreign country, or were 
 they returning ? He had by this time lost all feeling of fear. 
 He became interested and almost disappointed. The ''airy- 
 plane ' ' was not such a fool as it looked. It was very wonder- 
 ful to be right up in the sky like this. Plis dreams were sud- 
 denly disturbed by a fearful noise. He thought the machine 
 was blown to pieces. It dived and ducked through the air, 
 
STACY AUMONIER 75 
 
 and things were bursting all round it and making an awful 
 din, and then it went up higher and higher. After a while 
 these noises ceased, and he felt the machine gliding down- 
 ward. They were really right above solid land — trees, fields, 
 streams, and white villages. Down, down, down they glided. 
 This was a foreign country. There were straight avenues of 
 poplars and canals. This was not Halvesham. He felt the 
 thing glide gently and bump into a field. Some men ran for- 
 ward and approached them, and the mad aviator called out 
 to them. They were mostly fat men in gray uniforms, and 
 they all spoke this foreign gibberish. Some one came and un- 
 strapped him. He was very stiff and could hardly move. An 
 exceptionally gross-looking man punched him in the ribs and 
 roared with laughter. They all stood round and laughed at 
 him, while the mad aviator talked to them and kept pointing 
 at him. Then he said: 
 
 "Old Grandfather, you must come with me." 
 
 He was led to an iron-roofed building and shut in a little 
 room. There were guards outside with fixed bayonets. After 
 a while the mad aviator appeared again, accompanied by two 
 soldiers. He beckoned him to follow. They marched through 
 a quadrangle and entered another building. They went 
 straight into an office where a very important-looking man, 
 covered with medals, sat in an easy-chair. There was a lot of 
 saluting and clicking of heels. The aviator pointed at Sam 
 and said something, and the man with the medals started at 
 sight of him, and then came up and spoke to him in English. 
 
 "What is your name? Where do you come from? Your 
 age? The name and birthplace of your parents?" 
 
 He seemed intensely interested, and also pulled his hair 
 and beard to see if they came off. So well and naturally did 
 he and the aviator speak English that after a voluble examina- 
 tion they drew apart, and continued the conversation in that 
 language. And the extraordinary conversation was of this 
 nature : 
 
 "It is a most remarkable resemblance," said the man with 
 medals. ^'Unglauhlich! But what do you want me to do 
 with him, Hausemann? 
 
 5 ) 
 
76 A SOURCE OF IRRITATION 
 
 *'The idea came to me suddenly, Excellency/' replied the 
 aviator, "and you may consider it worthless. It is just this. 
 The resemblance is so amazing. Paul Jouperts has given us 
 more valuable information than any one at present in our 
 service, and the English know that. There is an award of 
 five thousand francs on his head. Twice they have captured 
 him, and each time he escaped. All the company commanders 
 and their staff have his photograph. He is a serious thorn in 
 their flesh.'' 
 
 ''Well?" replied the man with the medals. 
 
 The aviator whispered confidentially: 
 
 * ' Suppose, your Excellency, that they found the dead body 
 of Paul Jouperts?" 
 
 ''Well?" replied the big man. 
 
 ' ' My suggestion is this. To-morrow, as you know, the Eng- 
 lish are attacking Hill 701, which for tactical reasons we 
 have decided to evacuate. If after the attack they find the 
 dead body of Paul Jouperts in, say, the second lines, they will 
 take no further trouble in the matter. You know their lack 
 of thoroughness. Pardon me, I was two years at Oxford 
 University. And consequently Paul Jouperts will be able to 
 prosecute his labors undisturbed." 
 
 The man with the medals twirled his mustache and looked 
 thoughtfully at his colleague. 
 
 Where is Paul at the moment?" he asked. 
 He is acting as a gardener at the Convent of St. Eloise, 
 at Mailleton-en-haut, which, as you know, is one hundred 
 meters from the headquarters of the British central army 
 staff." 
 
 The man with the medals took two or three rapid turns up 
 and down the room, then he said : 
 
 "Your plan is excellent, Hausemann. The only point of 
 difficulty is that the attack started this morning." 
 This morning?" exclaimed the other. 
 Yes; the English attacked unexpectedly at dawn. We 
 have already evacuated the first line. We shall evacuate the 
 second line at eleven-fifty. It is now ten-fifteen. There may 
 be just time." 
 
 ( ( 
 ( I 
 
 
STACY AUMONIER 7T 
 
 He looked suddenly at old Sam in the way that a butcher 
 might look at a prize heifer at an agricultural show and re- 
 marked casually: 
 
 ''Yes, it is a remarkable resemblance. It seems a pity not 
 to — do something with it." 
 
 Then, speaking in German, he added : 
 
 "It is worth trying. And if it succeeds, the higher author- 
 ities shall hear of your lucky accident and inspiration, Herr 
 Hausemann. Instruct Oh er -lieutenant Schultz to send the 
 old fool by two orderlies to the east extremity of Trench 38. 
 Keep him there till the order of evacuation is given, then 
 shoot him, but don't disfigure him, and lay him out face up- 
 ward." 
 
 The aviator saluted and withdrew, accompanied by his 
 victim. Old Sam had not understood the latter part of the 
 conversation, and he did not catch quite all that was said in 
 English; but he felt that somehow things were not '^^'^^oming 
 too promising, and it was time to assert himself. ISo ne 
 remarked when they got outside : 
 
 *'Now, look 'ee 'ere. Mister, when am I goin' to get back to 
 my turnips ? ' ' 
 
 And the aviator replied, with a pleasant smile : 
 
 "Do not be disturbed, old Grandfather. You shall get 
 back to the soil quite soon." 
 
 In a few moments he found himself in a large gray car, 
 accompanied by four soldiers. The aviator left him. The 
 country was barren and horrible, full of great pits and rents, 
 and he could hear the roar of artillery and the shriek of 
 shells. Overhead, aeroplanes were buzzing angrily. He 
 seemed to be suddenly transported from the kingdom of God 
 to the pit of darkness. He wondered whether the vicar had 
 enjoyed the runner beans. He could not imagine runnei 
 beans growing here; runner beans, aye, or anything else. 
 If this was a foreign country, give him dear old England ! 
 
 Or-r-r! hang! Something exploded just at the rear of th«> 
 car. The soldiers ducked, and one of them pushed him in the 
 stomach and swore. 
 
 An ugly-looking lout," he thought. "If I wor twent} 
 
 ( i 
 
78 A SOURCE OF IRRITATION 
 
 years younger, I 'd give him a punch in the eye that 'u'd 
 make him sit up." 
 
 The car came to a halt by a broken wall. The party hurried 
 out and dived behind a mound. He was pulled down a kind 
 of shaft, and found himself in a room buried right under- 
 ground, where three officers were drinking and smoking. The 
 soldiers saluted and handed them a type-written dispatch. 
 The officers looked at him drunkenly, and one came up and 
 pulled his beard and spat in his face and called him "an old 
 English swine." He then shouted out some instructions to 
 the soldiers, and they led him out into the narrow trench. 
 One walked behind him, and occasionally prodded him with 
 the butt-end of a gun. The trenches were half full of water 
 and reeked of gases, powder, and decaying matter. Shells 
 were constantly bursting' overhead, and in places the trenches 
 had crumbled and were nearly blocked up. They stumbled on, 
 sometimes falling, sometimes dodging moving masses, and 
 occasionally crawling over the dead bodies of men. At last 
 thev TP^^hed a deserted-looking trench, and one of the soldiers 
 pushed him into the corner of it and growled something, and 
 then disappeared round the angle. Old Sam was exhausted. 
 He leaned panting against the mud wall, expecting every 
 minute to be blown to pieces by one of those infernal things 
 that seemed to be getting more and more insistent. The din 
 went on for nearly twenty minutes, and he was alone in the 
 trench. He fancied he hearr^ a whistle amidst the din. Sud- 
 denly one of the soldiers who had accompanied him came 
 stealthily round the corner, and there was a look in his eye 
 old Sam did not like. When he was within five yards the 
 soldier raised his rifle and pointed it at Sam's body. Some 
 instinct impelled the old man at that instant to throw himself 
 forward on his face. As he did so he was aware of a terrible 
 explosion, and he had just time to observe the soldier falling in 
 a heap near him, and then he lost consciousness. 
 
 His consciousness appeared to return to him with a snap. 
 He was lying on a plank in a building, and he heard some one 
 say: 
 
 *'I believe the old boy 's English/' 
 
STACY AUMONIER 79 
 
 He looked round. There were a lot of men lying there, and 
 others in khaki and white overalls were busy among them. He 
 sat up, rubbed his head, and said : 
 
 "Hi, Mister, where be I now?" 
 
 Some one laughed, and a young man came up and said : 
 
 ''Well, old man, you were very nearly in hell. Who are 
 
 you?" 
 
 Some one came up, and two of them were discussing him. 
 One of them said: 
 
 "He 's quite all right. He was only knocked out. Better 
 take him in to the colonel. He may be a spy. 
 
 The other came up, touched his shoulder, and remarked; 
 
 "Can you walk, Uncle?" 
 
 He replied: 
 
 "Aye, I can walk all roight." 
 
 "That 's an old sport!" 
 
 The young man took his arm and helped him out of the room 
 into a courtyard. They entered another room, where an 
 elderly, kind-faced officer was seated at a desk. The officer 
 looked up and exclaimed : 
 
 ' ' Good God ! Bradshaw, do you know who you 've got 
 there?" 
 
 The younger one said: 
 
 "No. Who, sir?" 
 
 "It 's Paul Jouperts!" exclaimed the colonel. 
 
 ' ' Paul Jouperts ! Great Scott ! ' ' 
 
 The older officer addressed himself to Sam. He said: 
 
 "Well, we 've got you once more, Paul. We shall have to 
 be a little more careful this time. ' ' 
 
 The young officer said : 
 
 "Shall I detail a squad, sir?" 
 
 "We can't shoot him without a court-martial," replied the 
 kind-faced senior. 
 
 Then Sam interpolated: 
 
 "Look 'ee 'ere, sir, I 'm fair' sick of all this. My name 
 bean 't Paul. My name 's Sam. I was a-thinnin' a loine o' 
 turnips — " 
 
 Both officers burst out laughing, and the younger one said : 
 
80 A SOURCE OF IKRITATION 
 
 *'Good! Good! Isn't it amazing, sir, the way they not 
 only learn the language, but even take the trouble to learn 
 a dialect!" 
 
 The older man busied himself with some papers. 
 
 ''Well, Sam," he remarked, "you shall be given a chance to 
 prove your identity. Our methods are less drastic than those 
 of your Boche masters. What part of England are you sup- 
 posed to come from? Let 's see how much you can blutf us 
 with your topographical knowledge. ' ' 
 
 ''I was a-thinnin' a loine o' turnips this mornin' at 'alf- 
 past seven on Mr. Hodge's farm at Halvesham when one o' 
 these 'ere airyplanes come down among the swedes. I tells 'e 
 to get clear o' that, when thje feller what gets out o' the car 
 'e drahs a revowlver and 'e says, 'You must 'company I — ' " 
 
 "Yes, yes," interrupted the senior officer; "that 's all very 
 good. Now tell me — where is Halvesham ? What is the name 
 of the local vicar ? I 'm sure you 'd know that. ' ' 
 
 Old Sam rubbed his chin. 
 
 "I sits under the Reverend David Pryce, Mister, and a good, 
 God-f earin ' man he be. I took him a cookin ' o ' runner beans 
 on'y yesterday. I works for Mr. Hodge, what owns Greenway 
 Manor and 'as a stud-farm at Newmarket, they say. ' ' 
 
 "Charles Hodge?" asked the young officer. 
 
 "Aye, Charlie Hodge. You write and ask un if he knows 
 old Sam Gates." 
 
 The two officers looked at each other, and the older one 
 looked at Sam more closely. 
 
 "It 's very extraordinary," he remarked. 
 
 "Everybody knows Charlie Hodge," added the young 
 officer. 
 
 It was at that moment that a wave of genius swept over old 
 Sam. He put his hand to his head and suddenly jerked out : 
 
 "What 's more, I can tell 'ee where this yere Paul is. He 's 
 actin' a gardener in a convent at — " He puckered up his 
 brows, fumbled with his hat, and then got out, "Mighteno." 
 
 The older officer gasped. 
 
 "Mailleton-en-haut! Good God! what makes you say that, 
 old man?" 
 
STACY AUIVIONIER 81 
 
 Sam tried to give an account of his experience and the 
 things he had heard said by the German officers; but he was 
 getting tired, and he broke off in the middle to say : 
 
 "Ye haven't a bite o' somethin' to eat, I suppose, Mister; 
 or a glass o' beer? I usually 'as my dinner at twelve 
 o'clock." 
 
 Both the officers laughed, and the older said : 
 
 ''Get him some food, Bradshaw, and a bottle of beer from 
 the mess. We '11 keep this old man here. He interests me." 
 
 While the younger man was doing this, the chief pressed a 
 button and summoned another junior officer. 
 
 "Gateshead," he remarked, "ring up the G. H. Q. and 
 instruct them to arrest the gardener in that convent at the 
 top of the hill and then to report." 
 
 The officer saluted and went out, and in a few minutes a 
 tray of hot food and a large bottle of beer were brought to the 
 old man, and he was left alone in the corner of the room to 
 negotiate this welcome compensation. And in the execution 
 he did himself and his county credit. In the meanwhile the 
 officers were very busy. People were coming and going and 
 examining maps, and telephone bells were ringing furiously. 
 They did not disturb old Sam's gastric operations. He 
 cleaned up the mess tins and finished the last drop of beer. 
 The senior officer found time to offer him a cigarette, but he 
 replied : 
 
 "Thank 'ee kindly, sir, but I 'd rather smoke my pipe." 
 
 The colonel smiled and said: 
 
 "Oh, all right; smoke away." 
 
 He lighted up, and the fumes of the shag permeated the 
 room. Some one opened another window, and the young 
 officer who had addressed him at first suddenly looked at him 
 and exclaimed : 
 
 "Innocent! You couldn't get shag like that anywhere 
 but in Norfolk." 
 
 It must have been an hour later when another officer entered 
 and saluted. 
 
 "Message from the G. H. Q., sir," he said. 
 
 **Well?" 
 
82 A SOURCE OF IRRITATION 
 
 "They have arrested the gardener at the convent of St. 
 Eloise, and they have every reason to believe that he is the 
 notorious Paul Jouperts. ' ' 
 
 The colonel stood up, and his eyes beamed. He came over to 
 old Sam and shook his hand. 
 
 "Mr. Gates," he said, ''you are an old brick. You will 
 probably hear more of this. You have probably been the 
 means of delivering something very useful into our hands. 
 Your own honar is vindicated. A loving Government will 
 probably award you five shillings or a Victoria Cross or some- 
 thing of that sort. In the meantime, what can I do for you ? ' ' 
 
 Old Sam scratched his chin. 
 
 "I want to get back 'ome," he said. 
 
 "Well, even that might be arranged." 
 
 "I want to get back 'ome in toime for tea." 
 
 "What time do you have tea?" 
 
 "Foive o'clock or thereabouts." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 A kindly smile came into the eyes of the colonel. He turned 
 to another officer standing by the table and said : 
 
 "Raikes, is any one going across this afternoon with 
 dispatches ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied the other officer. "Commander Jen- 
 nings is leaving at three o'clock." 
 
 "You might ask him if he could see me." 
 
 Within ten minutes a young man in a flight-commander's 
 uniform entered. 
 
 "Ah, Jennings," said the colonel, "here is a little affair 
 which concerns the honor of the British army. My friend 
 here, Sam Gates, has come over from Halvesham, in Norfolk, 
 in order to give us valuable information. I have promised 
 him that he shall get home to tea at five o'clock. Can you 
 take a passenger ? " 
 
 The young man threw back his head and laughed. 
 
 "Lord!" he exclaimed, "what an old sport! Yes, I expect 
 I can manage it. Where is the forsaken place ? ' ' 
 
 A large ordnance-map of Norfolk (which had been captured 
 
STACY AUMONIER 83 
 
 from a German officer) was produced, and the young man 
 studied it closely. 
 
 At three o'clock precisely old Sam, finding himself some- 
 thing of a hero and quite glad to escape from the embarrass- 
 ment which this position entailed upon him, once more sped 
 skyward in a '^dratted airyplane. " 
 
 At twenty minutes to five he landed once more among Mr. 
 Hodge's swedes. The breezy young airman shook hands with 
 him and departed inland. Old Sam sat down and surveyed 
 the familiar field of turnips. 
 
 "A noice thing, I must say!" he muttered to himself as he 
 looked along the lines of unthinned turnips. He still had 
 twenty minutes, and so he went slowly along and completed 
 a line which he had begun in the morning. He then deliber- 
 ately packed up his dinner-things and his tools and started 
 out for home. 
 
 As he came round the corner of Stillway's meadow and the 
 cottage came in view, his niece stepped out of the copse with 
 a basket on her arm. 
 
 ''Well, Uncle," she said, "is there any noos?" 
 
 It was then that old Sam really lost his temper. 
 
 ''Noos!'' he said. ''Noos! Drat the girl! What noos 
 should there be? Sixty-nine year' I live in these 'ere parts, 
 hoein' and weedin' and thinnin', and mindin' Charlie Hodge's 
 sheep. Am I one o' these 'ere story-book folk havin' noos 
 'appen to me all the time? Ain't it enough, ye silly, dab- 
 faced zany, to earn enough to buy a bite o' some 'at to eat 
 and a glass o' beer and a place to rest a's head o 'night without 
 always wantin' noos, noos, noos ! I tell 'ee it 's this that leads 
 'ee to 'alf the troubles in the world. Devil take the noos!" 
 
 And turning his back on her, he went fuming up the hill. 
 
MOTI GUJ— MUTINEER 
 
 By KUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 Once upon a time there was a coffee-planter in India who 
 wished to clear some forest land for coffee-planting. When he 
 had cut down all the trees and burned the underwood the 
 stumps still remained. Dynamite is expensive and slow fire 
 slow. The happy medium for stump-clearing is the lord of all 
 beasts, who is the elephant. He will either push the stump out 
 of the ground with his tusks, if he has any, or drag it out 
 with ropes. The planter, therefore, hired elephants by ones 
 and twos and threes, and fell to work. The very best of all the 
 elephants belonged to the very worst of all the drivers or 
 mahouts; and the superior beast's name was Moti Guj. He 
 was the absolute property of his mahout, which would never 
 have been the case under native rule : for Moti Guj was a 
 creature to be desired by kings; and his name, being trans- 
 lated, meant the Pearl Elephant. Because the British gov- 
 ernment was in the land, Deesa, the mahout, enjoyed his prop- 
 erty undisturbed. He was dissipated. When he had made 
 much money through the strength of his elephant, he would 
 get extremely drunk and give Moti Guj a beating with a tent- 
 peg over the tender nails of the forefeet. Moti Guj never 
 trampled the life out of Deesa on these occasions, for he knew 
 that after the beating was over, Deesa would embrace his trunk 
 and weep and call him his love and his life and the liver of his 
 soul, and give him some liquor. Moti Guj was very fond oi 
 liquor — arrack for choice, though he would drink palm-tree 
 toddy if nothing better offered. Then Deesa would go to sleep 
 between Moti Guj's forefeet, and as Deesa generally chose 
 
 the middle of the public road, and as Moti Guj mounted guard 
 
 84 
 
RUDYARD KIPLING 85 
 
 over him and would not permit horse, foot, or cart to pass by, 
 traffic was congested till Deesa saw fit to wake up. 
 
 There was no sleeping in the daytime on the planter 's clear- 
 ing: the wages were too high to risk. Deesa sat on Moti 
 Guj 's neck and gave him orders, while Moti Guj rooted up the 
 stumps — for he owned a magnificent pair of tusks; or pulled 
 at the end of a rope — for he had a magnificent pair of shoul- 
 ders, while Deesa kicked him behind the ears and said he was 
 the king of elephants. At evening time Moti Guj would wash 
 down his three hundred pounds' weight of green food with a 
 quart of arrack, and Deesa would take a share and sing songs 
 between Moti Guj's legs till it was time to go to bed. Once 
 a week Deesa led Moti Guj down to the river, and Moti Guj 
 lay on his side luxuriously in the shallows, while Deesa went 
 over him with a coir swab and a brick. Moti Guj never 
 mistook the pounding blow of the latter for the smack of the 
 former that warned him to get up and turn over on the other 
 side. Then Deesa would look at his feet, examine his eyes, 
 and turn up the fringes of his mighty ears in case of sores or 
 budding ophthalmia. After inspection, the two would ' ' come 
 up with a song from the sea, ' ' Moti Guj all black and shining, 
 waving a torn tree branch twelve feet long in his trunk, and 
 Deesa knotting up his own long wet hair. 
 
 It was a peaceful, well-paid life till Deesa felt the return of 
 the desire to drink deep. He wished for an orgy. The little 
 draughts that led nowhere were taking the manhood out of 
 him. 
 
 He went to the planter, and ''My mother's dead," said he, 
 weeping. 
 
 *'She died on the last plantation two months ago, and she 
 died once before that when you were working for me last 
 year," said the planter, who knew something of the ways of 
 nativedom. 
 
 ' ' Then it 's my aunt, and she was just the same as a mother 
 to me," said Deesa, weeping more than ever. ''She has left 
 eighteen small children entirely without bread, and it is I 
 who must fill their little stomachs," said Deesa, beating his 
 head on the floor. 
 
86 MOTI GUJ— MUTINEER 
 
 ''Who brought you the news?" said the planter. 
 
 ''The post," said Deesa. 
 
 "There hasn't been a post here for the past week. Get 
 back to your lines ! " 
 
 "A devastating sickness has fallen on my village, and all 
 my wives are dying," yelled Deesa, really in tears this time. 
 
 "Call Chihun, who comes from Deesa 's village," said the 
 planter. "Chihun, has this man got a wife?" 
 
 "He!" said Chihun. "No. Not a woman of our village 
 would look at him. They 'd sooner marry the elephant." 
 
 Chihun snorted. Deesa wept and bellowed. 
 
 "You will get into a difficulty in a minute," said the 
 planter. ' ' Go back to your work ! ' ' 
 
 "Now I will speak Heaven's truth," gulped Deesa, with an 
 inspiration. "I haven't been drunk for two months. I de- 
 sire to depart in order to get properly drunk afar off and dis- 
 tant from this heavenly plantation. Thus I shall cause no 
 trouble. ' ^ 
 
 A flickering smile crossed the planter's face. "Deesa," 
 said he, "you 've spoken the truth, and I 'd give you leave on 
 the spot if anything could be done with Moti Guj while you 're 
 away. You know that he will only obey your orders. ' ' 
 
 "May the light of the heavens live forty thousand years. I 
 shall be absent but ten little days. After that, upon my faith 
 and honor and soul, I return. As to the inconsiderable inter- 
 val, have I the gracious permission of the heaven-bom to call 
 up Moti Gu j ? " 
 
 Permission was granted, and in answer to Deesa 's shrill yell, 
 the mighty tusker swung out of the shade of a clump of trees 
 where he had been squirting dust over himself till his master 
 should return. 
 
 "Light of my heart, protector of the drunken, mountain of 
 might, give ear ! ' ' said Deesa, standing in front of him. 
 
 Moti Guj gave ear, and saluted with his trunk. "I am 
 going away," said Deesa. 
 
 Moti Guj's eyes twinkled. He liked jaunts as well as his 
 master. One could snatch all manner of nice things from the 
 roadside then. 
 
RUDYAEX) KIPLING 87 
 
 "But you, you fussy old pig, must stay behind and work." 
 
 The twinkle died out as Moti Guj tried to look delighted. 
 He hated stump-hauling on the plantation. It hurt his teeth. 
 
 "I shall be gone for ten days, delectable one. Hold up 
 your near forefoot and I 11 impress the fact upon it, warty 
 toad of a dried mud-puddle." Deesa took a tent-peg and 
 banged Moti Guj ten times on the nails. Moti Guj grunted 
 and shuffled from foot to foot. 
 
 "Ten days," said Deesa, "you will work and haul and root 
 the trees as Chihun here shall order you. Take up Chihun 
 and set him on your neck!" Moti Guj curled the tip of his 
 trunk, Chihun put his foot there and was swung on to the 
 neck. Deesa handed Chihun the heavy ankus — the iron ele- 
 phant goad. 
 
 Chihun thumped Moti Guj 's bald head as a paver thumpa 
 a curbstone. 
 
 Moti Guj trumpeted. 
 
 "Be still, hog of the backwoods! Chihun 's your mahout 
 for ten days. And now bid me good-by, beast after mine own 
 heart. Oh, my lord, my king ! Jewel of all created elephants, 
 lily of the herd, preserve your honored health; be virtuous. 
 Adieu!" 
 
 Moti Guj lapped his trunk round Deesa and swung him into 
 the air twice. This was his way of bidding him good-by. 
 
 "He '11 work now," said Deesa to the planter. "Have I 
 leave to go ? " 
 
 The planter nodded, and Deesa dived into the woods. Moti 
 Guj went back to haul stumps. 
 
 Chihun was very kind to him, but he felt unhappy and 
 forlorn for all that. Chihun gave him a ball of spices, and 
 tickled him under the chin, and Chihun 's little baby cooed to 
 him after work was over, and Chihun 's wife called him a 
 darling; but Moti Guj was a bachelor by instinct, as Deesa 
 was. He did not understand the domestic emotions. He 
 wanted the light of his universe back again — the drink and 
 the drunken slumber, the savage beatings and the savage 
 caresses. 
 
 None the less he worked well, and the planter wondered. 
 
88 MOTI GUJ— MUTINEER 
 
 Deesa had wandered along the roads till he met a marriage 
 procession of his own caste and, drinking, dancing, and tip- 
 pling, had drifted with it past all knowledge of the lapse of 
 time. 
 
 The morning of the eleventh day dawned, and there re- 
 turned no Deesa. Moti Guj was loosed from his ropes for the 
 daily stint. He swung clear, looked round, shrugged his 
 shoulders, and began to walk away, as one having business 
 elsewhere. 
 
 ' * Hi ! ho ! Come back, you, ' ' shouted Chihun. ' ' Come back 
 and put me on your neck, misborn mountain ! Return, splen- 
 dor of the hillsides! Adornment of all India, heave to, or 
 I '11 bang every toe off your fat forefoot ! ' ' 
 
 Moti Guj gurgled gently, but did not obey. Chihun ran 
 after him with a rope and caught him up. Moti Guj put 
 his ears forward, and Chihun knew what that meant, though 
 he tried to carry it off with high words. 
 
 ''None of your nonsense with me," said he. "To your 
 pickets, devil-son." 
 
 "Hrrump!" said Moti Guj, and that was all — that and the 
 forebent ears. 
 
 Moti Guj put his hands in his pockets, chewed a branch for 
 a toothpick, and strolled about the clearing, making fun of the 
 other elephants, who had just set to work. 
 
 Chihun reported the state of affairs to the planter, who 
 came out with a dog-whip and cracked it furiously. Moti 
 Guj paid the white man the compliment of charging him 
 nearly a quarter of a mile across the clearing and "Hrrump- 
 ing" him into his veranda. Then he stood outside the house 
 chuckling to himself, and shaking all over witli the fun of it, 
 as an elephant will. 
 
 "We '11 thrash him," said the planter. "He shall have the 
 finest thrashing ever elephant received. Give Kala Nag and 
 Nazim twelve foot of chain apiece, and tell them to lay on 
 twenty blows." 
 
 Kala Nag — which means Black Snake — and Nazim were two 
 of the biggest elephants in the lines, and one of their duties 
 
RUDYAKD KIPLING 89 
 
 was to administer the graver punishments, since no man can 
 beat an elephant properly. 
 
 They took the whipping-chains and rattled them in their 
 trunks as they sidled up to Moti Guj, meaning to hustle him 
 between them. Moti Guj had never, in all his life of thirty- 
 nine years, been whipped, and he did not intend to begin a new 
 experience. So he waited, waving his head from right to left, 
 and measuring the precise spot in Kala Nag's fat hide where 
 a blunt tusk would sink deepest. Kala Nag had no tusks ; the 
 chain was the badge of his authority; but for all that, he 
 swung wide of Moti Guj at the last minute, and tried to appear 
 as if he had brought the chain out for amusement. Nazim 
 turned round and went home early. He did not feel fighting 
 fit that morning, and so Moti Guj was left standing alone with 
 his ears cocked. 
 
 That decided the planter to argue no more, and Moti Guj 
 rolled back to his inspection of the clearing. An elephant who 
 will not work, and is not tied up, is about as manageable as 
 an eighty-one-ton gun loose in a heavy seaway. He slapped 
 old friends on the back and asked them if the stumps were 
 coming away easily ; he talked nonsense concerning labor and 
 the inalienable rights of elephants to a long ^'nooning"; and, 
 wandering to and fro, he thoroughly demoralized the garden 
 till sundown, when he returned to his pickets for food. 
 
 *'If you won't work, you shan't eat," said Chihun angrily. 
 **You 're a wild elephant, and no educated animal at all. Go 
 back to your jungle." 
 
 Chihun 's little brown baby was rolling on the floor of the 
 hut, and stretching out its fat arms to the huge shadow in 
 the doorway. Moti Guj knew well that it was the dearest 
 thing on earth to Chihun. He swung out his trunk with a fas- 
 cinating crook at the end, and the brown baby threw itself 
 shouting upon it. Moti Guj made fast and pulled up till the 
 brown baby was crowing in the air twelve feet above his 
 father's head. 
 
 "Great Lord!" said Chihun. ''Flour cakes of the best, 
 twelve in number, two feet across, and soaked in rum, shall be 
 
90 MOTI GUJ— MUTINEER 
 
 yours on the instant, and two hundred pounds' weight of 
 fresh-cut young sugar-cane therewith. Deign only to put 
 down safely that insignificant brat who is my heart and my 
 life to me." 
 
 Moti Guj tucked the brown baby comfortably between his 
 forefeet, that could have knocked into toothpicks all Chihun's 
 hut, and waited for his food. He ate it, and the brown baby 
 crawled away. Moti Guj dozed, and thought of Deesa. One 
 of many mysteries connected with the elephant is that his huge 
 body needs less sleep than anything else that lives. Four or 
 five hours in the night suffice — two just before midnight, 
 lying down on one side; two just after one o'clock, lying down 
 on the other. The rest of the silent hours are filled with 
 eating and fidgeting and long grumbling soliloquies. 
 
 At midnight, therefore, Moti Guj strode out of his pickets, 
 for a thought had come to him that Deesa might be lying 
 drunk somewhere in the dark forest with none to look after 
 him. So all that night he chased through the undergrowth, 
 blowing and trumpeting and shaking his ears. He went down 
 to the river and blared across the shallows where Deesa used 
 to wash him, and there was no answer. He could nr^t find 
 Deesa, but he disturbed all the other elephants in tho lines, 
 and nearly frightened to death some gypsies in the woods. 
 
 At dawn Deesa returned to the plantation. He hjid been 
 very drunk indeed, and he expected to get into trouble for 
 outstaying his leave. He drew a long breath when he saw 
 that the bungalow and the plantation were still uninjured, for 
 he knew something of Moti Guj 's temper, and reported himself 
 with many lies and salaams. Moti Guj had g« ^ne to his pickets 
 for breakfast. The night exercise had made him hungry. 
 
 ''Call up your beast," said the planter, a'Ad Deesa shouted 
 in the mysterious elephant language, that some mahouts 
 believe came from China at the birth of the world, when ele- 
 phants and not men were masters. M)ti Guj heard and came. 
 Elephants do not gallop. They move from places at varying 
 rates of speed. If an elephant wished to catch an express 
 train he could not gallop, but he could catch the train. So 
 Moti Guj was at the planter's door almost before Chihun 
 
RUDYARD KIPLING 91 
 
 noticed that he had left his pickets. He fell into Deesa's 
 arms trumpeting with joy, and the man and beast wept and 
 slobbered over each other, and handled each other from head to 
 heel to see that no harm had befallen. 
 
 ''Now we will get to work," said Deesa. ''Lift me up, 
 my son and my joy." 
 
 Moti Guj swung him up and the two went to the coffee- 
 clearing to look for difficult stumps. 
 
 The planter was too astonished to be very angry. 
 
GULLIVER THE GEEAT 
 
 By WALTER A. DYER 
 
 It was a mild evening in early spring, and the magnolias 
 were in bloom. We motored around the park, turned up 
 a side street, and finally came to a throbbing standstill be- 
 fore the Churchwarden Club. 
 
 There was nothing about its exterior to indicate that it 
 was a clubhouse at all, but within there was an indefinable 
 atmosphere of early Victorian comfort. There was some- 
 thing about it that suggested Mr. Pickwick. Old prints of 
 horses and ships and battles hung upon the walls, and the 
 oak was dark and old. There seemed to be no decorative 
 scheme or keynote, and yet the atmosphere was utterly dis- 
 tinctive. It was my first visit to the Churchwarden Club, 
 of which my quaint, old-fashioned Uncle Ford had long been 
 a member, and I was charmed. 
 
 We dined in the rathskeller, the walls of which were com- 
 pletely covered with long churchwarden pipes, arranged in 
 the most intricate and marvelous patterns; and after our 
 mutton-chop and ale and plum pudding, we filled with the 
 choicest of tobaccos the pipes which the old major-domo 
 brought us. 
 
 Then came Jacob R. Enderby to smoke with us. 
 
 Tall and spare he was, with long, straight, black hair, large, 
 aquiline nose, and piercing eyes. I disgraced myself by star- 
 ing at him. I didn't know that such a man existed in New 
 York, and yet I could n 't decide whether his habitat should 
 be Arizona or Cape Cod. 
 
 Enderby and Uncle Ford were deep in a discussion of the 
 statesmanship of James G. Blaine, when a waiter summoned 
 my uncle to the telephone. 
 
 1 neglected to state that my uncle, in his prosaic hours, 
 
 92 
 
WALTER A. DYER 93 
 
 is a physician ; and this was a call. I knew it the moment I 
 saw the waiter approaching. I was disappointed and dis- 
 gusted. 
 
 Uncle Ford saw this and laughed. 
 
 ''Cheer up!" said he. "You needn't come with me to 
 visit the sick. I '11 be back in an hour, and meanwhile Mr. 
 Enderby will take care of you; won't you, Jake?" 
 
 For answer Enderby arose, and refilling his pipe took me 
 by the arm, while my uncle got into his overcoat. As he 
 passed us on the way out he whispered in my ear : 
 
 ''Talk about dogs." 
 
 I heard and nodded. 
 
 Enderby led me to the lounge or loafing-room, an oak- 
 paneled apartment in the rear of the floor above, with huge 
 leather chairs and a seat in the bay window. Save for a 
 gray-haired old chap dozing over a copy of Simplicissimiis, 
 the room was deserted. 
 
 But no sooner had Enderby seated himself on the window- 
 seat than there was a rush and a commotion, and a short, glad 
 bark, and Nubbins, the steward's bull-terrier, bounded in and 
 landed at Enderby 's side with canine expressions of great 
 
 joy. 
 
 I reached forward to pat him, but he paid absolutely no at- 
 tention to me. 
 
 At last his wriggling subsided, and he settled down with 
 his head on Enderby 's knee, the picture of content. Then I 
 recalled my uncle's parting injunction. 
 
 "Friend of yours?" I suggested. 
 
 Enderby smiled. "Yes," he said, "we 're friends, I guess. 
 And the funny part of it is that he doesn't pay any atten- 
 tion to any one else except his master. They all act that way 
 with me, dogs do." And he pulled Nubbins 's stubby ears. 
 
 "Natural attraction, I suppose," said 1. 
 
 "Yes, it is," he answered, with the modest frankness of a 
 big man. "It 's a thing hard to explain, though there 's a 
 sort of reason for it in my case." 
 
 I pushed toward him a little tobacco-laden teak-wood stand 
 hopefully. He refilled and lighted. 
 
94 GULLIVER THE GREAT 
 
 ''It 's an extraordinary thing, even so," he said, puffing. 
 "Every dog nowadays seems to look upon me as his long- 
 lost master, but it wasn't always so. I hated dogs and they 
 hated me." 
 
 Not wishing to say "Really" or "Indeed" to this big, out- 
 door man, I simply grunted my surprise. 
 
 "Yes, we were born enemies. More than that, I was afraid 
 of dogs. A little fuzzy toy dog, ambling up to me in a room 
 full of company, with his tail wagging, gave me the shudders. 
 I could n 't touch the beast. And as for big dogs outdoors, I 
 feared them like the plague. I would go blocks out of my 
 way to avoid one. 
 
 "I don't remember being particularly cowardly about other 
 things, but I just could n't help this. It was in my blood, for 
 some reason or other. It was the bane of my existence. I 
 couldn't see what the brutes were put into the world for, or 
 how any one could have anything to do with them. 
 
 "And the dogs reciprocated. They disliked and distrusted 
 me. The most docile old Brunos would growl and show their 
 teeth when I came near." 
 
 "Did the change come suddenly?" I asked. 
 
 "Quite. It was in 1901. I accepted a commission from an 
 importing and trading company to go to the Philippines to 
 do a little quiet exploring, and spent four months in the 
 sickly iDlace. Then I got the fever, and when I recovered 
 I could n 't get out of there too soon. 
 
 "I reached Manila just in time to see the mail steamer 
 disappearing around the point, and I was mad. There would 
 be another in six days, but I could n't wait. I w^as just crazy 
 to get back home. 
 
 "I made inquiries and learned of an old tramp steamer, 
 named the Old Sqiiaiv, making ready to leave for Honolulu 
 on the following day with a cargo of hemp and stuff, and a 
 bunch of Moros for some show in the States, and I booked 
 passage on that. 
 
 ' ' She was the worst old tub you ever saw. I did n 't learn 
 much about her, but I verily believe her to have been a con- 
 
WALTER A. DYER 95 
 
 demned excursion boat. She would n 't have been allowed to 
 run to Coney Island. 
 
 "She was battered and unpainted, and she wallowed hor- 
 ribly. I don't believe she could have reached Honolulu much 
 before the next regular boat, but I couldn't wait, and I took 
 her. 
 
 "I made myself as comfortable as possible, bribed the cook 
 to insure myself against starvation, and swung a hammock 
 on the forward deck as far as possible from the worst of the 
 vile smells. 
 
 ''But we had n't lost sight of Manila Bay when I discovered 
 that there was a dog aboard — and such a dog ! I had never 
 seen one that sent me into such a panic as this one, and he had 
 free range of the ship. A Great Dane he was, named Gulliver, 
 and he was the pride of the captain's rum-soaked heart. 
 
 "With all my fear, I realized he was a magnificent animal, 
 but I looked on him as a gigantic devil. Without exception, 
 he was the biggest dog I ever saw, and as muscular as a lion. 
 He lacked some points that show judges set store by, but he 
 had the size and the build. 
 
 "I have seen Vohl's Vulcan and the Wurtemburg breed, but 
 they were fox-terriers compared with Gulliver. His tail was 
 as big around as my arm, and the cook lived in terror of his 
 getting into the galley and wagging it ; and he had a mouth 
 that looked to me like the crater of Mauna Loa, and a voice 
 that shook the planking when he spoke. 
 
 "I first caught sight of him appearing from behind a huge 
 coil of cordage in the stern. He stretched and yawned, and 
 I nearly died of fright. 
 
 "I caught up a belaying-pin, though little good that would 
 have done me. I think he saw me do it, and doubtless he 
 set me down for an enemy then and there. 
 
 "We were well out of the harbor, and there was no turn- 
 ing back, but I would have given my right hand to be of¥ that 
 boat. I fully expected him to eat me up, and I slept with that 
 belaying-pin sticking into my ribs in the hammock, and with 
 my revolver loaded and handy. 
 
96 GULLIVER THE GREAT 
 
 ''Fortunately, Gulliver's dislike for me took the form of 
 sublime contempt. He knew 1 was afraid of him, and he 
 despised me for it. He was a great pet with the captain and 
 crew, and even the Moros treated him with admiring respect 
 when they were allowed on deck. I couldn't understand it. 
 I would as soon have made a pet of a hungry boa-constrictor. 
 
 "On the third day out the poor old boiler burst and the 
 Old Squaw caught fire. She was dry and rotten inside and 
 she burned like tinder. No attempt was made to extinguish 
 the flames, which got into the hemp in the hold in short order. 
 
 ''The smoke was stifling, and in a jiffy all hands were 
 struggling with the boats. The Moros came tumbling up 
 from below and added to the confusion with their terrified 
 yells. 
 
 "The davits were old and rusty, and the men were soon 
 fighting among themselves. One boat dropped stern fore- 
 most, filled, and sank immediately, and the Old Squaw her- 
 self was visibly settling. 
 
 "I saw there was no chance of getting away in the boats, 
 and I recalled a life-raft on the deck forward near my ham- 
 mock. It was a sort of catamaran — a double platform on a 
 pair of hollow, water-tight, cylindrical buoys. It wasn't 
 twenty feet long and about half as broad, but it would have 
 to do. I fancy it was a forgotten relic of the old excursion- 
 boat days. 
 
 "There was no time to lose, for the Old Squaw was bound 
 to sink presently. Besides, I was aft with the rest, and the 
 flames were licking up the deck and running-gear in the waist 
 of the boat. 
 
 "The galley, which was amidships near the engine-room, 
 had received the full force of the explosion, and the cook lay 
 moaning in the lee scuppers with a small water-cask thump- 
 ing against his chest. I could n't stop to help the man, but I 
 did kick the cask away. 
 
 "It seemed to be nearly full, and it occurred to me that 
 T should need it. I glanced quickly around, and luckily 
 found a tin of biscuits that had also been blown out of the 
 galley. I picked this up, and rolling the cask of water ahead 
 
WALTER A. DYER ^7 
 
 of me as rapidly as I could, I made my way through the hot, 
 stifling smoke to the bow of the boat. 
 
 ''I kicked at the life-raft; it seemed to be sound, and I 
 lashed the biscuits and water to it. I also threw on a coil of 
 rope and a piece of sail-cloth. I saw nothing else about 
 that could possibly be of any value to me. I abandoned my 
 trunk for fear it would only prove troublesome. 
 
 "Then I hacked the raft loose with my knife and shoved 
 it over to the bulwark. Apparently no one had seen me, for 
 there was no one else forward of the sheet of flame that now 
 cut the boat in two. 
 
 "The raft was a mighty heavy affair, but I managed to 
 raise one end to the rail. I don't believe I would ever have 
 been able to heave it over under any circumstances, but I 
 did n't have to. 
 
 "I felt a great upheaval, and the prow of the Old Squaw 
 went up into the air. I grabbed the ropes that I had lashed 
 the food on with and clung to the raft. The deck became al- 
 most perpendicular, and it was a miracle that the raft didn't 
 slide down with me into the flames. Somehow it stuck where 
 it was. 
 
 "Then the boat sank with a great roar, and for about a 
 thousand years, it seemed to me, I was under water. I did n't 
 do anything. I couldn't think. 
 
 ' ' I was only conscious of a tremendous weight of water and 
 a feeling that I would burst open. Instinct alone made me 
 cling to the raft. 
 
 "When it finally brought me to the surface I was as nearly 
 dead as I care to be. I lay there on the thing in a half-con- 
 scious condition for an endless time. If my life had depended 
 on my doing something, I would have been lost. 
 
 "Then gradually I came to, and began to spit out salt 
 water and gasp for breath. I gathered my wits together and 
 sat up. My hands were absolutely numb, and I had to loosen 
 the grip of my fingers with the help of my toes. Odd sensa- 
 tion. 
 
 "Then I looked about me. My biscuits and water and 
 rope were safe, but the sail-cloth had vanished. I remember 
 
98 GULLIVER THE GREAT 
 
 that this annoyed me hugely at the time, though I don 't know 
 what earthly good it would have been. 
 
 "The sea was fairly calm, and I could see all about. Not 
 a human being was visible, only a few floating bits of wreck- 
 age. Every man on board must have gone down with the 
 ship and drowned, except myself. 
 
 "Then I caught sight of something that made my heart 
 stand still. The huge head of Gulliver was coming rapidly 
 toward me through the water! 
 
 "The dog was swimming strongly, and must have leaped 
 from the Old Squaw before she sank. My raft was the 
 only thing afloat large enough to hold him, and he knew 
 it. 
 
 "I drew my revolver, but it was soaking wet and useless. 
 Then I sat down on the cracker tin and gritted my teeth 
 and waited. I had been alarmed, I must admit, when the 
 boiler blew up and the panic began, but that was nothing 
 to the terror that seized me now. 
 
 "Here I was all alone on the top of the Pacific Ocean with 
 a horrible demon making for me as fast as he could swim. 
 My mind was benumbed, and I could think of nothing to do. 
 I trembled and my teeth rattled. I prayed for a shark, but 
 no shark came. 
 
 ' ' Soon Gulliver reached the raft and placed one of his fore- 
 paws on it and then the other. The top of it stood six or 
 eight inches above the water, and it took a great effort for 
 the dog to raise himself. I wanted to kick him back, but I 
 didn't dare to move. 
 
 "Gulliver struggled mightily. Again and again he reared 
 his great shoulders above the sea, only to be cast back, scratch- 
 ing and kicking, at a lurch of the raft. 
 
 "Finally a wave favored him, and he caught the edge of 
 the under platform with one of his hind feet. With a stu- 
 pendous eft'ort he heaved his huge bulk over the edg« and lay 
 sprawling at my feet, panting and trembling." 
 
 Enderby paused and gazed out of the window with a big 
 sigh, as though the recital of his story had brought back 
 some of the horror of his remarkable experience. 
 
WALTER A. DYER 99 
 
 Nubbins looked up inquiringly, and then snuggled closer 
 to his friend, while Enderby smoothed the white head. 
 
 "^ell," he continued, "there we were. You can't possibly 
 imagine how I felt unless you, too, have been afflicted with 
 dog-fear. It was awful. And I hated the brute so. I could 
 have torn him limb from limb if I had had the strength. 
 But he was vastly more powerful than I. I could only fear 
 him. 
 
 ^'By and by he got up and shook himself. I cowered on 
 my cracker-tin, but he only looked at me contemptuously, went 
 to the other end of the raft, and lay down to wait patiently 
 for deliverance. 
 
 "We remained this way until nightfall. The sea was 
 comparatively calm, and we seemed to be drifting but slowly. 
 We were in the path of ships likely to be passing one way or 
 the other, and I would have been hopeful of the outcome if it 
 had not been for my feared and hated companion. 
 
 "I began to feel faint, and opened the cracker-tin. The 
 biscuits were wet with salt water, but I ate a couple, and 
 left the cover of the tin open to dry them. Gulliver looked 
 around, and I shut the tin hastily. But the dog never moved. 
 He was not disposed to ask any favors. By kicking the sides 
 of the cask and prying with my knife, I managed to get the 
 bung out and took a drink. Then I settled myself on the raft 
 with my back against the cask, and longed for a smoke. 
 
 "The gentle motion of the raft produced a lulling effect on 
 my exhausted nerves, and I began to nod, only to awake with 
 a start, with fear gripping at my heart. I dared not sleep. I 
 don't know what I thought Gulliver would do to me, for I 
 did not understand dogs, but I felt that I must watch him con> 
 stantly. In the starlight I could see that his eyes were open. 
 Gulliver was watchful too. 
 
 "All night long I kept up a running fight with drowsiness. 
 I dozed at intervals, but never for long at a time. It was a 
 horrible night, and I cannot tell you how I longed for day and 
 welcomed it when it came. 
 
 "I must have slept toward dawn, for I suddenly became 
 conscious of broad daylight. I roused myself, stood up, and 
 
I 
 100 GULLIVER THE GREAT i 
 
 swung my arms and legs to stir up circulation, for the night i 
 had been chilly. Gulliver arose, too, and stood silently watch- 
 ing me until I ceased for fear. When he had settled down i 
 again I got my breakfast out of the cracker-tin. Gulliver was   
 restless, and was evidently interested. 
 
 " 'He must be hungry,' I thought, and then a new fear i 
 caught me. I had only to wait until he became very hungry { 
 and then he would surely attack me. I concluded that it j 
 would be wiser to feed him, and I tossed him a biscuit. '; 
 
 *'I expected to see him grab it ravenously, and wondered ' 
 as soon as I had thrown it if the taste of food would only i 
 serve to make him more ferocious. But at first he would 1 
 not touch it. He only lay there with his great head on his 
 paws and glowered at me. Distrust was plainly visible in his ! 
 face. I had never realized before that a dog's face could ex- ] 
 press the subtler emotions. ; 
 
 ''His gaze fascinated me, and I could not take my eyes ; 
 from his. The bulk of him was tremendous as he lay there, , 
 and I noticed the big, swelling muscles of his jaw. At last he j 
 arose, sniffed suspiciously at the biscuit, and looked up at j 
 me again. 
 
 " 'It 's all right; eat it!' I cried. 
 
 "The sound of my own voice frightened me. I had not in- 
 tended to speak to him. But in spite of my strained tone he 
 seemed somewhat reassured. 
 
 "He took a little nibble, and then swallowed the biscuit 
 after one or two crunches, and looked up expectantly. I threw 
 him another and he ate that. 
 
 " 'That 's all,' said I. 'We must be sparing of them.' 
 
 "I was amazed to discover how perfectly he understood. 
 He lay down again and licked his chops. 
 
 "Late in the forenoon I saw a line of smoke on the horizon, 
 and soon a steamer hove into view. I stood up and waved my 
 coat frantically, but to no purpose. Gulliver stood up and 
 looked from me to the steamer, apparently much interested. 
 
 " 'Too far off,' I said to Gulliver. 'I hope the next one 
 will come nearer.' 
 
 "At midday I dined, and fed Gulliver. This time he took 
 
Hi 
 
 i i 
 
 WALTER A. DYER ICi 
 
 the two biscuits quite without reserve and whacked his great 
 tail against the raft. It seemed to me that his attitude was 
 less hostile, and I wondered at it. 
 
 "When I took my drink from the cask, Gulliver showed 
 signs of interest. 
 
 I suppose dogs get thirsty, too,' I said aloud. 
 Gulliver rapped with his tail. I looked about for some 
 sort of receptacle, and finally pulled off my shoe, filled it with 
 water, and shoved it toward him with my foot. He drank 
 gratefully. 
 
 "During the afternoon I sighted another ship, but it was 
 too distant to notice me. However, the sea remained calm and 
 I did not despair. 
 
 * ' After we had had supper, I settled back against my cask, 
 resolved to keep awake, for still I did not trust Gulliver. The 
 sun set suddenly and the stars came out, and I found myself 
 strangely lonesome. It seemed as though I had been alone out 
 there on the Pacific for weeks. The miles and miles of heav- 
 ing waters, almost on a level with my eye, were beginning to 
 get on my nerves. I longed for some one to talk to, and 
 wished I had dragged the half-breed cook along with me for 
 company. I sighed loudly, and Gulliver raised his head. 
 
 " 'Lonesome out here, isn't it?' I said, simply to hear the 
 sound of my own voice. 
 
 "Then for the first time Gulliver spoke. He made a deep 
 sound in his throat, but it was n 't a growl, and with all my 
 ignorance of dog language I knew it. 
 
 "Then I began to talk. I talked about everything — the 
 people back home and all that — and Gulliver listened. I know 
 more about dogs now, and I know that the best way to make 
 friends with a dog is to talk to him. He can 't talk back, but 
 he can understand a heap more than you think he can. 
 
 "Finally Gulliver, who had kept his distance all this time, 
 arose and came toward me. My words died in my throat. 
 What was he going to do ? To my immense relief he did noth- 
 ing but sink down at my feet with a grunt and curl his huge 
 body into a semicircle. He had dignity, Gulliver had. He 
 wanted to be friendly, but he would not presume. However, 
 
•102 .GULLIVER THE GREAT 
 
 I had lost interest in conversation, and sat watching him and 
 wondering. 
 
 ' ' In spite of my firm resolution, I fell asleep at length from 
 sheer exhaustion, and never woke until daybreak. The sky 
 was clouded and our craft was pitching. Gulliver was stand- 
 ing in the middle of the raft, looking at me in evident alarm. 
 I glanced over my shoulder, and the blackness of the horizon 
 told me that a storm was coming, and coming soon. 
 
 '*I made fast our slender provender, tied the end of a line 
 about my own waist for safety, and waited. 
 
 *'In a short time the storm struck us in all its tropical fury. 
 The raft pitched and tossed, now high up at one end, and now 
 at the other, and sometimes almost engulfed in the waves. 
 
 * ' Gulliver was having a desperate time to keep aboard. His 
 blunt claws slipped on the wet deck of the raft, and he fell 
 and slid about dangerously. The thought flashed across my 
 mind that the storm might prove to be a blessing in disguise, 
 and that I might soon be rid of the brute. 
 
 "As I clung there to the lashings, I saw him slip down to 
 the further end of the raft, his hind quarters actually over 
 the edge. A wave swept over him, but still he clung, panting 
 madly. Then the raft righted itself for a moment, and as 
 he hung there he gave me a look I shall never forget — a look 
 of fear, of pleading, of reproach, and yet of silent courage. 
 And with all my stupidity I read that look. Somehow it 
 told me that I was the master, after all, and he the dog. I 
 could not resist it. Cautiously I raised myself and loosened 
 the spare rope I had saved. As the raft tipped the other 
 way Gulliver regained his footing and came sliding toward 
 me. 
 
 ''Quickly I passed the rope around his body, and as the 
 raft dived again I hung on to the rope with one hand, retain- 
 ing my own hold with the other. Gulliver's great weight 
 nearly pulled my arm from its socket, but he helped mightily, 
 and during the next moment of equilibrium I took another 
 turn about his body and made the end of the rope fast. 
 
 ''The storm passed as swiftly as it had come, and though 
 it left us drenched and exhausted, we were both safe. 
 
, 1,' 1 •> 1 ^ ' ' ->, 1 \i :> 1,1 
 
 1 1 lllrj^l 
 
 Again and again Gulliver gave voice, deep, full, powerful 
 

WALTER A. DYER 103 
 
 ''That evening Gulliver crept close to me as I talked, and 
 I let him. Loneliness will make a man do strange things. 
 
 ''On the fifth day, when our provisions were nearly gone, 
 and I had begun to feel the sinking dullness of despair, I 
 sighted a steamer apparently coming directly toward us. In- 
 stantly I felt new life in my limbs and around my heart, and 
 while the boat was yet miles away I began to shout and to 
 wave my coat. 
 
 " ' I believe she 's coming, old man ! ' I cried to Gulliver ; 
 'I believe she 's coming!' 
 
 "I soon wearied of this foolishness and sat down to wait. 
 Gulliver came close and sat beside me, and for the first 
 time I put my hand on him. He looked up at me and rapped 
 furiously with his tail. I patted his head — a little gingerly, 
 I must confess. 
 
 "It was a big, smooth head, and it felt solid and strong. I 
 passed my hand down his neck, his back, his flanks. He 
 seemed to quiver with joy. He leaned his huge body against 
 me. Then he bowed his head and licked my shoe. 
 
 "A feeling of intense shame and unworthiness came over 
 me, with the realization of how completely I had misunder- 
 stood him. Why should this great, powerful creature lick 
 my shoe ? It was incredible. 
 
 "Then, somehow, everything changed. Fear and distrust 
 left me, and a feeling of comradeship and understanding 
 took their place. We two had been through so much together. 
 A dog was no longer a frightful beast to me ; he was a dog ! 
 I cannot think of a nobler word. And Gulliver had licked 
 my shoe ! Doubtless it was only the fineness of his perception 
 that had prevented him from licking my hand. I might have 
 resented that. I put my arms suddenly around Gulliver's 
 neck and hugged him. I loved that dog! 
 
 "Slowly, slowly, the steamer crawled along, but still she 
 kept to her course. When she was about a mile away, how- 
 ever, I saw that she would not pass as near to us as I had 
 hoped ; so I began once more my waving and yelling. She 
 came nearer, nearer, but still showed no sign of observing us. 
 She was abreast of us^ and passing. I was in a frenzy! 
 
 < ( I 
 
104 GULLIVER THE GREAT 
 
 *'She was so near that I could make out the figure of the 
 captain on the bridge, and other figures on the deck below. It 
 seemed as though they must see us, though I realized how low 
 in the water we stood, and how pitifully weak and hoarse my 
 voice was. I had been a fool to waste it. Then an idea struck 
 me. 
 
 '' 'Speak!' I cried to Gulliver, who stood watching beside 
 me. 'Speak, old man!" 
 
 ''Gulliver needed no second bidding. A roar like that of 
 all the bulls of Bashan rolled out over the blue Pacific. Again 
 and again Gulliver gave voice, deep, full, powerful. His 
 great sides heaved with the mighty effort, his red, cavernous 
 mouth open, and his head raised high. 
 
 " 'Good, old man!' I cried. *Good!' And again that 
 magnificent voice boomed forth. 
 
 "Then something happened on board the steamer. The 
 figures came to the side. I waved my coat and danced. Then 
 they saw us. 
 
 ' ' I was pretty well done up when they took us aboard, and 
 I slept for twenty-four hours straight. When I awoke there 
 sat Gulliver by my bunk, and when I turned to look at him 
 he lifted a great paw and put it on my arm. ' ' 
 
 Enderby ceased, and there was silence in the room save for 
 the light snoring of Nubbins. 
 
 "You took him home with you, I suppose?" I asked. 
 
 Enderby nodded. 
 
 "And you have him still?" I certainly wanted to have a 
 look at that dog. 
 
 But he did not answer. I saw an expression of great sad- 
 ness come into his eyes as he gazed out of the window, and I 
 knew that Jacob Enderby had finished his story. 
 
SONNY'S SCHOOLING 
 
 By RUTH McENERY STUART 
 A MONOLOGUE 
 
 Well, sir, we 're try in' to edj create him — good ez we can. 
 Th' ain't never been a edjercational advantage come in reach 
 of us but we 've give it to him. Of co'se he 's all we 've got, 
 that one boy is, an' wife an' me, why, we feel the same way 
 about it. 
 
 They 's three schools in the county, an' we send him to all 
 
 three. 
 
 Sir? Oh, yas, sir; he b 'longs to all three schools — to fo\ 
 for that matter, countin' the home school. 
 
 You see, Sonny he 's purty ticklish to handle, an' a person 
 has to know thess how to tackle him. Even wife an' me, 
 thet 's been knowin' him f 'om the beginnin', not only knowin' 
 his traits, but how he come by 'em, — though some is hard 
 to trace to their so 'ces, — why, sir, even we have to study some- 
 times to keep in with him, an' of co'se a teacher — why, it 's 
 thess hit an' miss whether he '11 take the right tack with him 
 or not; an' sometimes one teacher '11 strike it one day, an' an- 
 other nex' day; so by payin' schoolin' for him right along in 
 all three, why, of co'se, ef he don't feel like goin' to one, 
 why, he '11 go to another. 
 
 Once-t in a while he '11 git out with the whole of 'em, an' 
 that was how wife come to open the home school for him. 
 She was determined his edj creation shouldn't be interrupted 
 ef she could help it. She don't encour'ge him much to go to 
 her school, though, 'cause it interrupts her in her house- 
 keepin' consider 'ble, an' she 's had extry quilt-patchin' on 
 hand ever since he come. She 's patchin' him a set 'ginst the 
 time he '11 marry. 
 
 An' then I reckon he frets her a good deal in school. Some- 
 
 105 
 
lOG SONNY'S SCHOOLIN' 
 
 how, seems like he thess picks up enough in the other schools 
 to be able to conterdic' her ways o' teachin'. 
 
 F' instance, in addin' up a colume o' figgers, ef she comes 
 to a aught — which some calls 'em naughts — she 11 say, 
 *' Aught 's a aught," an' Sonny ain't been learned to say it 
 that a-way ; an ' so maybe when she says, ' ' Aught 's a aught, ' ' 
 he '11 say, "Who said it wasn't?" an' that puts her out in 
 countin '. 
 
 He 's been learned to thess pass over aughts an' not call 
 their names ; and once-t or twice-t, when wife called 'em out 
 that a-way, why, he got so fretted he thess gethered up his 
 things an' went to another school. But seem like she 's added 
 aughts that a-way so long she can't think to add 'em no other 
 way. 
 
 I notice nights after she 's kept school for Sonny all day 
 she talks consider 'ble in her sleep, an' she says, ''Aught 's 
 a aught ' ' about ez often ez she says anything else. 
 
 Oh, yas, sir; he 's had consider 'ble fusses with his teachers, 
 one way an' another, but they ever' one declare they think a 
 heap of 'im. 
 
 Sir? Oh, yas, sir; of co'se they all draw their reg'lar 
 pay whether he 's a day in school du'in' the month or not. 
 That 's right enough, 'cause you see they don't know what 
 day he 's li'ble to drop in on 'em, an' it 's worth the money 
 thess a-keepin' their nerves strung for 'im. 
 
 Well, yas, sir; 't is toler'ble expensive, lookin' at it one 
 way, but lookin' at it another, it don't cost no mo' 'n what 
 it would to edjercate three child 'en, which many poor families 
 have to do — an' more — ^which in our united mind Sonny's 
 worth 'em all. 
 
 Yas, sir; 't is confusin' to him in some ways, goin' to all 
 three schools at once-t. 
 
 F' instance, Miss Alviry Sawyer, which she 's a single- 
 handed maiden lady 'bout wife's age, why, of co'se, she 
 teaches accordin' to the old rules; an' in learnin' the child 'en 
 subtraction, f ' instance, she '11 tell 'em, ef they run short to 
 borry one f 'om the nex' lef ' han' top figur', an' pay it back 
 to the feller underneath him. 
 
RUTH McENERY STUART 107 
 
 Well, this didn't suit Sonny's sense o' jestice no way, 
 borryin' from one an' payin' back to somebody else; so he 
 thess up an' argued about it — told her thet fellers thet bor- 
 ried nickels f'om one another couldn't pay back that a-way; 
 an' of co'se she told him they was heap o' difference 'twix* 
 money and 'rithmetic — which I wish't they was more in my 
 experience; an' so they had it hot and heavy for a while, till 
 at last she explained to him thet that way of doin' subtraction 
 fetched the ansiver, which, of co'se, ought to satisfy any 
 school-boy; an' I reckon Sonny would soon 'a' settled into 
 that way 'ceptin' thet he got out o' patience with that school 
 in sev'al ways, an' he left an' went out to Sandy Crik school, 
 and it thess happened that he struck a subtraction class there 
 the day he got in, an' they was workin' it the other way — 
 borry one from the top iigur' an' never pay it back at all, 
 thess count it off (that 's the way I 've worked my lifelong 
 subtraction, though wife does hers payin' back), an' of co'se 
 Sonny was ready to dispute this way, an' he didn't have 
 no mo' tac' than to th'ow up Miss Alviry's way to the teacher, 
 which of co'se he would n't stand, particular ez Miss Alviry 's 
 got the biggest school. So they broke up in a row, immejate, 
 and Sonny went right along to Miss Kellog's school down 
 here at the cross-roads. 
 
 She 's a sort o ' reformed teacher, I take it ; an ' she gets at 
 her subtraction by a new route altogether — like ez ef the 
 first feller thet had any surplus went sort o ' security for them 
 thet was short, an' passed the loan down the line. But I no- 
 ticed he never got his money back, for when they come to him, 
 why, they docked him. I reckon goin ' security is purty much 
 the same in an out o' books. She passes the borryin' along 
 some way till it gits to headquarters, an' writes a new row o' 
 figur's over the heads o' the others. Well, my old brain got 
 so addled watchin ' Sonny work it thet I did n 't seem to know 
 one figur' f'om another 'fo' he got thoo; but when I see the 
 answer come, why, I was satisfied. Ef a man can thess git his 
 answers right •all his life, why nobody ain't a-goin' to pester 
 him about how he worked his figur's. 
 
 I did try to get Sonny to stick to one school for each rule 
 
108 SONNY'S SCHOOLIN' 
 
 in 'rithmetic, an' havin' thess fo' schools, why he could learn 
 each o' the fo' rules by one settled plan. But he won't 
 promise nothin'. He '11 quit for lessons one week, and maybe 
 next week somethin' else 11 decide him. (He 's quit ever' 
 one of 'em in turn when they come to long division.) He 
 went thoo a whole week o' disagreeable lessons once-t at one 
 school 'cause he was watchin' a bird-nest on the way to that 
 school. He was determined them young birds was to be al- 
 lowed to leave that nest without bein' pestered, an' they stayed 
 so long they purty nigh run him into long division 'fo' they 
 did fly. Ef he 'd 'a' missed school one day he knowed two 
 sneaky chaps thet would 'a' robbed that nest, either goin' or 
 comin'. 
 
 Of co'se Sonny goes to the exhibitions an' picnics of all the 
 schools. Last summer we had a time of it when it come pic- 
 nic season. Two schools set the same day for theirs, which of 
 co'se wasn't no ways fair to Sonny. He payin' right along 
 in all the schools, of co'se he was entitled to all the picnics; 
 so I put on my Sunday clo'es, an' I went down an' had it 
 fixed right. They all wanted Sonny, too, come down to the 
 truth, 'cause besides bein' fond of him, they knowed thet 
 Sonny always fetched a big basket. 
 
 Trouble with Sonny is thet he don't take nothin' on no- 
 body's say-so, don't keer who it is. He even commenced to 
 dispute Moses one Sunday when wife was readin' the Holy 
 Scriptures to him, tell of co'se she made him understand thet 
 that wouldn't do. Moses didn't intend to he conterdieted. 
 
 An' ez to secular lessons, he ain't got no respec' for 'em 
 whatsoever. F' instance, when the teacher learned him thet 
 the world was round, why he up an' told him '# ivar n't so, 
 less'n we was on the inside an' it was blue-lined, which of 
 co'se teacher he insisted thet we was on the outside, walkin' 
 over it, all feet todes the center — a thing I 've always thought 
 myself was mo' easy said than proved. 
 
 Well, sir. Sonny didn't hesitate to deny it, an' of co'se 
 teacher he commenced by givin' him a check — which is a bad 
 mark — for conterdictin'^ An' then Sonny he 'lowed thet he 
 didn't conterdic' to he a-conterdictin ', but he knowed 't 
 
RUTH McENERY STUART 109 
 
 war n't so. He had walked the whole len'th o' the road 
 'twix' the farm an' the school-house, an' they war n't no 
 bulge in it; an' besides, he hadn't never saw over the edges 
 of it. 
 
 An' with that teacher he give him another check for speakin' 
 out o' turn. An' then Sonny, says he, ''Ef a man was tall 
 enough he could see around the edges, could n't he?" "No," 
 says the teacher; ''a man couldn't grow that tall," says he; 
 "he 'd be deformed." 
 
 An' Sonny, why, he spoke up again, an' says he, "But I 'm 
 thess a-sayin' ef/' says he. "An' teacher," says he, "we 
 ain't a-studyin' efs; we 're studyin' geoger'phy." And then 
 Sonny they say he kep' still a minute, an' then he says, says 
 he, "Oh, maybe he couldn't see over the edges, teacher, 
 'cause ef he was tall enough his head might reach up into 
 the flo' o' heaven." And with that teacher he give him an- 
 other check, an' told him not to dare to mix up geoger'phy 
 an' religion, which was a sackerlege to both studies; an' with 
 that Sonny gethered up his books an' set out to another school. 
 
 I think myself it 'u'd be thess ez well ef Sonny wasn't 
 quite so quick to conterdic'; but it 's thess his way of holdin' 
 his p 'int. 
 
 Why, one day he faced one o' the teachers down thet two 
 an' two did n't haf to make fo\ wh'er or no. 
 
 This seemed to tickle the teacher mightily, an' so he laughed 
 an' told him he was goin' to give him rope enough to hang 
 hisself now, an' then he dared him to show him any two an' 
 two thet didn't make fo', and Sonny says, says he, "Heap o' 
 two an' twos don't make four, 'cause they 're kep' sep'rate," 
 says he. 
 
 "An' then," says he, "I don't want my two billy-goats 
 harnessed up with nobody else 's two billys to make f o ' billys. ' ' 
 
 "But," says the teacher, "suppose I was to harness up yo' 
 two goats with Tom Deems 's two, there 'd be fo' goats, I 
 reckon, whether you wanted 'em there or not." 
 
 "No they wouldn't," says Sonny. "They wouldn't be 
 but two. 'T would n 't take my team more 'n half a minute 
 to butt the life out o' Tom's team." 
 
110 SONNY'S SCHOOLIN' 
 
 An' with that little Tommy Deems, why, he commenced 
 to cry, an' 'stid o' punishin' him for bein' sech a cry-baby, 
 what did the teacher do but give Sonny another check, for 
 castin' slurs on Tommy's animals, an' gettin' Tommy's feelin's 
 hurted! Which I ain't a-sayin' it on account o' Sonny bein' 
 my boy, but it seems to me was a mighty unfair advantage. 
 
 No boy's feelin's ain't got no right to be that tender — 
 an' a goat is the last thing on earth thet could be injured by 
 a word of mouth. 
 
 Sonny's pets an' beasts has made a heap o' commotion in 
 school one way an' another, somehow. Ef 't ain't his goats 
 it 's somethin' else. 
 
 Sir? Sonny's pets? Oh, they 're all sorts. He ain't no 
 ways partic'lar thess so a thing is po' an' miser 'ble enough. 
 That 's about all he seems to require of anything. 
 
 He don't never go to school hardly 'thout a garter-snake or 
 two or a lizard or a toad-frog somewheres about him. He 's 
 got some o' the little girls at school that nervous thet if he 
 thess shakes his little sleeve at 'em they '11 squeal, not knowin ' 
 what sort o ' live critter '11 jump out of it. 
 
 Most of his pets is things he 's got by their bein' hurted 
 some way. 
 
 One of his toad-frogs is blind of a eye. Sonny rescued him 
 from the old red rooster one day after he had nearly pecked 
 him to death, an' he had him hoppin' round the kitchen for 
 about a week with one eye bandaged up. 
 
 When a hurted critter gits good an ' strong he gen 'ally turns 
 it loose ag'in; but ef it stays puny, why he reg'lar 'dopts 
 it an' names it Jones. That 's thess a little notion o' his, 
 namin' his pets the family name. 
 
 The most outlandish thing he ever 'dopted, to my mind, is 
 that old yaller cat. That was a miser 'ble low-do vm stray cat 
 thet hung round the place a whole season, an' Sonny used to 
 vow he was goin' to kill it, 'cause it kep' a-ketchin' the birds. 
 
 Well, one day he happened to see him thess runnin' off with 
 a young mockin'-bird in his mouth, an' he took a brickbat 
 an' he let him have it, an' of co'se he dropped the bird an' 
 tumbled over — stunted. The bird it got well, and Sonny 
 
RUTH McENERY STUART 111 
 
 turned him loose after a few days; but that cat was hurted 
 fatal. He could n 't never no mo ' 'n drag hisself around from 
 that day to this ; an ' I reckon ef Sonny was called on to give 
 up every pet he 's got, that cat would be 'bout the last thing 
 he 'd surrender. He named him Tommy Jones, an' he never 
 goes to school of a mornin', rain or shine, till Tommy Jones is 
 fed f 'om his own plate with somethin' he 's left for him 
 special. 
 
 Of co'se Sonny he 's got his faults, which anybody '11 tell 
 you ; but th ' ain 't a dumb brute on the farm but '11 f oiler him 
 around — an' Dice}^, wh}^ she thinks they never was such an- 
 other boy born into the world — that is, not no human child. 
 
 An' wife an' me — 
 
 But of co'se he 's ours. 
 
 I don't doubt thet he ain't constructed thess exac'ly ez the 
 school-teachers would have him, ef they had their way. Some- 
 times I have thought I 'd like his disposition eased up a little, 
 myself, when he taken a stand ag'in my jedgment or v/ife's. 
 
 Takin' 'em all round, though, the teachers has been mighty 
 patient with him. 
 
 At one school the teacher did take him out behind the school- 
 house one day to whup him; an' although teacher is a big 
 strong man. Sonny's mighty wiry an' quick, an' some way he 
 slipped his holt, an' 'fo' teacher could ketch him ag'in he 
 had dumb up the lightnin '-rod on to the roof thess like a cat. 
 An' teacher he felt purty shore of him then, 'cause he 'lowed 
 they wasn't no other way to git down (which they wasn't, 
 the school bein' a steep-sided buildin'), an' he 'd wait for 
 him. 
 
 So teacher he set down close-t to the lightnin '-rod to wait. 
 He wouldn't go back in school without him, cause he didn't 
 want the child 'en to know he 'd got away. So down he set; 
 but he had n't no mo' 'n took his seat sca'cely when he heerd 
 the child 'en in school roa'in' out loud, laughin' fit to kill 
 theirselves. 
 
 He 'lowed at first thet like ez not the monitor was cuttin' 
 up some sort o' didoes, the way monitors does gen 'ally, so he 
 waited a-while; but it kep' a-gittin' worse, so d'rectly he got 
 
112 SONNY'S SCHOOLIN' 
 
 up, an' he went in to see what the excitement was about; an' 
 lo and beholt! Sonny had slipped down the open chimbly 
 right in amongst 'em — come out a-grinnin', with his face all 
 sooted over, an', says he, "Say, fellers," says he, "I run up 
 the lightnin'-rod, an' he 's a-waitin' for me to come down." 
 An' with that he went an' gethered up his books, deliberate, 
 an' fetched his hat, an' picked up a nest o' little chimbly- 
 swallows he had dislodged in comin' down (all this here it hap- 
 pened thess las' June), an' he went out an' harnessed up his 
 goat-wagon, an' got in. An' thess ez he driv' out the school- 
 yard into the road the teacher come in, an ' he see how things 
 was. 
 
 Of co'se sech conduct ez that is worrisome, but I don't see 
 no, to say, bad principle in it. Sonny ain't got a bad habit on 
 earth, not a-one. They '11 ever' one o' the teachers tell you 
 that. He ain't never been knowed to lie, an' ez for improper 
 language, why he wouldn't know how to select it. An' ez 
 to tattlin' at home about what goes on in school, why, he 
 never has did it. The only way we knowed about him comin' 
 down the school-house chimbly was wife went to fetch his 
 dinner to him, an' she found it out. 
 
 She knowed he had went to that school in the mornin', an' 
 when she got there at twelve o 'clock, why he was n 't there, an ' 
 of co'se she questioned the teacher, an' he thess told her 
 thet Sonny had been present at the mornin' session, but thet 
 he was now absent. An' the rest of it she picked out o' the 
 child 'en. 
 
 Oh, no, sir; she don't take his dinner to him reg'lar — only 
 some days when she happens to have somethin' extry good, or 
 maybe when she 'magines he didn't eat hearty at breakfast. 
 The school-child 'en they always likes to see her come, because 
 she gen 'ally takes a extry lot o' fried chicken thess for him 
 to give away. PTe don't keer much for nothin' but livers an' 
 gizzards, so we have to kill a good many to get enough for him ; 
 an' of co'se the fryin' o' the rest of it is mighty little trouble. 
 
 Sonny is a bothersome child one way: he don't never want 
 to take his dinner to school with him. Of co'se thess after 
 
RUTH McENERY STUART 113 
 
 eatin' breakfas' he don't feel hungry, an' when wife does 
 coax him to take it, he '11 seem to git up a appetite vvalkin' to 
 school, an' he '11 eat it up 'fo' he gits there. 
 
 Sonny 's got a mighty noble disposition, though, take him 
 all round. 
 
 Now, the day he slipped down that chimbly an' run away 
 he wasn't a bit flustered, an' he didn't play hookey the 
 balance of the day neither. He thess went down to the crik, 
 an' washed the soot off his face, though they say he didn't 
 no more 'n smear it round, an' then he went down to Miss 
 Phoebe's school, an' stayed there till it was out. An' she took 
 him out to the well, an' washed his face good for him. But 
 nex' day he up an' went back to Mr. Clark's school — walked in 
 thess ez pleasant an' kind, an' taken his seat an' said his 
 lessons — never th'owed it up to teacher at all. Now, some 
 child 'en, after playin' off on a teacher that a-way would a' 
 took advantage, but he never It was a fair fight, an' Sonny 
 whupped, an' that 's all there was to it; an' he never put on 
 no air about it. 
 
 Wife did threaten to go herself an' make the teacher apolo- 
 gize for gittin' the little feller all sooted up an' sp'ilin' his 
 clo'es; but she thought it over, an' she decided thet she 
 wouldn't disturb things ez long ez they was peaceful. An', 
 after all, he did n 't exac 'ly send him down the chimbly nohow, 
 though he provoked him to it. 
 
 Ef Sonny had 'a' fell an' hurted hisself, though, in that 
 chimbly, I 'd 'a' belt that teacher responsible, shore. 
 
 Sonny says hisself thet the only thing he feels bad about 
 in that chimbly business is thet one o' the little swallers' wings 
 was broke by the fall. Sonny 's got him yet, an' he 's li'ble 
 to keep him, cause he '11 never fly. Named him Swally Jones, 
 an' reg'lar 'dopted him soon ez he see how his wing was. 
 
 Sonny 's the only child I ever see in my life thet could take 
 young chimbly-swallers after their fall an' make 'em live. 
 But he does it reg'lar. They ain't a week passes sca'cely 
 but he fetches in some hurted critter an' works with it. Dicey 
 says thet half the time she 's af eered to step around her cook- 
 
114 SONNY'S SCHOOLIN' 
 
 stove less'n she '11 step on some critter thet 's crawled back 
 to life where he 's put it under the stove to hatch or thaw out, 
 which she bein' bare-feeted, I don't wonder at. 
 
 An' he has did the same way at school purty much. It 
 got so for a-while at one school thet not a child in school could 
 be hired to put his hand in the wood-box, not knowin' ef any 
 piece o' bark or old wood in it would turn out to be a young 
 alligator or toad-frog thawin' out. Teacher hisself picked up 
 a chip, reckless, one day, an ' it hopped up, and knocked off his 
 spectacles. Of co'se it wasn't no chip. Hopper-toad frog 
 an' wood-bark chips, why, they favors consider 'ble — lay 'em 
 same side up. 
 
 It was on account o' her takin' a interest in all his little 
 beasts an' varmints thet he first took sech a notion to Miss 
 Phoebe Kellog's school. Where any other teacher would scold 
 about sech things ez he 'd fetch in, why, she 'd encourage him 
 to bring 'em to her; an' she 'd fix a place for 'em, an' maybe 
 git out some book tellin' all about 'em, an' showin' pictures 
 of 'em. 
 
 She 's had squir'l-books, an' bird-books, an' books on nearly 
 every sort o' wild critter you 'd think too mean to put into a 
 book, at that school, an' give the child 'en readin '-lessons on 
 'em an' drawin '-lessons an' clay-moldin' lessons. 
 
 Why, Sonny has did his alligator so nach'l in clay thet 
 you 'd most expec' to see it creep away. An' you 'd think 
 mo' of alligators forever afterward, too. An' ez to readin', he 
 never did take no interest in learnin' how to read out 'n them 
 school-readers, which he declares don 't no more 'n git a person 
 interested in one thing befo' they start on another, an' maybe 
 start that in the middle. 
 
 The other teachers, they makes a heap o' fun o' Miss 
 Phoebe's way o' school-teaehin', 'cause she lets the child 'en 
 ask all sorts of outlandish questions, an' make pictures in 
 school hours, an' she don't requi' 'em to fold their arms in 
 school, neither. 
 
 Maybe she is foolin' their time away. I can't say ez I 
 exac'ly see how she 's a workin' it to edjercate 'em that a-way. 
 I had to set with my arms folded eight hours a day in school 
 when I was a boy, to learn the little I know, an' wife she got 
 
RUTH McENERY STUART 115 
 
 her edjercation the same way. An' we went clean thoo f om 
 the a-b abs an' e-b ebs clair to the end o' the blue-back speller. 
 
 An' we learned to purnounce a heap mo' words than either 
 one of us has ever needed to know, though there has been 
 times, sech ez when my wife's mother took the phthisic an' I 
 had the asthma, thet I was obligated to write to the doctor 
 about it, thet I was thankful for my experience in the blue- 
 back speller. Them was our brag-words, phthisic and asthma 
 was. They 's a few other words I 've always hoped to have a 
 chance to spell in the reg'lar co'se of life, sech ez y-a-c-h-t, 
 yacht, but I suppose, livin' in a little inland town, which a 
 yacht is a boat, a person couldn't be expected to need sech a 
 word — less'n he went travelin'. 
 
 I 've often thought thet ef at the Jedgment the good Lord 
 would only examine me an' all them thet went to school in my 
 day, in the old blue-back speller 'stid o' tacklin' us on the 
 weak p'ints of our pore mortal lives, why, we 'd stand about 
 ez good a chance o' gettin' to heaven ez anybody else. An' 
 maybe He will — who knows? 
 
 But ez for book-readin', wife an' me ain't never felt called 
 on to read no book save an' exceptin' the Holy Scriptures — 
 an', of co'se, the seed catalogues. 
 
 An' here Sonny, not quite twelve year old, has read five 
 books thoo, an' some of 'em twice-t an' three times over. His 
 Robinson Crusoe shows mo' wear 'n tear 'n what my Testa- 
 ment does, I 'm ashamed to say. I 've done give Miss Phoebe 
 free license to buy him any book she wants him to have, an' 
 he 's got 'em all 'ranged in a row on the end o' the mantel- 
 shelf. 
 
 Quick ez he 'd git thoo readin' a book, of co'se wife she 'd 
 be for dustin' it off and puttin' up on the top closet shelf 
 where a book nach'ally belongs; but seem like Sonny he wants 
 to keep 'em in sight. So wife she 's worked a little lace shelf- 
 cover to lay under 'em, an' we 've hung our framed marriage- 
 c'tificate above 'em, an' the comer looks right purty, come 
 to see it fixed up. 
 
 Sir? Oh, no; we ain't took him from none o' the other 
 schools yet. He 's been goin' to Miss Phoebe's reg'lar now — - 
 
116 SONNY'S SCHOOLIN' 
 
 all but the exhibition an' picnic days in the other schools — for 
 nearly five months, not countin ' off -an '-on days he went to her 
 bef ' he settled down to it stiddy . 
 
 He says he 's a-goin' there reg'lar from this time on, an' I 
 b'lieve he will; but wife an' me we talked it over, an' we de- 
 cided we 'd let things stand, an ' keep his name down on all the 
 books till sech a time ez he come to long division with Miss 
 Kellog. 
 
 An ' ef he stays thoo that, we '11 feel free to notify the other 
 schools thet he 's quit. 
 
 .i 
 
HER FIRST HORSE SHOW 
 
 By DAVID GRAY 
 
 She folded the program carefully for preservation in her 
 memory-book, and devoured the scene with her eyes. It was 
 hard to believe, but unquestionably Angelica Stanton, in the 
 flesh, was in Madison Square Garden at the horse show. The 
 great arena was crowded ; the band was playing, and a four-in- 
 hand was swinging around the tan-bark ring. 
 
 What had been her dream since she put away her dolls and 
 the flea-bitten pony was realized. The pony had been suc- 
 ceeded by Lady Washington, and with Lady Washington 
 opened the epoch when she began to hunt with the grown-up 
 people and to reflect upon the outside world. From what she 
 had gathered from the men in the hunting-field, the outside 
 world seemed to center in the great horse show, and most of 
 what was interesting and delightful in life took place there. 
 
 Besides the obvious profit of witnessing this institution, 
 there had arisen, later on, more serious considerations which 
 led Angelica to take an interest in it. Since the disappear- 
 ance of Lady Washington and the failure to trace her, Angel- 
 ica's hope was in the show. 
 
 One of the judges who had visited Jim had unwittingly laid 
 the bases of this hope. "All the best performers in America 
 are exhibited there," he had said in the course of an intermin- 
 able discussion upon the great subject. And was not Lady 
 Washington probably the best? Clearly, therefore, soon or 
 late Lady Washington would be found winning blue ribbons 
 at Madison Square Garden. 
 
 To this cheering conclusion the doubting Thomas within her 
 replied that so desirable a miracle could never be; and she 
 cherished the doubt, though rather to provoke contrary fate 
 into refuting it than because it embodied her convictions. She 
 knew that some day Lady Washington must come back. 
 
 117 
 
118 HER FIRST HORSE SHOW 
 
 After Jim had sold Lady Washington, he had been informed 
 by Chloe, the parlor-maid, how Angelica felt, and he repented 
 his act. He had tried to buy the mare back, but the man to 
 whom he had sold her had sold her to a dealer, and he had sold 
 her to somebody who had gone abroad, and no one knew what 
 this person had done with her. So Lady Washington had dis- 
 appeared, and Angelica mourned for her. Two years passed, 
 two years that were filled with doubt and disappointment. 
 Each autumn Jim went North with his horses, but never sug- 
 gested taking Angelica. As for Angelica, the subject w^as too 
 near her heart for her to broach it. Thus it seemed that life 
 was slipping away, harshly withholding opportunity. 
 
 That November, for reasons of his own, Jim decided to take 
 Angelica along with him. When he told her of his intention, 
 she gasped, but made no demonstration. On the threshold 
 of fulfilling her hope she was afraid to exult: she knew how 
 things* are snatched away the moment one begins to count 
 upon them ; but inwardly she was happy to the point of appre- 
 hension. On the trip North she "knocked wood" scrupu- 
 lously every time she was lured into a day-dream which pic- 
 tured the finding of Lady Washington, and thus she gave the 
 evil forces of destiny no opening. 
 
 The first hour of the show overwhelmed her. It was too 
 splendid and mystifying to be comprehended immediately, or 
 to permit a divided attention. Even Lady Washington 
 dropped out of her thoughts, but only until the jumping 
 classes began. The first hunter that trotted across the tan- 
 bark brought her back to her quest. 
 
 But after two days the mystery was no more a mystery, and 
 the splendor had faded out. The joy of it had faded out, too. 
 For two days she had pored over the entry-lists and had 
 studied every horse that entered the ring; but the search for 
 Lady Washington had been a vain one. Furthermore, all the 
 best horses by this time had appeared in some class, and the 
 chances of Lady Washington's turning up seemed infinitesi- 
 mal. Reluctantly she gave up hope. She explained it to her- 
 self that probably there had been a moment of vainglorious 
 pride when she had neglected to "knock wood." She would 
 
DAVID GRAY 119 
 
 have liked to discuss it with somebody; but Chloe and her 
 colored mammy, who understood such matters, were at the 
 "Pines" in Virginia, and Jim would probably laugh at 
 her; so she maintained silence and kept her despair to her- 
 self. 
 
 It was the evening of the third day, and she was at the show 
 again, dressed in her habit, because she was going to ride. 
 Her brother was at the other end of the Garden, hidden by a 
 row of horses. He was waiting to show in a class of park 
 hacks. There was nothing in it that looked like Lady Wash- 
 ington, and she turned her eyes away from the ring with a 
 heavy heart. The band had stopped playing, and there was no 
 one to talk to but her aunt's maid, and this maid was not com- 
 panionable. She fell to watching the people in the boxes ; she 
 wished that she knew some of them. There was a box just 
 below her which looked attractive. There were two pretty 
 women in it, and some men who looked as if they were nice; 
 they were laughing and seemed to be having a good time. She 
 wished she was with them, or home, or anywhere else than 
 where she was. 
 
 Presently the music struck up again ; the hum of the innu- 
 merable voices took a higher pitch. The ceaseless current of 
 promenaders staring and bowing at the boxes went slowly 
 around and around. Nobody paid any attention to the horses, 
 but all jostled and chattered and craned their necks to see the 
 people. When her brother's Redgauntlet took the blue rib- 
 bon in the heavy-weight green-hunter class, not a person in 
 the whole Garden applauded except herself. She heard a man 
 ask, "What took the blue?" And she heard his friend 
 answer, "Southern horse, I believe; don't know the owner." 
 They didn't even know Jim! She would have left the place 
 and gone back to her aunt's for a comfortable cry, but she was 
 going to ride Hilda in the ladies' saddle class, which came 
 toward the end of the evening. 
 
 The next thing on the program were some qualified hunters 
 which might be expected to show some good jumping. This 
 was something to be thankful for, and she turned her atten- 
 tion to the rinsr. 
 
120 HER FIRST HORSE SHOW 
 
 ''I think I '11 go down on the floor," she said to the maid. 
 * * I 'm tired of sitting still. ' ' 
 
 In theory Miss Angelica Stanton was at the horse show 
 escorted by her brother ; but in fact she was in the custody of 
 Caroline, the maid of her aunt Henrietta Gushing, who lived 
 in Washington Square. Miss Gushing was elderly, and she 
 disapproved of the horse show because her father had been a 
 charter member of the Society for the Prevention of Gruelty 
 to Animals, and because to go to it in the afternoon inter- 
 fered with her drive and with her tea, while to go to it in 
 the evening interfered with her whist, and that was not to 
 be thought of. Gonsequently, when Angelica arrived, the 
 horse show devolved upon Garoline, who accepted the 
 situation not altogether with resignation. She had done 
 Miss Gushing 's curls for twenty years, and had absorbed her 
 views. 
 
 Angelica would have preferred stopping at the hotel with 
 Jim ; but that, he said, was out of the question. Jim admitted 
 that Aunt Henrietta was never intentionally entertaining, 
 but he said that Angelica needed her womanly influence. Jim 
 had brought up Angelica, and the problem sometimes seemed 
 a serious one. She was now sixteen, and he was satisfied that 
 she was going to be a horsewoman, but at times he doubted 
 whether his training was adequate in other respects, and that 
 was why he had brought her to the horse show and had 
 incarcerated her at Aunt Henrietta's. 
 
 The girl led Caroline through the crowd, and took a position 
 at the end, between the first and last jumps. As the horses 
 were shown, they went round the ring, came back, and finished 
 in front of them. It was the best place from which to watch, 
 if one wished to see the jumping. 
 
 Angelica admitted to herself that some of the men rode 
 pretty well, but not as well as some of the men rode at their 
 out-of-door shows at home; and the tan-bark was not as good 
 as turf. It was a large class, and after eight or ten had been 
 shown, a striking-looking black mare came out of the line and 
 started plunging and rearing toward the first jump. Her 
 rider faced her at the bars, and she minced reluctantly for- 
 
DAVID GRAY 121 
 
 ward. Just before they reached the wings the man struck her. 
 She stopped short and whirled back into the ring. 
 
 From the time the black mare appeared Angelica's heart 
 almost stopped beating. " I 'm sure of it, I 'm sure of it ! " 
 she gasped. ''Three white feet and the star. Caroline," she 
 said, "that 's Lady Washington. He oughtn't to strike her. 
 He mustn't!" 
 
 ''Hush, miss," said Caroline. ''We '11 be conspicuous." 
 
 The man was bringing the mare back toward the jump. As 
 before, he used his whip, intending to drive her into the wings, 
 and, as before, she stopped, reared angrily, wheeled about, 
 and came back plunging. The man quieted her after a little, 
 and turned her again toward the hurdle. It was his last 
 chance. She came up sulkily, tossing her head and edging 
 away from the bars. As he got near the wings he raised his 
 whip again. Then the people in that part of the Garden 
 heard a girl's shrill, excited voice cry out: "You mustn't 
 hit her! Steady, Lady Washington! Drop your curb!" 
 
 The black mare's ears went forward at the sound of the 
 voice. The young man on her back put down his uplifted 
 whip and loosened the rein on the bit. He glanced around 
 with an embarrassed smile, and the next instant he was over 
 the jump, and the mare was galloping for the hurdle beyond. 
 
 Suddenly Angelica became conscious that several thousand 
 people were staring at her with looks of wonder and amuse- 
 ment. Caroline clutched her arm and dragged her away from 
 the rail. The girl colored, and shook herself free. 
 
 "I don't care," she said. "He shouldn't have hit her. 
 She can jump anything if she 's ridden right. I knew we 'd 
 find her, ' ' she muttered excitedly. ' ' I knew it ! " 
 
 Caroline struggled desperately through the crowd with her 
 charge. 
 
 "Whatever will Miss Cushing say!" she gasped. 
 
 Angelica forgot the crowd. "I don't care," she said. "If 
 Aunt Henrietta had ever owned Lady Washington she 'd have 
 done the same thing. And if you tell her I '11 pay you back. 
 She '11 know that you let me leave my seat, and she told you 
 not to." This silenced Caroline. 
 
122 HER FIRST HORSE SHOW 
 
 "There! He's fussed her mouth again," she went on. 
 The black mare had refused, and was rearing at the jump next 
 the last. The girl stood on tiptoe and watched impatiently 
 for a moment. 
 
 "There she goes," she murmured, with a sigh. The judges 
 had ordered the horse out. 
 
 Angelica tagged along disconsolately through the crowd till 
 a conversation between two men who were leaning against the 
 rail caught her ear. 
 
 "I wonder who that little girl was," said one. "The mare 
 seemed to know her voice, but Reggie does n 't call her Lady 
 Washington. ' ' 
 
 "No — Hermione," said the other. "He may have changed 
 it, though," he added. "He gives them all names beginning 
 with H." 
 
 "You Tl have an easy time beating him in the five-foot-six 
 jumps," said the first man. "It 's a good mare, but he can't 
 ride her." 
 
 Angelica wondered who they were, but they turned around 
 just then, aad she dropped her eyes and hurried after Caro- 
 line. 
 
 As they made their way through the crowd, a nudge from 
 the maid took her thoughts from Lady Washington. She had 
 been wondering how she would find the young man who had 
 ridden her. She looked up and saw that a man was bowing 
 to her. It was Mr. "Billy" Livingstone. Mr. Livingstone 
 was nearly sixty, but he had certain qualities of permanent 
 youth which made him "Billy" to three generations. 
 
 "Hello, Angelica!" he exclaimed. "When did you turn 
 up ? How you Ve grown ! ' ' 
 
 "I came up North with Jim," she replied. 
 
 "You should have let me know," he said. "You know Jim 
 never writes any one. This is the first time I 've been here. 
 I 'm just back from the country. Where 's your box — that is, 
 who are you with ? ' ' 
 
 "I 'm here with my maid," said Angelica, with a somewhat 
 conscious dignity. * ' Jim is with the horses, ' ' 
 
n 
 ( < 
 
 DAVID GRAY 123 
 
 Livingstone looked from the slender girl to the substantial 
 Caroline, and the corners of his mouth twitched. 
 
 "I prefer to be alone this way," she explained. ''It 's 
 more independent." 
 
 Mr. Livingstone thought a moment. ' ' Of course that 's so, ' ' 
 he said. ''But I think I 've got a better plan; let 's hunt up 
 Mrs. Dicky Everett. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Is she an old woman ? ' ' asked Angelica. 
 
 "Not so terribly old," said Mr. Livingstone. "I suppose 
 you 'd call her middle-aged." 
 
 "Thirty?" asked Angelica. 
 Near it, I 'm afraid," he answered. 
 
 Well, I don't know," said Angelica. "That 's pretty old. 
 She won't have anything to say to me." 
 
 "She knows something about a horse," said Livingstone, 
 "though, of course, she can't ride the way you do. If you 
 find her stupid, I '11 take you away ; but I want you to come 
 because she will be very nice to me for bringing you." 
 
 He turned to Caroline. "I 'm a friend of Miss Stanton's 
 brother. Go to your seat, and I '11 bring Miss Stanton back 
 to you." 
 
 Then he led the way up the stairs, and Angelica followed, 
 wondering what sort of person Mrs. "Dicky" Everett might 
 be. 
 
 She cheered herself with the thought that she could not be 
 any older or more depressing than Aunt Henrietta, and if she 
 was fond of horses she might know who owned Lady Wash- 
 ington. 
 
 Livingstone consulted his program. "It 's down on this 
 side," he said. She followed him mechanically, with her eyes 
 wandering toward the ring, till presently they stopped. 
 
 "Hello!" she heard them call to Livingstone, as he stepped 
 in ahead of her, and the next moment she realized that she 
 was in the very box which she had watched from her seat 
 among the chairs. 
 
 "I want to present you to my friend Miss Stanton," Liv- 
 ingstone said. He repeated the names, but they made no 
 
124 HER FIRST HORSE SHOW 
 
 impression upon her, because there, standing in front of her, 
 was the young man who had ridden Lady Washington. 
 
 ^'You seem to know each other," said Livingstone. ''Am I 
 wasting my breath? Is this a joke?" 
 
 He looked at Angelica. She was speechless with mixed joy 
 and embarrassment. 
 
 "Come here, my dear," said one of the two pretty women, 
 "and sit down beside me. Miss Stanton," she went on to 
 Livingstone, "very kindly tried to teach Reggie how to ride 
 Hermione, and we are glad to have the chance to thank her." 
 
 ' ' I don 't understand at all, ' ' said Livingstone. ' ' But there 
 are so many things that I shall never understand that one 
 more makes no difference." 
 
 Angelica's self-confidence began to come back. 
 
 "Why, he was riding Lady Washington with a whip," she 
 explained. "And I just called out to him not to. You 
 remember Lady Washington, — she was a four-year-old when 
 you were at the Pines, — and you know you never could touch 
 her with a whip." 
 
 "I remember very well," said Livingstone. "You flat- 
 tered me by offering to let me ride her, an offer which, I 
 think, I declined. When did you sell her?" 
 
 "Two years ago," said Angelica. 
 
 Then the other young woman spoke. "But how did you 
 recognize the horse?" she asked. "You haven't seen it for 
 two years." 
 
 * ' Recognize her [ ' ' exclaimed Angelica. ' ' I guess if you had 
 ever owned Lady Washington you would have recognized her. 
 I broke her as a two-year-old, and schooled her myself. Jim 
 says she 's the best mare we ever had." Angelica looked at 
 the woman pityingly. She was sweet-looking and had beauti- 
 ful clothes, but she was evidently a goose. 
 
 "Miss Stanton won the high jump with the mare," Liv- 
 ingstone remarked, "at their hunt show down in Virginia." 
 
 "It was only six feet," said the girl, "but she can do better 
 than that. Jim wouldn't let me ride her at anything big- 
 ger. ' ' 
 
 "I should hope not," said the lady by whose side she was 
 
DAVID GRAY 125 
 
 sitting. Then she asked suddenly, "You are not Jimmie Stan- 
 ton's sister?" 
 
 *'Yes," said Angelica. 
 
 ' ' I 'd like to know why he has n 't brought you to see me ! " 
 
 *'He ^s awfully busy with the horses/' the girl replied. 
 "He has to stop at the Waldorf and see about the show with 
 the men, and he makes me stay with Aunt Henrietta Gush- 
 ing." She stopped abruptly. She was afraid that what she 
 had said might sound disloyal. "I like to stop with Aunt 
 Henrietta," she added solemnly. "Besides, I Ve been busy 
 looking for Lady Washington." 
 
 The young man whom they called Reggie, together with 
 Mr. Livingstone and the lady beside Angelica, laughed openly 
 at this allusion to Miss Gushing. 
 
 "Do you know her?" asked Angelica. 
 
 "Oh, everybody knows your Aunt Henrietta," said the 
 lady. 
 
 "And loves her," added Livingstone, solemnly. 
 
 The lady laughed a little. "You see, she 's connected with 
 nearly everybody. She 's a sort of connection of Reggie's 
 and mine, so I suppose we 're sort of cousins of yours. I hope 
 you will like us. ' ' 
 
 "I don't know much about my relations on my mother's 
 side," Angelica observed. The distinction between connec- 
 tions and relatives had never been impressed upon her. She 
 was about to add that Jim said that his New York relatives 
 tired him, but caught herself. She paused uneasily. 
 
 "Please excuse me," she said, "but I didn't hear Mr. Liv- 
 ingstone introduce me to you. ' ' 
 
 "Why," said Livingstone, who overheard, "this is Mrs. 
 Everett. I told you we were coming into her box. ' ' 
 
 "I thought she must have stepped out," said Angelica. 
 "You told me she was middle-aged." 
 
 A peal of laughter followed. 
 
 "Angelica! Angelica!" Livingstone exclaimed. 
 
 "But you did," said Angelica. "I asked you if she was an 
 old lady, and you said, 'Not so terribly old — middle-aged. 
 And she 's not ; she 's young. 
 
 > > 
 
126 HER FIRST HORSE SHOW 
 
 "Things can never be as they were before/' said Living- 
 stone, mournfully, as the laughter died away. 
 
 "No/' said Mrs. Everett. 
 
 There was a pause, and one of the men turned to Eeggie. 
 "What are you going to do about the five-foot-six jumps?" 
 
 ' ' Let it go, ' ' said Reggie. 
 
 "It 's a pity, ' ' said the other. * ' If you had met Miss Stan- 
 ton earlier in the evening, I think she could have taught you 
 to ride that mare. I wanted to see you win your bet. ' ' 
 
 "Bet?" said Livingstone. 
 
 "Reggie 's such an idiot," said Mrs. Everett. "He bet 
 Tommy Post that Hermione would beat his chestnut in the 
 five- foot-six jumps, and Reggie can't make Hermione jump at 
 all, so he 's lost." 
 
 "Not yet; I 've got a chance," said Reggie, good-naturedly. 
 "Perhaps I '11 go in, after all." The other men laughed. 
 
 "I should think you had made monkey enough of yourself 
 for one evening," observed Palfrey, who was his best friend 
 and could say such things. 
 
 "Five feet six would be easy for Lady Washington," said 
 Angelica. "I can't get used to calling her by that new 
 name." She hesitated a moment with embarrassment, and 
 then she stammered: "Why don't you let me ride her?" 
 
 The people in the box looked aghast. 
 
 "I 'm afraid it wouldn't do," said Reggie, seriously. 
 "It 's awfully good of you, but, you see, it would n 't look well 
 to put a lady on that horse. Suppose something should hap- 
 pen?" 
 
 "Good of me!" the girl exclaimed. "I 'd love it!. I want 
 to ride her again so much ! ' ' 
 
 "Well," said Reggie, "I '11 have her at the park for you to- 
 morrow morning. You can ride her whenever you like. ' ' 
 
 A low cry of alarm ran through the Garden, and the conver- 
 sation in the box hushed. A tandem cart had tipped over, 
 and the wheeler was kicking it to pieces. 
 
 "I don't like that sort of thing," said Mrs. Everett, with a 
 shudder. 
 
 They finally righted the trap, and the driver limped off to 
 
DAVID GRAY 127 
 
 show that he was not hurt. The great crowd seemed to draw 
 a long breath of relief, and the even hum of voices went on 
 again. The judges began to award the ribbons, and Angelica 
 looked down at her program. 
 
 "Dear me!" she exclaimed. "The saddle class I 'm going 
 to ride in is next. I 'm afraid I 11 be late. Good-by. ' ' 
 
 "Good-by," they all replied. 
 
 "Don't you come," she said to Livingstone. "It 's just a 
 step. ' ' 
 
 * ' I must keep my word with Caroline, ' ' he answered, and he 
 took her to her seat. 
 
 "She's immense, isn't she?" he said, as he came back. 
 "I 'm glad Reggie did n't let her ride that brute. She will be 
 killed one of these days." 
 
 "She 's going to be a great beauty," said Mrs. Everett. 
 
 * ' She looks like her blessed mother, ' ' said Livingstone. ' ' I 
 was very fond of her mother. I think that if it had n 't been 
 for Stanton — " 
 
 "Stop!" interrupted Mrs. Everett. "Your heart-tragedies 
 are too numerous. Besides, if you had married her you 
 would n 't be here trying to tell us why you did n 't. " And 
 they all laughed, and cheerfully condemned the judging of the 
 tandem class. 
 
 The negro groom who had come up with the Stanton horses 
 met Angelica as she was going down-stairs into the basement 
 where the stalls were. Jim had not appeared, so Angelica 
 and Caroline had started off alone. 
 
 "Hilda 's went lame behind. Miss Angie," the man said. 
 "She must have cast huhself. They ain't no use to show 
 huh." 
 
 Ordinarily this calamity would have disturbed Angelica, but 
 the discovery of Lady Washington was a joy which could not 
 be dimmed. 
 
 "Have you told my brother?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Angie," said the man. "He was gwine to tell 
 you." 
 
 "I want to see her," said Angelica, and they went on 
 
128 HER FIRST HORSE SHOW 
 
 toward the stall. But what Angelica most wanted was to get 
 among the horses and look for a certain black mare. 
 
 Hilda was very lame, and there was fever in the hock. 
 Angelica patted her neck, and turned away with a side glance 
 at Caroline, who, she feared, would rebel at being led through 
 the horses' quarters. She walked down the row of stalls till 
 she came to the corner, then up through another passage till 
 she stopped at a big box-stall over the side of which stretched 
 a black head set on a long, thoroughbred-looking neck. 
 
 The small, fine ears, the width between the eyes, the square 
 little muzzle, were familiar ; and there was a white star on the 
 forehead. But Angelica did not enumerate these things. 
 Horses to her had personalities and faces, just as people had 
 them. She recognized Lady Washington as she had recog- 
 nized Mr. Livingstone. She made a little exclamation, and, 
 standing on tiptoe, put her arms about the mare's neck, and 
 kissed it again and again. 
 
 *'The dear! She remembers me!" the girl said, wiping her 
 eyes. *'It 's Lady Washington," she explained to Caroline. 
 She reached up to fondle the little muzzle, and the mare 
 nipped playfully. 
 
 *'Look out, miss," called the stable-boy, who was sitting on 
 a soap-box; *'she 's mean." 
 
 * * She 's no such thing, ' ' said the girl. 
 
 *'0h, ain't she?" said the boy. 
 
 *'Well, if she is, you made her so," retorted Angelica. 
 
 The boy grinned. "I ain't only been in the stable two 
 weeks, ' ' he said. * * She caught me on the second day and nigh 
 broke me leg. You see her act in the ring? Mr. Haughton 
 says he won't ride her no more, and she 's entered in the five- 
 foot-six jumps." 
 
 The girl looked thoughtfully at the boy and then at the 
 horse. An idea had come to her. She was reflecting upon 
 the last words Mr. Haughton had spoken before she left the 
 box: ^^You can ride her whenever you like.'* 
 
 * ' I know, ' ' she said aloud. * * I 'm going to ride her in that 
 class. I 'm Miss Stanton. I used to own her, you know. My 
 
DAVID GRAY 129 
 
 saddle is down there with Mr. Stanton's horses, and I want 
 you to go and get it." 
 
 ''Oh, never, Miss Angelica!" exclaimed Caroline. "Dear 
 me, not that!" 
 
 "You hush," said Angelica. 
 
 The stable-boy looked at her incredulously. "I ain't had 
 no orders, miss," he said. "I '11 have to see William. Did 
 Mr. Haughton say you might ? ' ' 
 
 "Of course he said I might," she replied. 
 
 The boy said no more and went off after William. 
 
 "Of course he said I might," she repeated half aloud. 
 "Didn't he say I might ride her 'whenever I wanted to'? 
 'Whenever' is any time, and I want to now." She fortified 
 herself behind this sophistry, but she was all in a flutter lest 
 Jim or Mr. Haughton should appear. The thought, however, 
 of being on Lady Washington's back, and showing people 
 that she wasn't sulky and bad-tempered, was a temptation 
 too strong to be resisted. 
 
 The boy came back with the head groom, to whom he had 
 explained the matter. 
 
 "Why, miss," said William, "she 'd kill you. I wouldn't 
 want to show her myself. Mr. Haughton, miss, must have 
 been joking. Honest, miss, you couldn't ride Hermione." 
 The man was respectful but firm. 
 
 "Think what Miss Gushing would say," said Caroline. 
 
 "But I tell you I can," retorted Angelica. She paid no 
 attention to Caroline; her temper flashed up. "You don't 
 seem to understand. I owned that mare when she was Lady 
 Washington, and broke her all myself, and schooled her, too. 
 Mr. Haughton hasn't any 'hands,' and he ought to know 
 better than to raise a whip on her." 
 
 William grinned at the unvarnished statement about his 
 master's "hands." 
 
 "Are you the young lady what called out to him in the 
 ring?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, I am," said Angelica. "And if he 'd done what I 
 told him to she would have won. Here 's our Emanuel," she 
 

 130 HER FIRST HORSE SHOW 
 
 went on. **He 11 tell you I can ride her. Emanuel," she 
 demanded, as the negro approached, ''haven't I ridden Lady 
 Washington ? ' ' 
 
 "You jest have, Miss Angle," said Emanuel. "Why," 
 said he, turning to William, "this heah young lady have rode 
 that maah ovah six feet. She done won the high jump at 
 ouah hunt show. That 's Lady Washington all right," he 
 went on, looking at the head poked out over the stall. "I 
 got huh maahk on mah ahm foh to remembah huh." 
 
 The stable-boy grinned. 
 Well, she never bit me," said Angelica. 
 The young lady," said William, doubtfully, "wants to 
 ride her in the five-foot-six class. She says Mr. Haughton 
 said she might." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Angelica," interposed Caroline, "you 11 be kilt !" 
 
 "You 're a goose," said Angelica. "I 've ridden her hun- 
 dreds of times." 
 
 "I don't know how Mistah Jim would like it," said 
 Emanuel; "but she could ride that maah all right, you jest 
 bet." 
 
 William was getting interested. He was not so concerned 
 about Mr. Stanton's likes as he was that his stable should take 
 some ribbons. 
 
 "Mr. Haughton said you might ride her?" he repeated. 
 
 "Of course he did," said Angelica; "I just left him in Mrs. 
 Everett's box, and I 've got my own saddle and everything." 
 
 "All right, miss," said William. "Get the saddle, Tim." 
 
 William did not believe that Mr. Haughton had given any 
 such orders, but he had gotten into trouble not long before by 
 refusing to give a mount to a friend of Haughton 's whom he 
 did not know and who came armed only with verbal authority. 
 He knew that if any harm was done he could hide behind that 
 occurrence. 
 
 "I want a double-reined snaffle," said Angelica. "Eman- 
 uel," she added, "you have the bit I used to ride her with. 
 Bring my own bridle." 
 
 "I 'm afraid you won't be able to hold her, miss," muttered 
 William ; ' ' but it 's as you say. Hurry up with that saddle, ' ' 
 
DAVID GRAY 131 
 
 he called to the stable-boy. "We ain't got no time to lose. 
 They 're callin' the class now. You 're number two, miss; 
 I '11 get your number for you. ' ' 
 
 ' ' You '11 be kilt ! You '11 be kilt ! ' ' said Caroline, dolefully. 
 ' ' Think what Miss Gushing will say ! ' ' 
 
 ^'Caroline," said Angelica, ''you don't know anything 
 about horses, so you hush." And then she added under her 
 breath, " If I can only get started before Jim sees me ! 
 
 jf 
 
 In the Everett box they were waiting for the five-foot-six 
 class to begin. They called it the five-foot-six class because 
 there were four jumps that were five feet six inches high ; the 
 others were an even five feet. It was the "sensational event" 
 of the evening. Thus far the show had been dull. 
 
 "Those saddle-horses were an ordinary lot," observed 
 Reggie. * 
 
 "This isn't opening very well, either," said Palfrey. The 
 first horse had started out by refusing. Then he floundered 
 into the jump and fell. 
 
 "Let 's not wait," said Mrs. Everett. But the words were 
 hardly spoken when, with a quick movement, she turned her 
 glasses on the ring. Something unusual was going on at the 
 farther end. A ripple of applause came down the sides of 
 the Garden, and then she saw a black horse, ridden by a girl, 
 come cantering toward the starting-place. 
 
 "It 's that child on Hermione ! You must stop it, Reggie ! ' ' 
 she exclaimed excitedly. 
 
 Before any one could move, Angelica had turned the horse 
 toward the first jump. It looked terribly high to Mrs. 
 Everett. It was almost even with the head of the man who 
 was standing on the farther side ready to replace the bars if 
 they should be knocked down. 
 
 Tossing her head playfully, the black mare galloped steadily 
 for the wings, took off in her stride, and swept over the jump 
 in a long curve. She landed noiselessly on the tan-bark, and 
 was on again. Around the great ring went the horse and the 
 girl, steadily, not too fast, and taking each jump without a 
 mistake. The great crowd remained breathless and expect- 
 
132 HEll FIRST HORSE SHOW 
 
 ant. Horse and rider finished in front of the Everett box, and 
 pulled up to a trot, the mare breathing hard with excitement, 
 but well-mannered. 
 
 Then a storm of cheers and hand-clapping burst, the like of 
 which was never heard at a New York horse show before. 
 
 As the applause died away, Reggie rose and hurried out. 
 "Let 's all go," said Mrs. Everett. 
 
 Before they got through the crowd the judges had awarded 
 the ribbons. There were only three other horses that went 
 over all the jumps, and none of them made a clean score. 
 There was no question about which was first. The judges ran 
 their hands down the mare's legs in a vain search for lumps. 
 She was short-coupled, with a beautiful shoulder and pow- 
 erful quarters. She had four crosses of thoroughbred, and 
 showed it. 
 
 "She 's a picture mare," said one of the judges, and he 
 tied the blue rosette to her bridle himself. Then the great 
 crowd cheered and clapped again, and Angelica rode down to 
 the entrance as calmly as if she were in the habit of taking 
 blue ribbons daily. But inside she was not calm. 
 
 "I 've got to cry or something," she thought. 
 
 At the gate some one came out of the crowd and took the 
 mare by the head. Angelica looked down, and there were 
 her brother and Reggie and Mrs. Everett's party. The Gar- 
 den began to swim. 
 
 "Oh, Jim!" she murmured, "help me down. It's Lady 
 Washington. ' ' Then she threw her arms around his neck and 
 wept. 
 
 They were at supper in the old Waldorf Palm Room before 
 Angelica was quite certain whether actual facts had been 
 taking place or whether she had been dreaming. It seemed 
 rather too extraordinary and too pleasant to be true. Still, 
 she was sure that she was there, because the people stared at 
 her when she came in dressed in her habit, and whispered to 
 each other about her. Furthermore, a party of judges came 
 over and asked Mrs. Everett to present them. 
 
DAVID GRAY 133 
 
 There never before was quite such an evening. It was after 
 twelve, at least, and nobody had suggested that she ought to 
 be in bed. One pleasant thing followed another in quick suc- 
 cession, and there seemed no end to them. She was absorbed 
 in an edible rapture which Mrs. Everett called a "cafe par- 
 fait" when she became aware that Reggie's friend, Mr. Pal- 
 frey, had started to address the party. She only half listened, 
 because she was wondering why every one except Mrs. Everett 
 and herself had denied himself this delightful sweet. 
 Grown-up people had strange tastes. 
 
 Mr. Palfrey began by saying that he thought it was time to 
 propose a toast in honor of Miss Stanton, which might also 
 rechristen Reggie's mare by her first and true name, "Lady 
 Washington." He said that it was plain to him that the mare 
 had resented a strange name out of Greek mythology, and in 
 future would go kindly, particularly if Reggie never tried to 
 ride her again. 
 
 He went on with his remarks, and from time to time the 
 people interrupted with laughter ; but it was only a meaning- 
 less sound in Angelica's ears. The words "Reggie's mare" 
 had come like a blow in the face. She had forgotten about 
 that. Her knees grew weak and a lump swelled in her throat. 
 It was true, of course, but for the time being it had passed out 
 of her mind. And now that Lady Washington had won the 
 five-foot-six class and was so much admired, probably Jim 
 could not afford to buy her back. It was doubtful if Mr. 
 Haughton would sell her at any price. 
 
 Presently she was aroused by a remark addressed directly 
 to her. 
 
 ' ' I think that 's a good idea, ' ' said Reggie. ' ' Don 't 
 you?" 
 
 She nodded; but she did not know what the idea was, and 
 she did not trust her voice to ask. 
 
 "Only," he continued, turning to Palfrey, "it isn't my 
 mare any more ; it 's Miss Stanton's. Put that in, Palfrey. " 
 
 Angelica's mouth opened in wonderment and her heart 
 stood still. She looked about the table blankly. 
 
134 HER FIRST HORSE SHOW 
 
 "It 's SO," said Reggie; ''she 's yours,'' 
 
 "But I can't take her," she said falteringly. "She 's too 
 valuable. Can I, Jim?" 
 
 * ' But Jim 's bought her, ' ' said Reggie, hurriedly. 
 
 Angelica's eyes settled on her brother's face; he said noth- 
 ing, but began to smile; Reggie was kicking him under the 
 table. 
 
 "Yes," said Reggie; "when I saw you ride Lady Washing- 
 ton, that settled it with me. I 'm too proud to stand being 
 beaten by a girl ; so I made Jim buy her back and promise to 
 give her to you. 
 
 Do you mean it?" said Angelica. "Is Lady Washington 
 really mine? 
 
 iier Lu yuu. 
 " Ljfj yuu I 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 She dropped her hands in her lap and sighed wearily. * ' It 
 doesn't seem possible," she murmured. She paused and 
 seemed to be running over the situation in her mind. Pres- 
 ently she spoke as if unaware that the others were listening. 
 "I knew it would happen, though," she said. "I knew it. 
 I reckon I prayed enough." She smiled as a great thrill of 
 happiness ran through her, and glancing up, saw that all the 
 rest were smiling, too. 
 
 "I 'm so happy," she said apologetically. Then she be- 
 thought herself, and furtively reached down and tapped the 
 frame of her chair with her knuckles. 
 
 "Well, here 's the toast," said Mr. Palfrey, rising. "To 
 the lady and Lady Washington." And they all rose and 
 drank it standing. 
 
MY HUSBAND'S BOOK^ 
 
 By JAIvIES MATTHEW BARRIE 
 
 Long before I married George I knew that he was dread- 
 fully ambitious. We were not yet engaged when he took me 
 into his confidence about his forthcoming great book, which 
 was to take the form of an inquiry into the Metaphysics of 
 Ethics. "I have not begun it yet," he always said, "but I 
 shall be at it every night once the winter sets in." In the 
 daytime George is only a clerk, though a much-valued one, 
 so that he has to give the best hours of his life to a ledger. 
 
 ' ' If you only had more time at your disposal, ' ' I used to say, 
 when he told me of the book that was to make his name. 
 
 "I don't complain," he said, heartily, like the true hero he 
 always is, except when he has to take medicine. "Indeed, 
 you will find that the great books have nearly always been 
 written by busy men. I am firmly of opinion that if a man 
 has original stuff in him it will come out. ' ' 
 
 He glowed with enthusiasm while he spoke in this inspiriting 
 strain, and some of his ardor passed into me. When we met 
 we talked of nothing but his future ; at least he talked while I 
 listened with clasped hands. It was thus that we became en- 
 gaged. George was no ordinary lover. He did not waste his 
 time telling me that I was beautiful, or saying ' ' Beloved ! " at 
 short intervals. No, when we were alone he gave me his hand 
 to hold, and spoke fervently of the Metaphysics of Ethics. 
 
 Our engagement was not of a very long duration, for George 
 coaxed me into marriage thus — "I cannot settle down to my 
 book," he said, "until we are married." 
 
 His heart was so set on that book that I yielded. We wan- 
 dered all over London together buying the furniture. There 
 
 1 From Two of Them. Copyright, 1893, by the United States Book Co. 
 
 135 
 
136 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK 
 
 was a settee that I particularly wanted, but George, with his 
 usual thoughtfulness, said: 
 
 "Let us rather buy a study table. It will help me at my 
 work, aud once the book is out we shall be able to afford half a 
 dozen settees." 
 
 Another time he went alone to buy some pictures for the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 "I got a study chair instead," he told me in the evening. 
 ''I knew you would not mind, my darling, for the chair is the 
 very thing for writing a big book in. ' ' 
 
 He even gave thought to the ink-bottle. 
 
 "In my room," he said, "I am constantly discovering that 
 my ink-bottle is empty, and it puts me out of temper to write 
 with water and soot. I therefore think we ought to buy one of 
 those large ink-stands with two bottles." 
 
 "We shall," I replied, with the rapture of youth, "and 
 mine will be the pleasant task of seeing that the bottles are 
 kept full." 
 
 "Dearest!" he said, fondly, for this was the sort of re- 
 mark that touched him most. 
 
 "Every evening," I continued, encouraged by his caress- 
 ing tones, *'yovL will find your manuscripts lying on the table 
 waiting for you, and a pen with a new nib in it. ' ' 
 
 "What a wife you will make!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "But you mustn't write too much," I said. "You must 
 have fixed hours, and at a certain time, say at ten o'clock, I 
 shall insist on your ceasing to write for the night." 
 
 "That seems a wise arrangement. But sometimes I shall 
 be too entranced in the work, I fancy, to leave it without an 
 effort." 
 
 "Ah," I said, "I shall come behind you, and snatch the pen 
 from your hand !" 
 
 "Every Saturday night," he said, "I shall read to you 
 what I have written during the week." 
 
 No wonder I loved him. 
 
 We were married on a September day, and the honeymoon 
 passed delightfully in talk about the book. Nothing proved 
 to me the depth of George's affection so much as his not begin- 
 
i i 
 
 
 JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE 137 
 
 ning the great work before the honeymoon was over. So I 
 often told him, and he smiled fondly in reply. The more, 
 indeed, I praised him the better pleased he seemed to be. 
 The name for this is sympathy. 
 
 Conceive us at home in our dear little house in Clapham. 
 
 ''Will you begin the book at once?" I asked George the 
 day after we arrived. 
 
 ''I have been thinking that over," he said. ''I needn't 
 tell you that there is nothing I should like so much, but, on 
 the whole, it might be better to wait a week." 
 
 Don't make the sacrifice for my sake," I said, anxiously. 
 ' Of course it is for your sake, ' ' he replied. 
 But it is such a pity to waste any more time," I said. 
 There is no such hurry," he answered, rather testily. 
 
 I looked at him in surprise. 
 
 "What I mean," he said, "is that I can be thinking the 
 arrangement of the book over." 
 
 We had, of course, a good many callers at this time, and 
 I told most of them about the book. For reasons to be seen 
 by and by I regret this now. 
 
 When the week had become a fortnight, I insisted on leav- 
 ing George alone in the study after dinner. He looked rather 
 gloomy, but I filled the ink-bottles, and put the paper on the 
 desk, and handed him his new pen. He took it, but did not 
 say ''thank you." 
 
 An hour afterward I took him a cup of tea. He was still 
 sitting by the fire, but the pen had fallen from his hands. 
 
 "You are not sleeping, George?" I asked. 
 
 "Sleeping!" he cried, as indignantly as if I had charged 
 him with crime. "No, I 'm thinking." 
 
 "You haven't written any yet?" 
 
 "I was just going to begin when you came in. I '11 be- 
 gin as soon as T Ve drunk this tea. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Then I '11 leave you to your work, dear. ' ' 
 
 I returned to the studv at nine o'clock. He was still in 
 the same attitude. 
 
 I wish you would bring me a cup of tea," he said. 
 I brought you one hours ago." 
 
 
138 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK 
 
 ''Eh? Why didn't you tell meV 
 
 ''Oh, George! I talked with you about it. Why, here 
 it is on the table, untouched." 
 
 "I declare you never mentioned it to me. I must have 
 been thinking so deeply that I never noticed you. You should 
 have spoken to me." 
 
 ' ' But I did speak, and you answered. ' ' 
 "My dear, I assure you I did nothing of the sort. This is 
 very vexing, for it has spoiled my evening's work." 
 
 The next evening George said that he did not feel in the 
 mood for writing, and I suppose I looked disappointed, for 
 he flared up. 
 
 "I can't be eternally writing," he growled. 
 ' * But you have n 't done anything at all yet. ' ' 
 "That is a rather ungenerous way of expressing it." 
 "But you spoke as if the work would be a pleasure." 
 "Have I said that it is not a pleasure? If you knew any- 
 thing of literary history, you would be aware that there are 
 occasions when the most industrious writers cannot pen a 
 line.'^ 
 
 ' ' They must make a beginning some time, though ! " 
 "Well, I shall make a beginning to-morrow." 
 Next evening he seemed in no hurry to go into the study. 
 "I '11 hang the bedroom pictures," he said. 
 "No, no, you must get begone to your book." 
 "You are in a desperate hurry to see me at that book." 
 "You spoke as if you were so anxious to begin it." 
 \" So I am. Did I say I was n 't ? " 
 
 He marched off to the study, banging the drawing-room 
 door. An hour or so afterward I took him his tea. He had 
 left his study door open so that I could see him on the couch 
 before I entered the room. When he heard the rattle of the 
 tea-things he jumped up and strode to the study table, where, 
 when I entered, he pretended to be busy writing. 
 
 "How are you getting on, dear?" I asked, with a sinking 
 at the heart. 
 
 "Excellently, my love, excellently." 
 
 I looked at him so reproachfully that he blushed. 
 
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE 139 
 
 **I think," said he, when he had drunk the tea, ''that I 
 have done enough for one night. I must n 't overdo it. ' ' 
 
 ''Won't you let me hear what you have written?" 
 
 He blushed again. 
 
 "Wait till Saturday," he said. 
 
 "Then let me put your papers away," I said, for I was 
 anxious to see whether he had written anything at all. 
 
 "I couldn't think of it," he replied, covering the paper 
 with his elbows. 
 
 Next morning I counted the clean sheets of paper. They 
 were just as I had put them on the table. So it went on for 
 a fortnight or more, with this difference. He either sus- 
 pected that I counted the sheets, or thought that I might take 
 it into my head to do so. To allay my suspicions, therefore, 
 he put away what he called his manuscript in a drawer, which 
 he took care to lock. I discovered that one of my own keys 
 opened this drawer, and one day I examined the manuscripts. 
 They consisted of t^venty-four pages of paper, without a word 
 written on them. Every evening he added two more clean 
 pages to the contents of the drawer. This discovery made 
 me so scornful that I taxed him with the deceit. At first 
 he tried to brazen it out, but T was merciless, and then he said : 
 
 "The fact is that I can't write by gas-light. I fear I shall 
 have to defer beginning the work until spring." 
 
 ' ' But you used to say that the winter was the best season for 
 writing. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I thought so at the time, but I find I was wrong. It will 
 be a great blow to me to give up the work for the present, 
 but there is no help for it." 
 
 When spring came I reminded him that now was his op- 
 portunity to begin the book. 
 
 "You are eternally talking about that book," he snarled. 
 
 "I haven't mentioned it for a month." 
 
 "Well, you are always looking at me as if I should be at 
 it." 
 
 "Because you used to speak so enthusiastically about it." 
 
 "I am as enthusiastic as ever, but I can't be forever writ- 
 ing at the book." 
 
140 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK 
 
 ' ' We have now been married seven months, and you have n 't 
 written a line yet/' 
 
 ' He banged the doors again, and a week afterward he said 
 that spring was a bad time for writing a book. 
 
 ' ' One likes to be out-of-doors, ' ' he said, ' ' in spring, watch- 
 ing the trees become green again. Wait till July, when one 
 is glad to be indoors. Then I '11 give four hours to the work 
 every evening." 
 
 Summer came, and then he said : 
 
 ' ' It is too hot to write books. Get me another bottle of iced 
 soda-water. I '11 tackle the book in the autumn." 
 
 We have now been married more than five years, but the 
 book is not begun yet. As a rule, we now shun the subject, 
 but there are times when he still talks hopefully of begin- 
 ning, I wonder if there are any other husbands like mine. 
 
WAR 
 
 By JACK LONDON 
 
 He was a young man, not more than twenty-four or five, 
 and he might have sat his horse with the careless grace of his 
 youth had he not been so catlike and tense. His black eyes 
 roved everywhere, catching the movements of twigs and 
 branches where small birds hopped, questing ever onward 
 through the changing vistas of trees and brush, and returning 
 always to the clumps of undergrowth on either side. And 
 as he watched, so did he listen, though he rode on in silence, 
 save for the boom of heavy guns from far to the west. This 
 had been sounding monotonously in his ears for hours, and 
 only its cessation would have aroused his notice. For he had 
 business closer to hand. Across his saddle-bow was balanced 
 a carbine. 
 
 So tensely was he strung, that a bunch of quail, exploding 
 into flight from under his horse's nose, startled him to such 
 an extent that automatically, instantly, he had reined in and 
 fetched the carbine halfway to his shoulder. He grinned 
 sheepishly, recovered himself, and rode on. So tense was 
 he, so bent upon the work he had to do, that the sweat stung 
 his eyes unwiped, and unheeded rolled down his nose and 
 spattered his saddle pommel. The band of his cavalryman's 
 hat was fresh-stained with sweat. The roan horse under him 
 was likewise wet. It was high noon of a breathless day of 
 heat. Even the birds and squirrels did not dare the sun, but 
 sheltered in shady hiding places among the trees. 
 
 Man and horse were littered with leaves and dusted with 
 
 yellow pollen, for the open was ventured no more than was 
 
 compulsory. They kept to the brush and trees, and invariably 
 
 the man halted and peered out before crossing a dry glade or 
 
 naked stretch of upland pasturage. He worked always to 
 
 the north, though his way was devious, and it was from the 
 
 141 
 
142 WAR 
 
 north that he seemed most to apprehend that for which he 
 was looking. He was no coward, but his courage was only 
 that of the average civilized man, and he was looking to live, 
 not die. 
 
 Up a small hillside he followed a cowpath through such 
 dense scrub that he was forced to dismount and lead his 
 horse. But when the path swung around to the west, he 
 abandoned it and headed to the north again along the oak- 
 covered top of the ridge. 
 
 The ridge ended in a steep descent — so steep that he zig- 
 zagged back and forth across the face of the slope, sliding and 
 stumbling among the dead leaves and matted vines and keep- 
 ing a watchful eye on the horse above that threatened to 
 fall down upon him. The sweat ran from him, and the pollen- 
 dust, settling pungently in mouth and nostrils, increased his 
 thirst. Try as he would, nevertheless the descent was noisy, 
 and frequently he stopped, panting in the dry heat and listen- 
 ing for any warning from beneath. 
 
 At the bottom he came out on a flat, so densely forested that 
 he could not make out its extent. Here the character of the 
 woods changed, and he was able to remount. Instead of the 
 twisted hillside oaks, tall straight trees, big-trunked and pros- 
 perous, rose from the damp fat soil. Only here and there 
 were thickets, easily avoided, while he encountered winding, 
 park-like glades where the cattle had pastured in the days 
 before war had run them off. 
 
 His progress was more rapid now, as he came down into 
 the valley, and at the end of half an hour he halted at an 
 ancient rail fence on the edge of a clearing. He did not like 
 the openness of it, yet his path lay across to the fringe of 
 trees that marked the banks of the stream. It was a mere 
 quarter of a mile across that open, but the thought of ven- 
 turing out in it was repugnant. A rifle, a score of them, 
 a thousand, might lurk in that fringe by the stream. 
 
 Twice he essayed to start, and twice he paused. He was 
 appalled by his own loneliness. The pulse of war that beat 
 from the west suggested the companionship of battling thou- 
 sands ; here was naught but silence, and himself, and possible 
 
JACK LONDON 143 
 
 death-dealing bullets from a myriad ambushes. And yet 
 his task was to find what he feared to find. He must go on, 
 and on, till somewhere, some time, he encountered another 
 man, or other men, from the other side, scouting, as he was 
 scouting, to make report, as he must make report, of having 
 come in touch. 
 
 Changing his mind, he skirted inside the woods for a dis- 
 tance, and again peeped forth. This time, in the middle 
 of the clearing, he saw a small farmhouse. There were no 
 signs of life. No smoke curled from the chimney, not a 
 barnyard fowl clucked and strutted. The kitchen door stood 
 open, and he gazed so long and hard into the black aperture 
 that it seemed almost that a farmer's wife must emerge at 
 any moment. 
 
 He licked the pollen and dust from his dry lips, stiffened 
 himself, mind and body, and rode out into the blazing sun- 
 shine. Nothing stirred. He went on past the house, and 
 approached the wall of trees and bushes by the river's bank. 
 One thought persisted maddeningly. It was of the crash 
 into his body of a high-velocity bullet. It made him feel very 
 fragile and defenseless, and he crouched lower in the saddle. 
 
 Tethering his horse in the edge of the wood, he continued 
 a hundred yards on foot till he came to the stream. Twenty 
 feet wide it was, without perceptible current, cool and invit- 
 ing, and he was very thirsty. But he waited inside his screen 
 of leafage, his eyes fixed on the screen on the opposite side. 
 To make the wait endurable, he sat down, his carbine resting 
 on his knees. The minutes passed, and slowly his tenseness 
 relaxed. At last he decided there was no danger ; but just as 
 he prepared to part the bushes and bend down to the water, 
 a movement among the opposite bushes caught his eye. 
 
 It might be a bird. But he waited. Again there was an 
 agitation of the bushes, and then, so suddenly that it almost 
 startled a cry from him, the bushes parted and a face peered 
 out. It was a face covered with several weeks' growth of 
 ginger-colored beard. The eyes were blue and wide apart, 
 with laughter-wrinkles in the corners that showed despite 
 the tired and anxious expression of the whole face. 
 
144 WAR 
 
 All this he could see with microscopic clearness, for the 
 distance was no more than twenty feet. And all this he saw 
 in such brief time, that he saw it as he lifted his carbine to his 
 shoulder. He glanced along the sights, and knew that he 
 was gazing upon a man who was as good as dead. It was 
 impossible to miss at such point blank range. 
 
 But he did not shoot. Slowly he lowered the carbine and 
 watched. A hand, clutching a water-bottle, became visible 
 and the ginger beard bent downward to fill the bottle. He 
 could hear the gurgle of the water. Then arm and bottle 
 and ginger beard disappeared behind the closing bushes. A 
 long time he waited, when, with thirst unslaked, he crept back 
 to his horse, rode slowly across the sun-washed clearing, and 
 passed into the shelter of the woods beyond. 
 
 II 
 
 Another day, hot and breathless. A deserted farmhouse, 
 large, with many outbuildings and an orchard, standing in 
 a clearing. From the woods, on a roan horse, carbine across 
 pommel, rode the young man with the quick black eyes. He 
 breathed with relief as he gained the house. That a fight 
 had taken place here earlier in the season was evident. Clips 
 and empty cartridges, tarnished with verdigris, lay on the 
 ground, which, while wet, had been torn up by the hoofs of 
 horses. Hard by the kitchen garden were graves, tagged and 
 numbered. From the oak tree by the kitchen door, in tat- 
 tered, weather-beaten garments, hung the bodies of two men. 
 The faces, shriveled and defaced, bore no likeness to the faces 
 of men. The roan horse snorted beneath them, and the rider 
 caressed and soothed it and tied it farther away. 
 
 Entering the house, he found the interior a wreck. He 
 trod on empty cartridges as he walked from room to room 
 to reconnoiter from the windows. Men had camped and 
 slept everywhere, and on the floor of one room he came upon 
 stains unmistakable where the wounded had been laid down. 
 
 Again outside, he led the horse around behind the barn 
 and invaded the orchard. A dozen trees were burdened with 
 
JACK LONDON 145 
 
 ripe apples. He filled his pockets, eating while he picked. 
 Then a thought came to him, and he glanced at the sun, cal- 
 culating the time of his return to camp. He pulled off his 
 shirt, tying the sleeves and making a bag. This he pro- 
 ceeded to fill with apples. 
 
 As he was about to mount his horse, the animal suddenly- 
 pricked up its ears. The man, too, listened, and heard, 
 faintly, the thud of hoofs on soft earth. He crept to the 
 corner of the barn and peered out. A dozen mounted men, 
 strung out loosely, approaching from the opposite side of 
 the clearing, were only a matter of a hundred yards or so 
 away. They rode on to the house. Some dismounted, while 
 others remained in the saddle as an earnest that their stay 
 would be short. They seemed to be holding a council, for he 
 could hear them talking excitedly in the detested tongue of 
 the alien invader. The time passed, but they seemed unable 
 to reach a decision. He put the carbine away in its boot, 
 mounted, and waited impatiently, balancing the shirt of 
 apples on the pommel. 
 
 He heard footsteps approaching, and drove his spurs so 
 fiercely into the roan as to force a surprised groan from the 
 animal as it leaped forward. At the corner of the barn he 
 saw the intruder, a mere boy of nineteen or twenty for all 
 of his uniform, jump back to escape being run down. At the 
 same moment the roan swerved, and its rider caught a glimpse 
 of the aroused men by the house. Some were springing from 
 their horses, and he could see the rifles going to their shoul- 
 ders. He passed the kitchen door and the dried corpses 
 swinging in the shade, compelling his foes to run around the 
 front of the house. A rifle cracked, and a second, but he was 
 going fast, leaning forward, low in the saddle, one hand 
 clutching the shirt of apples, the other guiding the horse. 
 
 The top bar of the fence was four feet high, but he knew 
 his roan and leaped it at full career to the accompaniment of 
 several scattered shots. Eight hundred yards straight away 
 were the woods, and the roan was covering the distance with 
 mighty strides. Every man was now firing. They were 
 pumping their guns so rapidly that he no longer heard in- 
 
146 WAR 
 
 dividual shots. A bullet went through his hat, but he was 
 unaware, though he did know when another tore through 
 the apples on the pommel. And he winced and ducked even 
 lower when a third bullet, fired low, struck a stone between 
 his horse's legs and ricochetted off through the air, buzzing 
 and humming like some incredible insect. 
 
 The shots died down as the magazines were emptied, until, 
 quickly, there was no more shooting. The young man was 
 elated. Through that astonishing fusillade he had come un- 
 scathed. He glanced back. Yes, they had emptied their 
 magazines. He could see several reloading. Others were 
 running back behind the house for their horses. As he looked, 
 two already mounted, came back into view around the corner, 
 riding hard. And at the same moment, he saw the man 
 with the unmistakable ginger beard kneel down on the ground, 
 level his gun, and coolly take his time for the long shot. 
 
 The young man threw his spurs into the horse, crouched 
 very low, and swerved in his flight in order to distract the 
 other's aim. And still the shot did not come. With each 
 jump of the horse, the woods sprang nearer. They were 
 only two hundred yards away, and still the shot was delayed. 
 
 And then he heard it, the last thing he was to hear, for he 
 was dead ere he hit the ground in the long crashing fall from 
 the saddle. And they, watching at the house, saw him fall, 
 saw his body bounce when it struck the earth, and saw the 
 burst of red-cheeked apples that rolled about him. They 
 laughed at the unexpected eruption of apples, and clapped 
 their hands in applause of the long shot by the man with the 
 ginger beard. 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE MONSTERS 
 
 By MOKGAN ROBERTSON 
 
 Extract from hospital record of the case of John Ander- 
 son, patient of Dr. Brown, Ward 3, Room 6 : 
 
 August 3. Arrived at hospital in extreme mental distress, having 
 been bitten on the wrist three hours previously by dog known to 
 have been rabid. Large, strong man, lull-blooded and well nour- 
 ished. Sanguine temperament. Pulse and temperature higher than 
 normal, due to excitement. Cauterized wound at once (2 p.m.) and 
 inoculated with antitoxin. 
 
 As patient admits having recently escaped, by swimming ashore, 
 from lately arrived cholera ship, now at quarantine, he has been 
 isolated and clothing disinfected. Watch for symptoms of cholera. 
 
 August 3, 6 p. M. Microscopic examination of blood corrobora- 
 tive of Metschnikoff's theory of fighting leucocytes. White cor- 
 puscles gorged with bacteria. 
 
 He was an amphibian, and, as such, undeniably beautiful ; 
 for the sunlight, refracted and diffused in the water, gave his 
 translucent, pearl-blue body all the shifting colors of the 
 spectrum. Vigorous and graceful of movement, in shape he 
 resembled a comma of three dimensions, twisted, when at rest, 
 to a slight spiral curve ; but in traveling he straightened out 
 with quick successive jerks, each one sending him ahead a 
 couple of lengths. Supplemented by the undulatory move- 
 ment of a long continuation of his tail, it was his way of 
 swimming, good enough to enable him to escape his enemies; 
 this, and riding at anchor in a current by his cable-like ap- 
 pendage, constituting his main occupation in life. The pleas- 
 ure of eating was denied him ; nature had given him a mouth, 
 but he used it only for purposes of offense and defense, ab- 
 sorbing his food in a most unheard-of manner — through the 
 
 soft walls of his body. 
 
 147 
 
148 THE battle! OF THE MONSTERS 
 
 Yet he enjoyed a few social pleasures. Though the organs 
 of the live senses were missing in his economy, he possessed an 
 inner sixth sense which answered for all and also gave him 
 power of speech. He would converse, swap news and views, 
 with creatures of his own and other species, provided that they 
 were of equal size and prowess; but he wasted no time on 
 any but his social peers. Smaller creatures he pursued when 
 they annoyed him; larger ones pursued him. 
 
 The sunlight, which made him so beautiful to look at, was 
 distasteful to him; it also made him too visible. He pre- 
 ferred a half -darkness and less fervor to life's battle — time to 
 judge of chances, to figure on an enemy's speed and turning- 
 circle, before beginning flight or pursuit. But his dislike of 
 it really came of a stronger animus — a shuddering recollec- 
 tion of three hours once passed on dry land in a comatose 
 condition, which had followed a particularly long and in- 
 tense period of bright sunlight. He had never been able to 
 explain the connection, but the awful memory still saddened 
 his life. 
 
 And now it seemed, as he swam about, that this experience 
 might be repeated. The light was strong and long-continued, 
 the water uncomfortably warm, and the crowd about him 
 denser — so much so as to prevent him from attending properly 
 to a social inferior who had crossed his bow. But just as his 
 mind grasped the full imminence of the danger, there came 
 a sudden darkness, a crash and vibration of the water, then a 
 terrible, rattling roar of sound. The social inferior slipped 
 from his mouth, and with his crowding neighbors was washed 
 far away, while he felt himself slipping along, bounding and 
 rebounding against the projections of a corrugated wall 
 which showed white in the gloom. There was an unpleasant 
 taste to the water, and he became aware of creatures in his 
 vicinity unlike any he had known, — quickly darting little 
 monsters about a tenth as large as himself, — thousands of 
 them, black and horrid to see, each with short, fish-like body 
 and square head like that of a dog; with wicked mouth that 
 opened and shut nervously ; with hooked flippers on the middle 
 part, and a bunch of tentacles on the fore that spread out 
 
MORGAN ROBERTSON 149 
 
 ahead and around. A dozen of them surrounded him menac- 
 ingly; but he was young and strong, much larger than they, 
 and a little frightened. A blow of his tail killed two, and 
 the rest drew off. 
 
 The current bore them on until the white wall rounded off 
 and was lost to sight beyond the mass of darting creatures. 
 Here was slack water, and with desperate effort he swam 
 back, pushing the small enemies out of his path, meeting 
 some resistance and receiving a few bites, until, in a hollow 
 in the wall, he found temporary refuge and time to think. 
 But he could not solve the problem. He had not the slight- 
 est idea where he was or what had happened — who and what 
 were the strange black creatures, or why they had threatened 
 him. 
 
 His thoughts were interrupted. Another vibrant roar 
 sounded, and there was pitch-black darkness; then he was 
 pushed and washed away from his shelter, jostled, bumped, 
 and squeezed, until he found himself in a dimly lighted tun- 
 nel, which, crowded as it was with swimmers, was narrow 
 enough to enable him to see both sides at once. The walls 
 were dark brown and blue, broken up everywhere into de- 
 pressions or caves, some of them so deep as to be almost like 
 blind tunnels. The dog-faced creatures were there — as far as 
 he could see ; but besides them, now, were others, of stranger 
 shape — of species unknown to him. 
 
 A slow current carried them on, and soon they entered a 
 larger tunnel. He swam to the opposite wall, gripped a pro- 
 jection, and watched in wonder and awe the procession glid- 
 ing by. He soon noticed the source of the dim light. A small 
 creature with barrel-like body and innumerable legs or ten- 
 tacles, wavering and reaching, floated past. Its body swelled 
 and shrank alternately, with every swelling giving out a 
 phosphorescent glow, with every contraction darkening to a 
 faint red color. Then came a group of others; then a second 
 living lamp ; later another and another : they were evenly 
 distributed, and illumined the tunnel. 
 
 There were monstrous shapes, living but inert, barely puls- 
 ing with dormant life, as much larger than himself as the 
 
150 THE BATTLE OF THE MONSTERS 
 
 dog-headed kind were smaller — huge, unwieldy, disk-shaped 
 masses of tissue, light gray at the margins, dark red in the 
 middle. They were in the majority, and blocked the view. 
 Darting and wriggling between and about them were horrible 
 forms, some larger than himself, others smaller. There were 
 serpents, who swam with a serpent's motion. Some were 
 serpents in form, but were curled rigidly into living cork- 
 screws, and by sculling with their tails screwed their way 
 through the water with surprising rapidity. Others were 
 barrel- or globe-shaped, with swarming tentacles. With these 
 they pulled themselves along, in and out through the crowd, 
 or, bringing their squirming appendages rearward, — each an 
 individual snake, — used them as propellers, and swam. 
 There were creatures in the form of long cylinders, some 
 with tentacles by which they rolled along like a log in a tide- 
 way; others, without appendages, were as inert and helpless 
 as the huge red-and-gray disks. He saw four ball-shaped 
 creatures float by, clinging together; then a group of eight, 
 then one of twelve. All these, to the extent of their volition, 
 seemed to be in a state of extreme agitation and excitement. 
 
 The cause was apparent. The tunnel from which he had 
 come was still discharging the dog-faced animals by the thou- 
 sand, and he knew now the business they were on. It was 
 war — war to the death. They flung themselves with furious 
 energy into the parade, fighting and biting all they could 
 reach. A hundred at a time would pounce on one of the 
 large red-and-gray creatures, almost hiding it from view,- 
 then, and before they had passed out of sight, they would fall 
 off and disperse, and the once living victim would come with 
 them, in parts. The smaller, active swimmers fled, but if 
 one was caught, he suffered ; a quick dart, a tangle of tenta- 
 cles, an embrace of the wicked flippers, a bite — and a dead 
 body floated on. 
 
 And now into the battle came a ponderous engine of venge- 
 ance and defense. A gigantic, lumbering, pulsating creature, 
 white and translucent but for the dark, active brain showing 
 through its walls, horrible in the slow, implacable delibera- 
 tion of its movements, floated down with the current. It was 
 
MORGAN ROBERTSON 151 
 
 larger than the huge red-and-gray creatures. It was form- 
 less, in the full irony of the definition — for it assumed all 
 forms. It was long — barrel-shaped; it shrank to a sphere, 
 then broadened laterally, and again extended above and be- 
 low. In turn it was a sphere, a disk, a pyramid, a pentahe- 
 dron, a polyhedron. It possessed neither legs, flippers, nor 
 tentacles; but out from its heaving, shrinking body it would 
 send, now from one spot, now from another, an active arm, 
 or feeler, with which it swam, pulled, or pushed. An un- 
 lucky invader which one of them touched made few more vol- 
 untary movements; for instantly the whole side of the whit- 
 ish mass bristled with arms. They seized, crushed, killed it, 
 and then pushed it bodily through the living walls to the 
 animal's interior to serve for food. And the gaping fissure 
 healed at once, like the wounds of Milton's warring angels. 
 
 The first white monster floated down, killing as he went; 
 then came another, pushing eagerly into the fray; then came 
 two, then three, then dozens. It seemed that the word had 
 been passed, and the army of defense was mustering. 
 
 Sick with horror, he watched the grim spectacle from the 
 shelter of the projection, until roused to an active sense of 
 danger to himself — but not from the fighters. He was 
 anchored by his tail, swinging easily in the eddy, and now 
 felt himself touclTed from beneath, again from above. A pro- 
 jection down-stream was extending outward and toward him. 
 The cave in which he had taken refuge was closing on him 
 like a great mouth — as though directed by an intelligence 
 behind the wall. With a terrified flirt of his tail he flung 
 himself out, and as he drifted down with the combat the 
 walls of the cave crunched together. It was well for him 
 that he was not there. 
 
 The current was clogged with fragments of once living crea- 
 tures, and everywhere, darting, dodging, and biting, were the 
 fierce black invaders. But they paid no present attention 
 to him or to the small tentacled animals. They killed the 
 large, helpless red-and-gray kind, and were killed by the 
 larger white monsters, each moment marking the death and 
 rending to fragments of a victim, and the horrid interment 
 
152 THE BATTLE OF THE MONSTERS 
 
 of fully half his slayers. The tunnel grew larger, as month 
 after mouth of tributary tunnels was passed ; but as each 
 one discharged its quota of swimming and drifting creatures, 
 there was no thinning of the crowd. 
 
 As he drifted on with the inharmonious throng, he noticed 
 what seemed the objective of the war. This was the caves 
 which lined the tunnel. Some were apparently rigid, others 
 were mobile. A large red-and-gray animal was pushed into 
 the mouth of one of the latter, and the walls instantly closed ; 
 then they opened, and the creature drifted out, limp and 
 colorless, but alive ; and with him came fragments of the wall, 
 broken off by the pressure. This happened again and again, 
 but the large creature was never quite killed — merely 
 squeezed. The tentacled non-combatants and the large white 
 lighters seemed to know the danger of these tunnel mouths, 
 possibly from bitter experiences, for they avoided the walls; 
 but the dog-faced invaders sought this death, and only fought 
 on their way to the caves. Sometimes two, often four or 
 more, would launch themselves together into a hollow, but to 
 no avail; their united strength could not prevent the closing 
 in of the mechanical maw, and they were crushed and flung 
 out, to drift on with other debris. 
 
 Soon the walls could not be seen for the pushing, jostling 
 crowd, but everywhere the terrible, silent war went on until 
 there came a time when fighting ceased; for each must look 
 out for himself. They seemed to be in an immense cave, and 
 the tide was broken into cross-currents rushing violently to 
 the accompaniment of rhythmical thunder. They were 
 shaken, jostled, pushed about and pushed together, hundreds 
 of the smaller creatures dying from the pressure. Then 
 there was a moment of comparative quiet, during which fight- 
 ing was resumed, and there could be seen the swiftly flying 
 walls of a large tunnel. Next they were rushed through a 
 labyrinth of small caves with walls of curious, branching 
 formation, sponge-like and intricate. It required energetic 
 effort to prevent being caught in the meshes, and the large 
 red-and-gray creatures were sadly torn and crushed, while 
 the white ones fought their way through by main strength. 
 
MORGAN ROBERTSON 153 
 
 Again the flying walls of a tunnel, again a mighty cave, and 
 the cross-currents, and the rhythmical thunder, and now a 
 wild charge down an immense tunnel, the wall of which surged 
 outward and inward, in unison with the roaring of the thun- 
 der. 
 
 The thunder died away in the distance, though the walls 
 still surged — even those of a smaller tunnel which divided 
 the current and received them. Down-stream the tunnel 
 branched again and again, and with the lessening of the 
 diameter was a lessening of the current's velocity, until, in 
 a maze of small, short passages, the invaders, content to fight 
 and kill in the swifter tide, again attacked the caves. 
 
 But to the never-changing result: they were crushed, 
 mangled, and cast out, the number of suicides, in this neigh- 
 borhood, largely exceeding those killed by the white warriors. 
 And yet, in spite of the large mortality among them, the 
 attacking force was increasing. Where one died two took his 
 place; and the reason was soon made plain — they were re- 
 producing. A black fighter, longer than his fellows, a little 
 sluggish of movement, as though from the restrictive pressure 
 of a large, round protuberance in his middle, which made 
 him resemble a snake which had swallowed an egg, was caught 
 by a white monster and instantly embraced by a multitude of 
 feelers. He struggled, bit, and broke in two; then the two 
 parts escaped the grip of the astonished captor, and wriggled 
 away, the protuberance becoming the head of the rear por- 
 tion, which immediately joined the fight, snapping and biting 
 with unmistakable jaws. This phenomenon was repeated. 
 
 And on went the battle. Illumined by the living lamps, 
 and watched by terrified noncombatants, the horrid carnival 
 continued with never-slacking fury and ever-changing back- 
 ground — past the mouths of tributary tunnels which increased 
 the volume and velocity of the current and added to the 
 fighting strength, on through widening archways to a repeti- 
 tion of the cross-currents, the thunder, and the sponge-like 
 maze, down past the heaving walls of larger tunnels to 
 branched passages, where, in comparative slack water, the 
 siege of the caves was resumed. For hour after hour this 
 
154 THE BATTLE OF THE MONSTERS 
 
 went on, the invaders dying by hundreds, but increasing by 
 thousands and ten thousands, as the geometrical progression 
 advanced, until, with swimming-spaces nearly choked by their 
 bodies, living and dead, there came the inevitable turn in the 
 tide of battle. A white monster was killed. 
 
 Glutted with victims, exhausted and sluggish, he was 
 pounced upon by hundreds, hidden from view by a living 
 envelop of black, which pulsed and .throbbed with his death- 
 throes. A feeler reached out, to be bitten off; then another, 
 to no avail. His strength was gone, and the assailants bit 
 and burrowed until they reached a vital part, when the great 
 mass assumed a spherical form and throbbed no more. They 
 dropped off, and, as the mangled ball floated on, charged on 
 the next enemy with renewed fury and courage born of their 
 victory. This one died as quickly. 
 
 And as though it had been foreseen, and a policy arranged 
 to meet it, the white army no longer fought in the open, but 
 lined up along the walls to defend the immovable caves. 
 They avoided the working jaws of the other kind, which cer- 
 tainly needed no garrison, and drifting slowly in the eddies, 
 fought as they could, with decreasing strength and increasing 
 death-rate. And thus it happened that our conservative non- 
 combatant, out in midstream, found himself surrounded by a 
 horde of black enemies who had nothing better to do than 
 attack him. 
 
 And they did. As many as could crowd about him closed 
 their wicked jaws in his flesh. Squirming with pain, ren- 
 dered trebly strong by his terror, he killed them by twos 
 and threes as he could reach them with his tail. He shook 
 them off with nervous contortions, only to make room for 
 more. He plunged, rolled, launched himself forward and 
 back, up and down, out and in, bending himself nearly double, 
 then with lightning rapidity throwing himself far into the 
 reverse curve. He was flghting for his life, and knew it. 
 When he could, he used his jaws, only once to an enemy. He 
 saw dimly at intervals that the white monsters were watching 
 him; but none offered to help, and he had not time to call. 
 
 He thought that he must have become the object of the 
 
MORGAN ROBERTSON 155 
 
 war; for from all sides they swarmed, crowding about him, 
 seeking a place on which to fasten their jaws. Little by little 
 the large red-and-gray creatures, the noncombatants, and the 
 phosphorescent animals were pushed aside, and he, the center 
 of an almost solid black mass, fought, in utter darkness, with 
 the fury of extreme fright. He had no appreciation of the 
 passing of time, no knowledge of his distance from the wall, or 
 the destination of this never-pausing current. But finally, 
 after an apparently interminable period, he heard dimly, with 
 failing consciousness, the reverberations of the thunder, and 
 knew momentary respite as the violent cross-currents tore his 
 assailants away. Then, still in darkness, he felt the crashing 
 and tearing of flesh against obstructing walls and sharp 
 corners, the repetition of thunder and the roar of the cur- 
 rent which told him he was once more in a large tunnel. An 
 instant of light from a venturesome torch showed him to his 
 enemies, and again he fought, like a whale in his last flurry, 
 slowly dying from exhaustion and pain, but still potential 
 to kill — terrible in his agony. There was no counting of 
 scalps in that day's work; but perhaps no devouring white 
 monster in all the defensive army could have shown a death- 
 list equal to this. From the surging black cloud there was a 
 steady outflow of the dead, pushed back by the living. 
 
 Weaker and weaker, while they mangled his flesh, and 
 still in darkness, he fought them down through branching 
 passages to another network of small tunnels, where he caught 
 a momentary view of the walls and the stolid white guard, 
 thence on to what he knew was open space. And here he 
 felt that he could fight no more. They had covered him 
 completely, and, try as he might with his failing strength, 
 he could not dislodge them. So he ceased his struggles; and 
 numb with pain, dazed with despair, he awaited the end. 
 
 But it did not come. He was too exhausted to feel sur- 
 prise or joy when they suddenly dropped away from him; 
 but the instinct of self-preservation was still in force, and he 
 swam toward the wall. The small creatures paid him no at- 
 tention; they scurried this way and that, busy with troubles 
 of their own, while he crept stupidly and painfully between 
 
156 THE BATTLE OF THE MONSTERS 
 
 two white sentries floating in the eddies, — one of whom con- 
 siderately made room for him, — and anchored to a projec- 
 tion, luckily choosing a harbor that was not hostile. 
 
 "Any port in a storm, eh, neighbor?" said the one who had 
 given him room, and who seemed to notice his dazed condi- 
 tion. ^'You '11 feel better soon. My, but you put up a good 
 fight, that 's what you did ! " 
 
 He could not answer, and the friendly guard resumed his 
 vigil. In a few moments, however, he could take cognizance 
 of what was going on in the stream. There was a new army 
 in the fight, and reinforcements were still coming. A short 
 distance above him was a huge rent in the wall, and the caves 
 around it, crushed and distorted, were grinding fiercely. 
 Protruding through the rent and extending half-way across 
 the tunnel was a huge mass of some strange substance, roughly 
 shaped to a cylindrical form. It was hollow, and out of it, 
 by thousands and hundred thousands, was pouring the auxili- 
 ary army, from which the black fighters were now fleeing for 
 dear life. 
 
 The newcomers, though resembling in general form the 
 creatures they pursued, were much larger and of two dis- 
 tinct types. Both were light brown in color; but while one 
 showed huge development of head and jaw, with small flip- 
 pers, the other kind reversed these attributes, their heads 
 being small, but their flippers long and powerful. They 
 ran their quarry down in the open, and seized them with out- 
 reaching tentacles. No mistakes were made — no feints or 
 false motions; and there was no resistance by the victims. 
 Where one was noticed he was doomed. The tentacles gath- 
 ered him in — to a murderous bite or a murderous embrace. 
 
 At last, when the inflow had ceased, — when there must have 
 been millions of the brown killers in the tunnel, — the great 
 hollow cylinder turned slowly on its axis and backed out 
 through the rent in the wall, which immediately closed, with 
 a crushing and scattering of fragments. Though the allies 
 were far down-stream now, the war was practically ended; 
 for the white defenders remained near the walls, and the 
 black invaders were in wildest panic, each one, as the resist- 
 
MORGAN ROBERTSON 157 
 
 less current rushed him past, swimming against the stream, 
 to put distance between himself and the destroyer below. 
 But before long an advance-guard of the brown enemy shot 
 out from the tributaries above, and the tide of retreat swung 
 backward. Then came thousands of them, and the massacre 
 was resumed. 
 
 **Hot stuff, eh?" said his friendly neighbor to him. 
 
 "Y-y-y-es — I guess so," he answered, rather vacantly; *'I 
 don't know. I don't know anything about it. I never saw 
 such doings. What is it all for ? What does it mean ? ' ' 
 
 ''Oh, this is nothing; it 's all in a lifetime. Still, I admit 
 it might ha' been serious for us — and you, too — if we hadn't 
 got help." 
 
 ''But who are they, and what? They all seem of a family, 
 and are killing each other." 
 
 "Immortal shade of Darwin!" exclaimed the other sentry^ 
 who had not spoken before. "Where were you brought up? 
 Don't you know that variations from type are the deadliest 
 enemies of the parent stock ? These two brown breeds are the 
 hundredth or two-hundredth cousins of the black kind. When 
 they 've killed off their common relative, and get to compet- 
 ing for grub, they '11 exterminate each other, and we '11 be rid 
 of 'em all. Law of nature. Understand?" 
 
 "Oh, y-yes, I understand, of course; but what did the 
 black kind attack me for? And what do they want, any- 
 way?" 
 
 "To follow out their destiny, I s'pose. They 're the kind 
 of folks who have missions. Reformers, we call 'em — who 
 want to enforce their peculiar ideas and habits on other peo- 
 ple. Sometimes we call them expansionists — fond of colon- 
 izing territory that doesn't belong to them. They wanted to 
 get through the cells to the lymph-passages, thence on to the 
 brain and spinal marrow. Know what that means? Hydro- 
 phobia. ' ' 
 
 "What 's that?" 
 
 "Oh, say, now! You 're too easy." 
 
 "Come, come," said the other, good-naturedly; "don't guy 
 him. He never had our advantages. You see, neighbor, we 
 
158 THE BATTLE OF THE MONSTERS 
 
 get these points from the subjective brain, which knows all 
 things and gives us our instructions. We 're the white cor- 
 puscles, — phagocytes, the scientists call us, — and our work is 
 to police the blood-vessels, and kill off invaders that make 
 trouble. Those red-and-gray chumps can't take care of them- 
 selves, and we must protect 'em. Understand ? But this in- 
 vasion was too much for us, and we had to have help from 
 outside. You must have come in with the first crowd — think 
 I saw you — in at the bite. Second crowd came in through an 
 inoculation tube, and just in time to pull you through." 
 
 *'I don't know," answered our bewildered friend. ^'In at 
 the bite? What bite? I was swimming round comfortable- 
 like, and there was a big noise, and then I was alongside of a 
 big white wall, and then — " 
 
 "Exactly; the dog's tooth. You got into bad company, 
 friend, and you 're well out of it. That first gang is the 
 microbe of rabies, not very well known yet, because a little 
 too small to be seen by most microscopes. All the scientists 
 seem to have learned about 'em is that a colony a few hun- 
 dred generations old — which they call a culture, or serum — 
 is death on the original bird; and that 's what they sent in 
 to help out. Pasteur 's dead, worse luck, but sometime old 
 Koch '11 find out what we 've known all along — that it 's 
 only variation from type." 
 
 "Koch!" he answered eagerly and proudly. "Oh, I know 
 Koch; I 've met him. And I know about miscroscopes, too. 
 Why, Koch had me under his microscope once. He dis- 
 covered my family, and named us — the comma bacilli — the 
 Spirilli of Asiatic Cholera." 
 
 In silent horror they drew away from him, and then con- 
 versed together. Other white warriors drifting along stopped 
 and joined the conference, and when a hundred or more were 
 massed before him, they spread out to a semi-spherical forma« 
 tion and closed in. 
 
 "What 's the matter?" he asked nervously. "What 's 
 wrong? What are you going to do? I haven't done any- 
 thing, have I?" 
 
 "It 's not what you Ve done, stranger," said his quondam 
 
MORGAN ROBERTSON 159 
 
 friend, ''or what we 're going to do. It 's what you 're going 
 to do. You 're going to die. Don't see how you got past 
 quarantine, anyhow?" 
 
 "What — why — I don't want to die. I 've done nothing. 
 All I want is peace and quiet, and a place to swim where it 
 is n 't too light nor too dark. I mind my own affairs. Let me 
 alone — you hear me — let me alone!" 
 
 They answered him not. Slowly and irresistibly the hollow 
 formation contracted — individuals slipping out when neces- 
 sary — until he was pushed, still protesting, into the nearest 
 movable cave. The walls crashed together and his life went 
 out. When he was cast forth he was in five pieces. 
 
 And so our gentle, conservative, non-combative cholera 
 microbe, who only wanted to be left alone to mind his own 
 affairs, met this violent death, a martyr to prejudice and an 
 unsympathetic environment. 
 
 Extract from hospital record of the case of John Anderson : 
 
 Aiig-ust 18. As period of incubation for both cholera and hydro- 
 phobia has passed and no initial symptoms of either disease have 
 been noticed, patient is this day discharged, cured. 
 
A DILEMMA 
 
 By S. WEIR MITCHELL 
 
 I WAS just thirty-seven when my Uncle Philip died. A 
 week before that event he sent for me; and here let me say 
 that I had never set eyes on him. He hated my mother, but 
 I do not know why. She told me long before his last illness 
 that I need expect nothing from my father's brother. He was 
 an inventor, an able and ingenious mechanical engineer, and 
 had made much money by his improvement in turbine-wheels. 
 He was a bachelor; lived alone, cooked his own meals, and 
 collected precious stones, especially rubies and pearls. From 
 the time he made his first money he had this mania. As he 
 grew richer, the desire to possess rare and costly gems be- 
 came stronger. When he bought a new stone, he carried it in 
 his pocket for a month and now and then took it out and 
 looked at it. Then it was added to the collection in his safe 
 at the trust company. 
 
 At the time he sent for me I was a clerk, and poor enough. 
 Remembering my mother's words, his message gave me, his 
 sole relative, no new hopes; but I thought it best to go. 
 
 When I sat down by his bedside, he began, with a mali- 
 cious grin: 
 
 ''I suppose you think me queer. I will explain.'' What 
 
 he said was certainly queer enough. ''I have been living on 
 
 an annuity into which I put my fortune. In other words, I 
 
 have been, as to money, concentric half of my life to enable 
 
 me to be as eccentric as I pleased the rest of it. Now 1 
 
 repent of my wickedness to you all, and desire to live in the 
 
 memory of at least one of my family. You think I am poor 
 
 and have only my annuity. You will be profitably surprised. 
 
 I have never parted with my precious stones; they will be 
 
 160 
 
S. WEIR MITCHELX. 161 
 
 yours. You are my sole heir. I shall carry with me to the 
 other world the satisfaction of making one man happy. 
 
 ''No doubt you have always had expectations, and I desire 
 that you should continue to expect. My jewels are in my 
 safe. There is nothing else left." 
 
 When I thanked him he grinned all over his lean face, 
 and said: 
 
 "You will have to pay for my funeral." 
 
 I must say that I never looked forw^ard to any expenditure 
 with more pleasure than to what it would cost me to put 
 him away in the earth. As I rose to go, he said : 
 
 "The rubies are valuable. They are in my safe at the 
 trust company. Before you unlock the box, be very careful 
 to read a letter which lies on top of it; and be sure not to 
 shake the box." I thought this odd. "Don't come back. 
 It won't hasten things." 
 
 He died that day week, and was handsomely buried. The 
 day after, his will was found, leaving me his heir. I opened 
 his safe and found in it nothing but an iron box, evidently 
 of his own making, for he was a skilled workman and very 
 ingenious. The box was heavy and strong, about ten inches 
 long, eight inches wide and ten inches high. On it lay a 
 letter to me. It ran thus: 
 
 ' ' Dear Tom : This box contains a large number of very 
 fine pigeon-blood rubies and a fair lot of diamonds; one is 
 blue — a beauty. There are hundreds of pearls — one the fa- 
 mous green pearl and a necklace of blue pearls, for which any 
 woman would sell her soul — or her affections." I thought of 
 Susan. "I wish you to continue to have expectations and 
 continuously to remember your dear uncle. I would have 
 left these stones to some charity, but I hate the poor as much 
 as I hate your mother's son, — yes, rather more. 
 
 "The box contains an interesting mechanism, which will 
 act with certainty as you unlock it, and explode ten ounces 
 of my improved, supersensitive dynamite — no, to be accurate, 
 there are only nine and a half ounces. Doubt me, and open 
 it, and you will be blown to atoms. Believe me, and you 
 
162 A DILEMMA 
 
 will continue to nourish expectations which will never be 
 fulfilled. As a considerate man, I counsel extreme care in 
 handling the box. Don't forget your affectionate 
 
 "Uncle.'' 
 
 I stood appalled, the key in my hand. Was it true ? Was 
 it a lie? I had spent all my savings on the funeral, and was 
 poorer than ever. 
 
 Kemembering the old man's oddity, his malice, his clever- 
 ness in mechanic arts, and the patent explosive which had 
 helped to make him rich, I began to feel how very likely it 
 was that he had told the truth in this cruel letter. 
 
 I carried the iron box away to my lodgings, set it down 
 with care in a closet, laid the key on it, and locked the 
 closet. 
 
 Then I sat down, as yet hopeful, and began to exert my 
 ingenuity upon ways of opening the box without being killed. 
 There must be a way. 
 
 After a week of vain thinking I bethought me, one day, 
 that it would be easy to explode the box by unlocking it at a 
 safe distance, and I arranged a plan with wires, which seemed 
 as if it would answer. But when I reflected on what would 
 happen when the dynamite scattered the rubies, I knew 
 that I should be none the richer. For hours at a time I sat 
 looking at that box and handling the key. 
 
 At last I hung the key on my watch-guard; but then it 
 occurred to me that it might be lost or stolen. Dreading this, 
 1 hid it, fearful that some one might use it to open the box. 
 This state of doubt and fear lasted for weeks, until I became 
 nervous and began to dread that some accident might happen 
 to that box. A burglar might come and boldly carry it away 
 and force it open and find it was a wicked fraud of my uncle's. 
 Even the rumble and vibration caused by the heavy vans in 
 the street became at last a terror. 
 
 Worst of all, my salary was reduced, and I saw that mar- 
 riage was out of the question. 
 
 In my despair I consulted Professor Clinch about my 
 dilemma, and as to some safe way of getting at the rubies. 
 
S. WEIR MITCHELL 163 
 
 He said that, if my uncle had not lied, there was none that 
 would not ruin the stones, especially the pearls, but that it 
 was a silly tale and altogether incredible. I offered him the 
 biggest ruby if he wished to test his opinion. He did not 
 desire to do so. 
 
 Dr. Schaff , my uncle 's doctor, believed the old man 's letter, 
 and added a caution, which was entirely useless, for by this 
 time I was afraid to be in the room with that terrible box. 
 
 At last the doctor kindly warned me that I was in danger 
 of losing my mind with too much thought about my rubies. 
 In fact, I did nothing else but contrive wild plans to get at 
 them safely. I spent all my spare hours at one of the great 
 libraries reading about dynamite. Indeed, I talked of it un- 
 til the library attendants, believing me a lunatic or a dyna- 
 mite fiend, declined to humor me, and spoke to the police. 
 I suspect that for a while I was "shadowed" as a suspicious, 
 and possibly criminal, character. I gave up the libraries, 
 and, becoming more and more fearful, set my precious box , 
 on a down pillow, for fear of its being shaken; for at this | 
 time even the absurd possibility of its being disturbed by an , 
 earthquake troubled me. I tried to calculate the amount ' 
 of shake needful to explode my box. j 
 
 The old doctor, when I saw him again, begged me to give ! 
 up all thought of the matter, and, as I felt how completely j 
 I was the slave of one despotic idea, I tried to take the good 
 advice thus given me. 
 
 j 
 
 Unhappily, I found, soon after, between the leaves of my 
 uncle's Bible, a numbered list of the stones with their cost 
 
 and much beside. It was dated two years before my uncle's | 
 
 death. Many of the stones were well known, and their \ 
 
 enormous value amazed me. i 
 
 Several of the rubies were described with care, and curious ! 
 
 histories of them were given in detail. One was said to be i 
 
 the famous ''Sunset ruby," which had belonged to the Em- I 
 
 press-Queen Maria Theresa. One was called the "Blood j 
 
 ruby," not, as was explained, because of the color, but on ac- i 
 
 count of the murders it had occasioned. Now, as I read, it j 
 
 seemed again to threaten death. ' 
 
164 A DILEMMA 
 
 The pearls were described with care as an unequalled col- 
 lection. Concerning two of them my uncle had written what 
 I might call biographies, — for, indeed, they seemed to have 
 done much evil and some good. One, a black pearl, was men- 
 tioned in an old bill of sale as — She — which seemed queer 
 to me. 
 
 It was maddening. Here, guarded by a vision of sudden 
 death, was wealth *' beyond the dreams of avarice." I am 
 not a clever or ingenious man; I know little beyond how to 
 keep a ledger, and so I was, and am, no doubt, absurd about 
 many of my notions as to how to solve this riddle. 
 
 At one time I thought of finding a man who would take 
 the risk of unlocking the box, but what right had I to subject 
 any one else to the trial I dared not face? I could easily 
 drop the box from a height somewhere, and if it did not ex- 
 plode could then safely unlock it ; but if it did blow up when 
 it fell, good-by to my rubies. Mine, indeed ! I was rich, and 
 I was not. I grew thin and morbid, and so miserable that, 
 being a good Catholic, I at last carried my troubles to my 
 father confessor. He thought it simply a cruel jest of my 
 uncle's, but was not so eager for another world as to be will- 
 ing to open my box. He, too, counselled me to cease thinking 
 about it. Good heavens! I dreamed about it. Not to think 
 about it was impossible. Neither my own thought nor science 
 nor religion had been able to assist me. 
 
 Two years have gone by, and I am one of the richest men 
 in the city, and have no more money than will keep me alive. 
 
 Susan said I was half cracked like Uncle Philip, and broke 
 off her engagement. In my despair I have advertised in the 
 "Journal of Science," and have had absurd schemes sent me 
 by the dozen. At last, as I talked too much about it, the 
 thing became so well known that when I put the horror in 
 a safe, in bank, I was promptly desired to withdraw it. I 
 was in constant fear of burglars, and my landlady gave me 
 notice to leave, because no one would stay in the house with 
 that box. I am now advised to print my story and await 
 advice from the ingenuity of the American mind. 
 
 I have moved into the suburbs and hidden the box and 
 
S. WEIR MITCHELL 165 
 
 changed my name and my occupation. This I did to escape 
 the curiosity of the reporters. I ought to say that when the 
 government officials came to hear of my inheritance, they very 
 reasonably desired to collect the succession tax on my uncle's 
 
 estate. 
 
 I was delighted to assist them. I told the collector my story, 
 and showed him Uncle Philip's letter. Then I offered him 
 the key, and asked for time to get half a mile away. That 
 man said he would think it over and come back later. 
 
 This is all I have to say. I have made a will and left my 
 rubies and pearls to the Society for the Prevention of Human 
 Vivisection. If any man thinks this account a joke or an 
 invention, let him coldly imagine the situation: 
 
 Given an iron box, known to contain wealth, said to con- 
 tain dynamite, arranged to explode when the key is used to 
 unlock it — what would any sane man do? What would he 
 advise ? 
 
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE ^ 
 
 By A. CONAN DOYLE 
 
 I HAD called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day 
 in the autumn of last year, and found him in deep conversa- 
 tion with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman, vnth 
 fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was 
 about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the 
 room and closed the door behind me. 
 
 "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my 
 dear Watson," he said, cordially. 
 
 * ' I was afraid that you were engaged. ' ' 
 
 "So I am. Very much so." 
 
 "Then I can wait in the next room." 
 
 "Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my 
 partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and 
 I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in 
 yours also." 
 
 The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a 
 bob of greeting, with a quick, little, questioning glance from 
 his small, fat-encircled eyes. 
 
 "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his arm-chair 
 and putting his finger-tips together, as w^as his custom when 
 in judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share 
 my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and 
 humdrum routine of every-day life. You have shown your 
 relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to 
 chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to 
 embellish so many of my own little adventures." 
 
 "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to 
 me," I observed. 
 
 "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just 
 
 1 By permission of Harper & Brothers. 
 
 166 
 
A. CONAN DOYLE 167 
 
 before we went into the very simple problem presented by 
 Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraor- 
 dinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always 
 far more daring than any effort of the imagination." 
 
 ' ' A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting. ' * 
 
 "You did, doctor, but none the less you must come round 
 to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact 
 on you, until your reason breaks down under them and ac- 
 knowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has 
 been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin 
 a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular 
 which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me 
 remark that the strangest and most unique things are very 
 often connected not with the larger but with the smaller 
 crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for 
 doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As 
 far as I have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the 
 present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of 
 events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever 
 listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great 
 kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you, not 
 merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the 
 opening part, but also because the peculiar nature of the story 
 makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your 
 lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of 
 the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thou- 
 sands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In 
 the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, 
 to the best of my belief, unique.'* 
 
 The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of 
 some little pride, and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper 
 from the inside pocket of his great-coat. As he glanced down 
 the advertisement column, with his head thrust fonvard, and 
 the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at 
 the man, and endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, 
 to read the indications which might be presented by his dress 
 or appearance. 
 
 I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our 
 
168 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace 
 British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He vrore rather 
 baggy gray shepherd's check trousers, a not over-clean black 
 frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab vraistcoat with 
 a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal 
 dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded 
 brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair 
 beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing 
 remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the 
 expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his fea- 
 tures. 
 
 Sherlock Holmes's quick eye took in my occupation, and 
 he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning 
 glances. "Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time 
 done manual labor, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, 
 that he has been in China, and that he has done a consid- 
 erable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else." 
 
 Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger 
 upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion. 
 
 ' * How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, 
 Mr. Holmes?" he asked. ''How did you know, for example, 
 that I did manual labor? It 's as true as gospel, for I began 
 as a ship 's carpenter. ' * 
 
 "Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size 
 larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the 
 muscles are more developed." 
 
 "Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?" 
 
 "I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read 
 that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, 
 you use an arc-and-compass breastpin." 
 
 "Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?" 
 
 "What else can be indicated by that right cuff so yery 
 shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch 
 near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk ? ' ' 
 
 "Well, but China?" 
 
 "The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your 
 right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made 
 a small study of tattoo marks, and have even contributed tc 
 
A. CONAN DOYLE 169 
 
 the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes ' 
 scales a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in 
 addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, 
 the matter becomes even more simple." 
 
 Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said 
 he. "I thought at first that you had done something clever, 
 but I see that there was nothing in it, after all." 
 
 *'I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a 
 mistake in explaining. 'Oynne ignotum pro magnifico/ you 
 know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will sutfer 
 shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertise- 
 ment, Mr. Wilson?" 
 
 "Yes, I have got it now," he answered, with his thick, red 
 finger planted half-way down the column. "Here it is. This 
 is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir." 
 
 I took the paper from him, and read as follows : 
 
 "To THE Red-headed League: On account of the be- 
 quest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pa., U.S.A., 
 there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member 
 of the League to a salary of £4 a week for purely nominal 
 services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and 
 mind, and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Ap- 
 ply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, 
 at the offices of the League, 7 Pope 's Court, Fleet Street. 
 
 > > 
 
 "W^hat on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated, after I had 
 twice read over the extraordinary announcement. 
 
 Holmes chuckled, and wriggled in his chair, as was his 
 habit when in high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten 
 track, isn't it?" said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go 
 at saratch, and tell us all about yourself, your household, and 
 the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. 
 You will first make a note, doctor, of the paper and the 
 date." 
 
 "It is The Morning Chronicle, of April 27, 1890. Just two 
 months ago. ' ' 
 
 "Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?" 
 
17# THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 I f 
 
 Well, it is just as I. have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock 
 Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; ''I have 
 a small pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, near the 
 city. It 's not a very large affair, and of late years it has not 
 done more than just give me a living. I used to be able to 
 keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would 
 have a job to pay him, but that he is willing to come for half 
 wages, so as to learn the business. ' ' 
 
 ' ' What is the name of this obliging youth ? ' ' asked Sherlock 
 Holmes. 
 
 ' ' His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he 's not such a youth, 
 either. It 's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter 
 assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could 
 better himself, and earn twice what I am able to give him. 
 But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his 
 head?" 
 
 ''Why, indeed?" You seem most fortunate in having an 
 employe who comes under the full market price. It is not a 
 common experience among employers in this age. I don't 
 know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your adver- 
 tisement. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. W^ilson. "Never 
 was such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a 
 camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and then 
 diving down into the cellar like a rabbit^ into its hole to de- 
 velop his pictures. That is his main fault; but, on the 
 whole, he 's a good worker. There 's no vice in him." 
 
 "He is still with you, I presume?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of 
 simple cooking, and keeps the place clean — that 's all I have 
 in the house, for I am a widower, and never had any family. 
 We live very quietly, sir, the three of us ; and we keep a roof 
 over our heads, and pay our debts, if we do nothing more. 
 
 "The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. 
 Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight 
 weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says : 
 
 " 'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed 
 man.' 
 
A. CON AN DOYLE 171 : 
 
 I 
 
 < < (' 
 
 Why that?' I asks. 
 
 Why,' says he, 'here 's another vacancy in the League of 
 the Red-headed Men. It 's worth quite a little fortune to any 
 man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacan- 
 cies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits' 
 end what to do with the money. If my hair would only 
 change color, here 's a nice little crib all ready for me to step 
 into.' 
 
 ' ' ' Why, what is it, then ? ' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I 
 am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me 
 instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end 
 without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I 
 did n 't know much of what was going on outside, and I was 
 always glad of a bit of news. 
 
 *' 'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed 
 Men?' he asked, with his eyes open. 
 ' ' ' Never. ' 
 
 <' 'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for 
 one of the vacancies. ' 
 
 And what are they worth ? ' I asked. 
 
 Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is 
 slight, and it need not interfere very much with one's other 
 occupations.' 
 
 "Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my 
 ears, for the business has not been over-good for some years, 
 and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy. 
 
 Tell me all about it,' said I. 
 
 Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can 
 see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is 
 the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as 
 I can make out, the League was founded by an American 
 millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his 
 ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sym- 
 pathy for all red-headed men ; so, when he died, it was found 
 that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, 
 with instructions to applj^ the interest to the providing of easy 
 berths to men whose hair is of that color. From all I hear it 
 is splendid pay, and very little to do.' 
 
 
 < ( < 
 
 Hi 
 
172 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 ** 'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men 
 who would apply/ 
 
 " 'Not so many as you might think/ he answered. 'You 
 see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. 
 This American had started from London when he was young, 
 and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, 
 I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light 
 red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. 
 Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk 
 in ; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put 
 yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds. ' 
 
 ' ' Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, 
 that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed 
 to me that, if there was to be any competition in the matter, I 
 stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. 
 Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I 
 thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put 
 up the shutters for the day, and to come right away with me. 
 He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business 
 up, and started off for the address that was given us in the 
 advertisement. 
 
 ' ' I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. 
 From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade 
 of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the 
 advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, 
 and Pope's Court looked like a coster's orange barrow. I 
 should not have thought there were so many in the whole 
 country as were brought together by that single advertise- 
 ment. Every shade of color they were — straw, lemon, orange, 
 brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there 
 were not many who had the real vivid flame-colored tint. 
 When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up 
 in despair ; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did 
 it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted 
 until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps 
 which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the 
 stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected ; 
 
A. CON AN DOYLE 173 
 
 but we wedged in as well as we could, and soon found our- 
 selves in the office." 
 
 "Your experience has been a most entertaining one," re- 
 marked Holmes, as his client paused and refreshed his mem- 
 ory with a huge pinch of snuff. "Pray continue your very 
 interesting statement. ' ' 
 
 "There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden 
 chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man, with a 
 head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words 
 to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed 
 to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Get- 
 ting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, 
 after all. However, when our turn came, the little man was 
 much more favorable to me than to any of the others, and he 
 closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private 
 word with us. 
 
 " 'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is 
 willing to fill a vacancy in the League.' 
 
 " 'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 
 'He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen 
 anything so fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head 
 on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. 
 Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and con- 
 gratulated me warmly on my success. 
 
 " 'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will, 
 however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precau- 
 tion.' With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and 
 tugged until I yelled with the pain. ' There is water in your 
 eyes,' said he, as he released me. 'I perceive that all is as it 
 should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been 
 deceived hy wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of 
 cobbler's wax which would disgust you with human nature.' 
 He stepped over to the window, and shouted through it at the 
 top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of dis- 
 appointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped 
 away in different directions, until there was not a red head to 
 be seen except my own and that of the manager. 
 
174 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 ( i 
 
 'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am my- 
 self one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble 
 benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson ? Have you 
 a family?' >^ 
 
 ' ' I answered that I had not. 
 
 *'His face fell immediately. 
 
 ** 'Dear me!' he said, gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! 
 I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, 
 for the propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for 
 their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you 
 should be a bachelor.' 
 
 "My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought 
 that I was not to have the vacancy after all; but, after 
 thinking it over for a few minutes, he said that it would be 
 all right. 
 
 " 'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be 
 fatal, but we must stretch a point in favor of a man with such 
 a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter 
 upon your new duties?' 
 
 " 'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business al- 
 ready,' said I. 
 
 " 'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent 
 Spaulding. 'I shall be able to look after that for you.' 
 
 " 'What would be the hours?' I asked. 
 
 " 'Ten to two.' 
 
 "Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an eve- 
 ning, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, 
 which is just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well 
 to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my 
 assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything 
 that turned up. 
 
 'That would suit me very well,' said I. *And the pay?* 
 'Is £4 a week.' 
 'And the work?' 
 'Is purely nominal.' 
 ' What do you call purely nominal ? ' 
 'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the 
 building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole 
 
I C i 
 
 i i i 
 
 A. CONAN DOYLE 175 
 
 position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. 
 You don't comply with the conditions if you budge from the 
 office during that time.' 
 
 " 'It 's only four hours a day, and I should not think of 
 leaving,' said I. 
 
 *' 'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither 
 sickness nor business nor anything else. There you must 
 stay, or you lose your billet.' 
 
 " 'And the work?' 
 
 " 'Is to copy out the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." There 
 is the first volume of it in that press. You must find your 
 own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table 
 and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?' 
 Certainly,' I answered. 
 
 Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratu- 
 late you once more on the important position which you 
 have been fortunate enough to gain.' He bowed me out of 
 the room, and I went home with my assistant, hardly know-< 
 ing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good 
 fortune. 
 
 "Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I 
 was in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself 
 that the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, 
 though what its object might be I could not imagine. It 
 seemed altogether past belief that any one could make such 
 a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything 
 so simple as copying out the 'Encyclopaedia Britannica. ' 
 Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by 
 bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. How- 
 ever, in the morning I determined to have a look at it any- 
 how, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill- 
 pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for 
 Pope's Court. 
 
 "Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right 
 as possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. 
 Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He 
 started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me ; but he 
 would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with 
 
176 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 me. At two o'clock he bade me good-day, complimented me 
 upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of 
 the office after me. 
 
 ' ' This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday 
 the manager came in and planked down four golden sov- 
 ereigns for my week's work. It was the same next week, and 
 the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, 
 and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan 
 Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, 
 after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never 
 dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure 
 when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, 
 and suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss 
 of it. 
 
 "Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written 
 about Abbots and Archery and Armor and Architecture and 
 Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the 
 B's before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I 
 had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And then 
 suddenly the whole business came to an end." 
 
 "To an end?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my 
 work as usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and 
 locked, with a little square of card-board hammered on to the 
 middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read 
 for yourself." 
 
 He held up a piece of white card-board about the size of a 
 sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion: 
 
 "The Red-headed League 
 
 IS I 
 
 Dissolved. 
 
 October 9,1890.'' 
 
 Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement 
 and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the 
 
A. CONAN DOYLE 177 
 
 affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that 
 we both burst out into a roar of laughter. 
 
 ''I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried 
 our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. *'If 
 you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go else- 
 where. ' ' 
 
 *'No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair 
 from which he had half risen. ' ' I really would n 't miss your 
 case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But 
 there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a 
 little funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when 
 you found the card upon the door?" 
 
 *'I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then 
 I called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to 
 know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who 
 is an accountant living on the ground-floor, and I asked him 
 if he could tell me what had become of the E-ed-headed 
 League. He said that he had never heard of any such body. 
 Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered 
 that the name was new to him. 
 
 " 'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.' 
 
 " 'What, the red-headed man?' 
 
 " 'Yes.' 
 
 " 'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a 
 solicitor, and was using my room as a temporary convenience 
 until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.' 
 
 *' 'Where could I find him?' 
 
 " 'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 
 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.' 
 
 "I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address 
 it was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it 
 had ever heard of either Mr. William IMorris or Mr. Duncan 
 Ross. ' ' 
 
 And what did you do then?" asked Holmes. 
 I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the ad- 
 vice of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. 
 He could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. 
 
 
178 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not 
 wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had 
 heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk 
 who were in need of it, I came right away to you. 
 
 "And you did very wisely,'^ said Holmes. ''Your case is 
 an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look 
 into it. From what you have told me I think that it is pos- 
 sible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight 
 appear.'' 
 
 "Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have 
 lost four pound a week." 
 
 "As far as you are personally concerned," remarked 
 Holmes, " I do not see that you have any grievance against this 
 extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I under- 
 stand, richer by some £30, to say nothing of the minute knowl- 
 edge which you have gained on every subject which comes 
 under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them." 
 
 "No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who 
 they are, and what their object was in playing this prank — if 
 it was a prank — upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for 
 them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds." 
 
 "We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. And, 
 first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of 
 yours who first called your attention to the advertisement — 
 how long had he been with you?" 
 
 ' ' About a month then. ' ' 
 
 " How did he come ? " 
 
 "In answer to an advertisement." 
 
 "Was he the only applicant?" 
 
 "No, I had a dozen." 
 
 "Why did you pick him?" 
 
 "Because he was handy, and would come cheap." 
 
 "At half-wages, in fact." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?" 
 
 "Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his 
 face, though he 's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of 
 acid upon his forehead. 
 
 > > 
 
< ( 
 
 i i 
 
 A. CONAN DOYLE 179 
 
 Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I 
 thought as much," said he. "Have you ever observed that 
 his ears are pierced for earrings?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him 
 when he was a lad." 
 
 ' ' Hum ! ' ' said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. ' ' He 
 is still with you ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, yes, sir ; I have only just left him. ' ' 
 
 "And has your business been attended to in your absence?" 
 
 "Nothing to complain of, sir. There 's never very much to 
 do of a morning." 
 
 "That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you 
 an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. 
 To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may 
 come to a conclusion. ' ' 
 
 Well, Watson, ' ' said Holmes, when our visitor had left us, 
 
 what do you make of it all ? " 
 
 "I make nothing of it," I answered, frankly. "It is a 
 most mysterious business." 
 
 " As a rule, ' ' said Holmes, ' ' the more bizarre a thing is the 
 less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, 
 featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a com- 
 monplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must 
 be prompt over this matter." 
 
 "What are you going to do, then?" I asked. 
 
 "To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three-pipe 
 problem, and I beg that you won't speak to me for fifty min- 
 utes. ' ' He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees 
 drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes 
 closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of 
 some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that he 
 had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he 
 suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man 
 who has made up his mind, and put his pipe down upon the 
 mantel-piece. 
 
 "Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he 
 remarked. "What do you think, Watson? Could your pa- 
 tients spare you for a few hours? 
 
 5) 
 
180 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 ''I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very 
 absorbing. ' ' 
 
 ''Then put on your hat and come. I am going through 
 the city first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I 
 observe that there is a good deal of German music on the 
 program which is rather more to my taste than Italian or 
 French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come 
 along ! ' ' 
 
 We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; 
 and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene 
 of the singular story which we had listened to in the morn- 
 ing. It was a pokey, little, shabby-genteel place, where four 
 lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a 
 small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a 
 few clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight against 
 a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls 
 and a brown board with ''Jabez Wilson" in white letters, 
 upon a corner house, announced the place where our red- 
 headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes 
 stopped in front of it with his head on one side, and looked 
 it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered 
 lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down 
 again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally 
 he returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vig- 
 orously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, 
 he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly 
 opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who 
 asked him to step in. 
 
 ''Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you 
 how you would go from here to the Strand. ' ' 
 
 *' Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant, 
 promptly, closing the door. 
 
 "Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes, as we walked away. 
 "He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, 
 and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be 
 third. I have known something of him before. ' ' 
 
 "Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a 
 good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am 
 
A. CON AN DOYLE 181 
 
 sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you 
 might see him." 
 
 ''Not him." 
 
 ''What then?" 
 
 "The knees of his trousers." 
 
 "And what did you see?" 
 
 "What I expected to see." 
 
 "Why did you beat the pavement?" 
 
 "My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for 
 talk. We are spies in an enemy's country. AVe know some- 
 thing of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts 
 which lie behind it." 
 
 The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round 
 the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as 
 great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the 
 back. It was one of the main arteries which convey the 
 traffic of the city to the north and west. The roadway was 
 blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a 
 double tide inward and outward, while the foot-paths were 
 black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was diffi- 
 cult to realize as we looked at the line of fine shops and 
 stately business premises that they really abutted on the 
 other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had 
 just quitted. 
 
 "Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner, and 
 glancing along the line, "I should like just to remember the 
 order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an 
 exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer's, the tobac- 
 conist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the 
 City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and 
 McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries us right 
 on to the other block. And now, doctor, we 've done our 
 work, so it 's time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup 
 of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness 
 and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients 
 to vex us with their conundrums." 
 
 My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself 
 not only a very capable performer, but a composer of no 
 
182 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 ordinary merit. All the afternoon lie sat in the stalls 
 wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his 
 long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently 
 smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike 
 those of Holmes, the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, 
 keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible 
 to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alter- 
 nately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and astute- 
 ness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against 
 the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally pre- 
 dominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from 
 extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, 
 he was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, 
 he had been lounging in his arm-chair amid his improvisations 
 and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of 
 the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his bril- 
 liant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, 
 until those who vs^ere unacquainted with his methods would 
 look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not 
 that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so 
 enwrapped in the music at St. James's Hall I felt that an 
 evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set him- 
 self to hunt down. 
 
 *'You want to go home, no doubt, doctor," he remarked, 
 as we emerged. 
 
 *'Yes, it would be as well. 
 
 *'And I have some business to do which will take some 
 hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious." 
 
 ''Why serious?" 
 
 "A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every 
 reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to- 
 day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want 
 your help to-night." 
 
 ' ' At what time ? ' ' 
 
 "Ten will be early enough." 
 
 *'I shall be at Baker Street at ten." 
 
 "Very well. And, I say, doctor, there may be some little 
 danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket "" 
 
 >> 
 
 5 J 
 
A. CONAN DOYLE 183 
 
 He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in 
 an instant among the crowd. 
 
 I trust that 1 am not more dense than my neighbors, but I 
 was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my 
 dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he 
 had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his 
 words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had 
 happened, but what was about to happen, while to me the 
 whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove 
 home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from 
 the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the ' ' En- 
 cyclopaedia " down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and 
 the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What 
 was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? 
 Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the 
 hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's as- 
 sistant was a formidable man — a man who might play a deep 
 game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair, 
 and set the matter aside until night should bring an ex- 
 planation. 
 
 It was a quarter past nine when I started from home and 
 made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street 
 to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, 
 and, as I entered the passage, I heard the sound of voices 
 from above. On entering his room I found Holmes in an- 
 imated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognized 
 as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was 
 a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and 
 oppressively respectable frock-coat. 
 
 "Ha! our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up 
 his pea-jacket, and taking his heavy hunting crop from the 
 rack. "Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland 
 Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merry weather, w^ho is 
 to be our companion in to-night's adventure." 
 
 "We 're hunting in couples again, doctor, you see," said 
 Jones, in his consequential way. "Our friend here is a 
 wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old 
 dog to help him to do the running down," 
 
184 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 ''I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our 
 chase," observed Mr. Merry weather, gloomily. 
 
 "You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, 
 sir," said the police agent, loftily. "He has his own little 
 m^^thods, which are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a 
 little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of 
 a detective in him. It is not too much to say that once 
 or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the 
 Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the 
 official force." 
 
 "Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the 
 stranger, with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my 
 rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty 
 years that I have not had my rubber. ' ' 
 
 "I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you 
 will play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done 
 yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. 
 Merryweather, the stake will be some £30,000, and for you, 
 Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your 
 hands. ' ' 
 
 "John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. 
 He 's a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of 
 his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him 
 than on any criminal in London. He 's a remarkable man, is 
 young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he 
 himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as 
 cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at 
 every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. 
 He'll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money 
 to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I 've been on 
 his track for years, and have never set eyes on him yet." 
 
 "I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you 
 to-night. I 've had one or two little turns also with ]\Ir. John 
 Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his pro- 
 fession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we 
 started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and 
 I will follow in the second." 
 
 Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the 
 
A. CONAN DOYLE 185 
 
 long drive, and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which 
 he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an end- 
 less labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farring- 
 don Street. 
 
 "We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This 
 fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and personally inter- 
 ested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with 
 us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile 
 in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as 
 brave as a bull-dog, and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets 
 his claws upon any one. Here we are, and they are waiting 
 for us. ' ' 
 
 We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which 
 we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dis- 
 missed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merrj^weather, we 
 passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which 
 he opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which 
 ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, 
 and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which termi- 
 nated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped 
 to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth- 
 smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a 
 huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and 
 massive boxes. 
 
 "You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes re- 
 marked, as he held up the lantern and gazed about him. 
 
 "Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his 
 stick upon the flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, 
 it sounds quite hollow ! " he remarked, looking up in surprise. 
 
 "I must really ask you to be a little more quiet," said 
 Holmes, severely. "You have already imperilled the whole 
 success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have 
 the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not 
 to interfere?" 
 
 The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a 
 crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while 
 Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor, and, with the lan- 
 tern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the 
 
186 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy 
 him, for he sprang to his feet again, and put his glass in his 
 pocket. 
 
 "We have at least an hour before us," he remarked; "for 
 they can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is 
 safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the 
 sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for 
 their escape. We are at present, doctor — as no doubt you 
 have divined — in the cellar of the city branch of one of the 
 principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman 
 of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons 
 why the more daring criminals of London should take a con- 
 siderable interest in this cellar at present." 
 
 "It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We 
 have had several warnings that an attempt might be made 
 upon it." 
 
 "Your French gold?" 
 
 "Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen 
 our resources, and borrowed, for that purpose, 30,000 napo- 
 leons from the Bank of France. It has become known that 
 we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that 
 it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit 
 contains 2000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. 
 Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usu- 
 ally kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had 
 misgivings upon the subject." 
 
 * ' Which were very well justified, ' ' observed Holmes. ' ' And 
 now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect 
 that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the 
 mean time, Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over 
 that dark lantern." 
 
 "And sit in the dark?" 
 
 "I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my 
 pocket, and I thought that, as we were a partie carree, you 
 might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's 
 preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the pres- 
 ence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our posi- 
 tions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them 
 
A. CONAN DOYLE 187 
 
 at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are 
 careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal 
 yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon 
 them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no com- 
 punction about shooting them down." 
 
 I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden 
 case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across 
 the front of his lantern, and left us in pitch darkness — such 
 an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. 
 The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light 
 was still there, ready to flash out at a moment's notice. To 
 me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there 
 was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, 
 and in the cold, dank air of the vault. 
 
 "They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. ''That 
 is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope 
 that you have done what I asked you, Jones?" 
 
 ''I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front 
 door. ' ' 
 
 ''Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must 
 be silent and wait." 
 
 What a time it seemed ! From comparing notes afterwards 
 it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that 
 the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking 
 above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to 
 change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the 
 highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I 
 could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, 
 but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the 
 bulky elones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. 
 From my position I could look over the case in the direction 
 of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light. 
 
 At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. 
 Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and 
 then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open 
 and a hand appeared; a white, almost womanly hand, which 
 felt about in the center of the little area of light. For a min- 
 ute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out 
 
188 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it ap- 
 peared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark 
 which marked a chink between the stones. 
 
 Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a 
 rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned 
 over upon its side, and left a square, gaping hole, through 
 which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there 
 peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, 
 and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew it- 
 self shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon 
 the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the 
 hole, and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small 
 like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair. 
 
 "It 's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and 
 the bags ? Great Scott ! Jump, Archie, jump, and I '11 swing 
 for it!" 
 
 Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder 
 by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard 
 the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. 
 The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes's 
 hunting crop came down on the man's wrist, and the pistol 
 clinked upon the stone floor. 
 
 "It 's no use, John Clay," said Holmes, blandly. "You 
 have no chance at all." 
 
 "So I see," the other answered, with the utmost coolness. 
 "I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got 
 his coat-tails." 
 
 "There are three men waiting for him at the door," said 
 Holmes. 
 
 "Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very com- 
 pletely. I must compliment you." 
 
 "And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea 
 was very new and effective. ' ' 
 
 "You '11 see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He 's 
 quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out 
 while I fix the derbies." 
 
 * ' I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands, ' ' 
 remarked our prisoner, as the handcuffs clattered upon his 
 
A. CON AN DOYLE 189 
 
 wrists. **You may not be aware that I have royal blood in 
 my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me al- 
 ways to say 'sir' and 'please.' " 
 
 "All right," said Jones, with a stare and a snigger. "Well, 
 would you please, sir, march up-stairs, where we can get a cab 
 to carry your highness to the police-station?" 
 
 "That is better," said John Clay, serenely. He made a 
 sweeping bow to the three of us, and walked quietly off in the 
 custody of the detective. 
 
 "Really Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather, as we fol- 
 lowed them from the cellar, " I do not know how the bank can 
 thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have 
 detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of 
 the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever 
 come within my experience." 
 
 "I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle 
 with Mr. John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some 
 small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank 
 to refund, but bej^ond that I am amply repaid by having had 
 an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing 
 the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League." 
 
 < ( 
 
 You see, Watson," he explained, in the early hours of the 
 morning, as we sat over a glass of whiskey-and-soda in Baker 
 Street, "it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only 
 possible object of this rather fantastic business of the adver- 
 tisement of the League, and the copying of the 'Encyclo- 
 paedia, ' must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of 
 the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious 
 way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest 
 a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay's in- 
 genious mind by the color of his accomplice's hair. The £4 a 
 week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to 
 them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the ad- 
 vertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other 
 rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they man- 
 age to secure his absence every morning in the week. From 
 the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half 
 
190 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 
 wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive 
 for securing the situation. ' ' 
 
 **But how could you guess what the motive was?" 
 *'Had there been women in the house, I should have sus- 
 pected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the 
 question. The man's business was a small one, and there 
 was nothing in his house which could account for such elabo- 
 rate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. 
 It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it 
 be? I thought of the assistant's fondness for photography, 
 and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar ! There 
 was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as 
 to this mysterious assistant, and found that I had to deal with 
 one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He 
 was doing something in the cellar — something which took 
 many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once 
 more ? I could think of nothing save that he was running a 
 tunnel to some other building. 
 
 *'So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of 
 action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with 
 my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out 
 in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, 
 and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had 
 some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other 
 before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I 
 wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, 
 wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours 
 of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were 
 burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw that the City 
 and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend 's premises, and felt 
 that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after 
 the concert I called upon Scotland Yard, and upon the chair- 
 man of the bank directors, with the result that you have 
 
 seen. ' ' 
 
 ''And how could you tell that they would make their at- 
 tempt to-night?" I asked. 
 
 ''Well, when they closed their League offices that was a 
 sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's pres- 
 
A. CONAN DOYLE 191 
 
 ence — in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. 
 But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might 
 be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday 
 would suit them better than any other day, as it would give 
 them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I ex- 
 pected them to come to-night." 
 
 ''You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed, in un- 
 feigned admiration. ''It is so long a chain, and yet every 
 link rings true." 
 
 "It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! 
 I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one 
 long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. 
 These little problems help me to do so." 
 
 "And you are a benefactor of the race," said I. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is 
 of some little use," he remarked. ^^ ^L'homme c'est rien — 
 Voeuvre c'est tout/ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to Georges 
 Sand." 
 
ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK 
 By OWEN JOHNSON 
 
 They were discussing languidly, as such groups do, seeking 
 from each topic a peg on which to hang a few epigrams that 
 might be retold in the lip currency of the club — Steingall, 
 the painter, florid of gesture, and effete, foreign in type, with 
 black-rimmed glasses and trailing ribbon of black silk that 
 cut across his cropped beard and cavalry mustaches; De 
 Gollyer, a critic, who preferred to be known as a man about 
 town, short, feverish, incisive, who slew platitudes with one 
 adjective and tagged a reputation with three; Rankin, the 
 architect, always in a defensive, explanatory attitude, who 
 held his elbows on the table, his hands before his long sliding 
 nose, and gestured with his fingers; Quinny, the illustrator, 
 long and gaunt, with a predatory eloquence that charged 
 irresistibly down on any subject, cut it off, surrounded it, 
 and raked it with enfilading wit and satire ; and Peters, whose 
 methods of existence were a mystery, a young man of fifty, 
 who had done nothing and who knew every one by his first 
 name, the club postman, who carried the tittle-tattle, the hon 
 mots and the news of the day, who drew up a petition a week 
 and pursued the house committee with a daily grievance. 
 
 About the latticed porch, which ran around the sanded 
 yard with its feeble fountain and futile evergreens, other 
 groups were eying one another, or engaging in desultory con- 
 versation, oppressed with the heaviness of the night. 
 
 At the round table, Quinny alone, absorbing energy as he 
 devoured the conversation, having routed Steingall on the 
 Germans and archaeology and Rankin on the origins of the 
 Lord's Prayer, had seized a chance remark of De Gollyer 's to 
 
 say : 
 
 192 
 
OWEN JOHNSON 193 
 
 '* There are only half a dozen stories in the world. Like 
 everything that 's true it isn't true." He waved his long, 
 gouty fingers in the direction of Steingall, who, having been 
 silenced, was regarding him with a look of sleepy indiffer- 
 ence. ''What is more to the point, is the small number of 
 human relations that are so simple and yet so fundamental 
 that they can be eternally played upon, redressed, and reinter- 
 preted in every language, in every age, and yet remain in- 
 exhaustible in the possibility of variations." 
 
 "By George, that is so," said Steingall, waking up. 
 ** Every art does go back to three or four notes. In composi- 
 tion it is the same thing. Nothing new — nothing new since 
 a thousand years. By George, that is true ! We invent noth- 
 ing, nothing!" 
 
 ''Take the eternal triangle," said Quinny hurriedly, not 
 to surrender his advantage, while Rankin and De Gollyer in 
 a bored way continued to gaze dreamily at a vagrant star or 
 two. "Two men and a woman, or two women and a man. 
 Obviously it should be classified as the first of the great 
 original parent themes. Its variations extend into the thou- 
 sands. By the way, Rankin, excellent opportunity, eh, for 
 some of our modern, painstaking, unemployed jackasses to 
 analyze and classify." 
 
 "Quite right," said Rankin without perceiving the satirical 
 note. "Now there 's De Maupassant's Fort comme la Mort 
 — quite the most interesting variation — shows the turn a 
 genius can give. There the triangle is the man of middle 
 age, the mother he has loved in his youth and the daughter he 
 comes to love. It forms, you might say, the head of a whole 
 subdivision of modern continental literature." 
 
 "Quite wrong, Rankin, quite wrong," said Quinny, who 
 would have stated the other side quite as imperiously. 
 "What you cite is a variation of quite another theme, the 
 Faust theme — old age longing for youth, the man who has 
 loved longing for the love of his youth, which is youth itself. 
 The triangle is the theme of jealousy, the most destructive 
 and, therefore, the most dramatic of human passions. The 
 Faust theme is the most fundamental and inevitable of all 
 
194 ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK 
 
 human experiences, the tragedy of life itself. Quite a differ- 
 ent thing." 
 
 Rankin, who never agreed with Quinny unless Quinny 
 maliciously took advantage of his prior announcement to 
 agree with him, continued to combat this idea. 
 
 "You believe then," said De Golly er after a certain mo- 
 ment had been consumed in hair splitting, ' ' that the origin of 
 all dramatic themes is simply the expression of some human 
 emotion. In other words, there can exist no more parent 
 themes than there are human emotions." 
 
 * ' I thank you, sir, very well put, ' ' said Quinny with a gen- 
 erous wave of his hand. ''Why is the Three Musketeers a 
 basic theme? Simply the interpretation of comradeship, the 
 emotion one man feels for another, vital because it is the one 
 peculiarly masculine emotion. Look at Du Maurier and 
 Trilby, Kipling in Soldiers Three — simply the Three Mus- 
 keteers." 
 
 "The Vie de Bohemef" suggested Steingall. 
 
 "In the real Vie de Boheme, yes," said Quinny viciously. 
 "Not in the concocted sentimentalities that we now have 
 served up to us by athletic tenors and consumptive ele- 
 phants!" 
 
 Rankin, who had been silently deliberating on what had 
 been left behind, now said cunningly and with evident pur- 
 pose: 
 
 "All the same, I don't agree with you men at all. I be- 
 lieve there are situations, original situations, that are inde- 
 pendent of your human emotions, that exist just because they 
 are situations, accidental and nothing else." 
 
 As for instance?" said Quinny, preparing to attack. 
 Well, I 11 just cite an ordinary one that happens to come 
 to my mind," said Rankin, who had carefully selected his 
 test. "In a group of seven or eight, such as we are here, a 
 theft takes place ; one man is the thief — which one ? I 'd like 
 to know what emotion that interprets, and yet it certainly 
 is an original theme, at the bottom of a whole literature." 
 
 This challenge was like a bomb. 
 Not the same thing. ' ' 
 
 
 n 
 
OWEN JOHNSON 195 
 
 ** Detective stories, bah!" 
 
 "Oh, I say, Rankin, that 's literary melodrama." 
 
 Rankin, satisfied, smiled and winked victoriously over to 
 Tommers, who was listening from an adjacent table. 
 
 "Of course your suggestion is out of order, my dear man, 
 to this extent," said Quinny, who never surrendered, "in that 
 I am talking of fundamentals and you are citing details. 
 Nevertheless, I could answer that the situation 3^ou give, as 
 well as the whole school it belongs to, can be traced back to 
 the commonest of human emotions, curiosity; and that the 
 story of Bluebeard and The Moonstone are to all purposes 
 identically the same." 
 
 At this Steingall, who had waited hopefully, gasped and 
 made as though to leave the table. 
 
 "I shall take up your contention," said Quinny without 
 pause for breath, "first, because you have opened up one of 
 my pet topics, and, second, because it gives me a chance to 
 talk." He gave a sidelong glance at Steingall and winked at 
 De Gollyer. "What is the peculiar fascination that the de- 
 tective problem exercises over the human mind? You will 
 say curiosity. Yes and no. Admit at once that the whole 
 art of a detective story consists in the statement of the prob- 
 lem. Any one can do it. I can do it. Steingall even can do 
 it. The solution doesn't count. It is usually banal; it 
 should be prohibited. What interests us is, can we guess it? 
 Just as an able-minded man will sit down for hours and 
 fiddle over the puzzle column in a Sunday balderdash. Same 
 idea. There you have it, the problem — the detective story. 
 Now why the fascination? I '11 tell you. It appeals to our 
 curiosity, yes — but deeper to a sort of intellectual vanity. 
 Here are six matches, arrange them to make four squares; 
 five men present, a theft takes place — who 's the thief ? Who 
 will guess it first ? Whose brain will show its superior clever- 
 ness—see? That 's all— that 's all there is to it." 
 
 "Out of all of which," said De Gollyer, "the interesting 
 thing is that Rankin has supplied the reason why the supply 
 of detective fiction is inexhaustible. It does all come down 
 to the simplest terms. Seven possibilities, one answer. It 
 
i i 
 
 196 ONE HUNDRED IN THE BARK 
 
 is a formula, ludicrously simple, mechanical, and yet we 
 will always pursue it to the end. The marvel is that writers 
 should seek for any other formula when here is one so safe, 
 that can never fail. Be George, I could start up a factory 
 on it. ' ' 
 
 "The reason is," said Rankin, ''that the situation does 
 constantly occur. It 's a situation that any of us might get 
 into any time. As a matter of fact, now, I personally know 
 two such occasions when I was of the party; and very un- 
 comfortable it was too." 
 
 What happened?" said Steingall. 
 
 Why, there is no story to it particularly. Once a mis- 
 take had been made, and the other time the real thief was 
 detected by accident a year later. In both cases only one 
 or two of us knew what had happened. ' ' 
 
 De Gollyer had a similar incident to recall. Steingall, 
 after reflection, related another that had happened to a 
 friend. 
 
 **0f course, of course, my dear gentlemen," said Quinny 
 impatiently, for he had been silent too long, "you are glorify- 
 ing commonplaces. Every crime, I tell you, expresses itself 
 in the terms of the picture puzzle that you feed to your six- 
 year-old. It 's only the variation that is interesting. Now 
 quite the most remarkable turn of the complexities that can 
 be developed is, of course, the well-known instance of the 
 visitor at a club and the rare coin. Of course every one 
 knows that? What?" 
 
 Rankin smiled in a bored, superior way, but the others 
 protested their ignorance. 
 
 "Why, it 's very well known," said Quinny lightly. "A 
 distinguished visitor is brought into a club — dozen men, say, 
 present, at dinner, long table. Conversation finally veers 
 around to curiosities and relics. One of the members present 
 then takes from his pocket what he announces as one of the 
 rarest coins in existence — passes it around the table. Coin 
 travels back and forth, every one examining it, and the con- 
 versation goes to another topic, say the influence of the auto- 
 mobile on domestic infelicity, or some other such asininely 
 
OWEN JOHNSON 197 
 
 intellectual club topic — you know? All at once the owner 
 calls for his coin. 
 
 ''The coin is nowhere to be found. Every one looks at 
 every one else. First, they suspect a joke. Then it becomes 
 serious — the coin is immensely valuable. "Who has taken it? 
 
 "The owner is a gentleman — does the gentlemanly idiotic 
 thing, of course, laughs, says he knows some one is playing a 
 practical joke on hnn and that the coin will be returned to- 
 morrow. The others refuse to leave the situation so. One 
 man proposes that they all submit to a search. Every one 
 gives his assent until it comes to the stranger. He refuses, 
 curtly, roughly, without giving any reason. Uncomfortable 
 silence — the man is a guest. No one knows him particularly 
 well — but still he is a guest. One member tries to make him 
 understand that no offense is offered, that the suggestion was 
 simply to clear the atmosphere, and all that sort of bally rot, 
 you know. 
 
 " *I refuse to allow my person to be searched,' says the 
 stranger, very firm, very proud, very English, you know, 'and 
 I refuse to give my reason for my action.' 
 
 "Another silence. The men eye him and then glance at 
 one another. What 's to be done? Nothing. There is eti- 
 quette — that magnificent inflated balloon. The visitor evi- 
 dently has the coin — but he is their guest and etiquette pro- 
 tects him. Nice situation, eh? 
 
 "The table is cleared. A waiter removes a dish of fruit and 
 there under the ledge of the plate where it had been pushed 
 — is the coin. Banal explanation, eh ? Of course. Solutions 
 always should be. At once every one in profouse apologies! 
 Whereupon the visitor rises and says : 
 
 " 'Now I can give you the reason for my refusal to be 
 searched. There are only two known specimens of the coin 
 in existence, and the second happens to be here in my waist- 
 coat pocket.' " 
 
 "Of course," said Quinny with a shrug of his shoulders, 
 "the story is well invented, but the turn to it is very nice — 
 very nice indeed." 
 
 "I did know the story," said Steingall, to be disagreeable; 
 
198 ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK 
 
 ''the ending, though, is too obvious to be invented. The visi- 
 tor should have had on him not another coin, but something 
 absolutely different, something destructive, say, of a woman's 
 reputation, and a great tragedy should have been threatened 
 by the casual misplacing of the coin." 
 
 "I have heard the same story told in a dozen different 
 ways," said Kankin. 
 
 ''It has happened a hundred times. It must be continually 
 happening," said Steingall. 
 
 "I know one extraordinary instance," said Peters, who up 
 to the present, secure in his climax, had waited with a pro- 
 fessional smile until the big guns had been silenced. "In 
 fact, the most extraordinary instance of this sort I have ever 
 heard. ' ' 
 
 "Peters, you little rascal," said Quinny with a sidelong 
 glance, "I perceive you have quietly been letting us dress the 
 stage for you. ' ' 
 
 "It is not a story that will please every one," said Peters, 
 to whet their appetite. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because you will want to know what no one can ever 
 know. ' ^ 
 
 "It has no conclusion then?" 
 
 "Yes and no. As far as it concerns a woman, quite the 
 most remarkable woman I have ever met, the story is com- 
 plete. As for the rest, it is what it is, because it is one ex- 
 ample where literature can do nothing better than record. ' ' 
 
 "Do I know the woman?" asked De Gollyer, who flattered 
 himself on passing through e\ery class of society. 
 
 "Possibly, but no more than any one else." 
 
 "An actress?" 
 
 "What she has been in the past I don't know — a promoter 
 would better describe her. Undoubtedly she has been behind 
 the scenes in many an untold intrigue of the business world. 
 A very feminine woman, and yet, as you shall see, with an 
 unusual instantaneous masculine power of decision." 
 
 "Peters," said Quinny, waving a warning finger, "you 
 
OWEN JOHNSON 199 
 
 are destroying your story. Your preface will bring an anti- 
 climax. ' ' 
 
 "You shall judge," said Peters, who waited until his audi- 
 ence was in strained attention before opening his story. 
 "The names are, of course, disguises." 
 
 Mrs. Rita Kildair inhabited a charming bachelor-girl 
 studio, very elegant, of the duplex pattern, in one of the build- 
 ings just off Central Park West. She knew pretty nearly 
 every one in that indescribable society in New York that is 
 drawn from all levels, and that imposes but one condition 
 for membership — to be amusing. She knew every one and 
 no one knew her. No one knew beyond the vaguest rumors 
 her history or her means. No one had ever heard of a Mr. 
 Kildair. There was always about her a certain defensive 
 reserve the moment the limits of acquaintanceship had been 
 reached. She had a certain amount of money, she knew a 
 certain number of men in Wall Street affairs, and her studio 
 was furnished with taste and even distinction. She was of 
 any age. She might have suffered everything or nothing at 
 all. In this mingled society her invitations were eagerly 
 sought, her dinners were spontaneous, and the discussions, 
 though gay and usually daring, were invariably under the 
 control of wit and good taste. 
 
 On the Sunday night of this adventure she had, according 
 to her invariable custom, sent away her Japanese butler and 
 invited to an informal chafing-dish supper seven of her more 
 congenial friends, all of whom, as much as could be said of 
 any one, were habitues of the studio. 
 
 At seven o'clock, having finished dressing, she put in or- 
 der her bedroom, which formed a sort of free passage between 
 the studio and a small dining room to the kitchen beyond. 
 Then, going into the studio, she lit a wax taper and was in 
 the act of touching off the brass candlesticks that lighted the 
 room when three knocks sounded on the door and a Mr. 
 Flanders, a broker, compact, nervously alive, well groomed, 
 entered with the informality of assured acquaintance. 
 
200 ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK 
 
 
 You are early/' said Mrs. Kildair, in surprise. | 
 
 On the contrary, you are late," said the broker, glancing 
 
 at his watch. ; 
 
 "Then be a good boy and help me with the candles," she | 
 
 said, giving him a smile and a quick pressure of her fingers. ] 
 
 He obeyed, asking nonchalantly : \ 
 
 * * I say, dear lady, who 's to be here to-night V i 
 
 "The Enos Jacksons." | 
 
 "I thought they were separated." \ 
 
 ''Not yet." : 
 
 "Very interesting! Only you, dear lady, would have i 
 
 thought of serving us a couple on the verge." i 
 
 It's interesting, isn't it?" 
 
 Assuredly. Where did you know Jackson?" \ 
 
 Through the Warings. Jackson 's a rather doubtful per- ' 
 
 son, isn't he?" \ 
 
 "Let 's call him a very sharp lawyer," said Flanders de- ' 
 
 fensively. "They tell me, though, he is on the wrong side of I 
 
 the market — in deep.'* i 
 
 ''And you?" j 
 
 "Oh, I? I 'm a bachelor," he said with a shrug of his | 
 
 shoulders, "and if I come a cropper it makes no difference." ' 
 
 ' ' Is that possible ? ' ' she said, looking at him quickly. ! 
 
 "Probable even. And who else is coming?" i 
 
 "Maude Lille — you know her?" 
 
 ' ' I think not. ' ' 
 
 "You met her here — a journalist." 
 "Quite so, a strange career." 
 
 "Mr. Harris, a clubman, is coming, and the Stanley 
 Cheevers. ' ' 
 
 "The Stanley Cheevers!" said Flanders with some sur- 
 prise. "Are we going to gamble?" 
 
 "You believe in that scandal about bridge?" 
 "Certainly not," said Flanders, smiling. "You see I was 
 present. The Cheevers play a good game, a well united 
 game, and have an unusual system of makes. By-the-way, 
 it 's Jackson who is very attentive to IMrs. Cheever, is n 't 
 it?" 
 
 
OWEN JOHNSON 201 
 
 <^n„u^ ^;«.v,+ " 
 
 Quite right. 
 
 "What a charming party," said Flanders flippantly. 
 ''And where does Maude Lille come in?" 
 
 ''Don't joke. She is in a desperate way," said Mrs. Kil- 
 dair, with a little sadness in her eyes. 
 
 "And Harris?" 
 
 "Oh, he is to make the salad and cream the chicken." 
 
 "Ah, I see the whole party. I, of course, am to add the 
 element of respectability." 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 She looked at him steadily until he turned away, dropping 
 his glance. 
 
 "Don't be an ass with me, my dear Flanders." 
 
 "By George, if this were Europe I 'd wager you were in 
 the secret service, Mrs. Kildair." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 She smiled appreciatively and moved about the studio, giv- 
 ing the finishing touches. The Stanley Cheevers entered, a 
 short fat man with a vacant fat face and a slow-moving eye, 
 and his wife, voluble, nervous, overdressed and pretty. Mr. 
 Harris came with Maude Lille, a woman, straight, dark, In- 
 dian, with great masses of somber hair held in a little too 
 loosely for neatness, with thick, quick lips and eyes that 
 rolled away from the person who was talking to her. The 
 Enos Jacksons were late and still agitated as they entered. 
 His forehead had not quite banished the scowl, nor her eyes 
 the soorn. He was of the type that never lost his temper, 
 but caused others to lose theirs, immovable in his opinions, 
 with a prowling walk, a studied antagonism in his manner, 
 and an impudent look that fastened itself unerringly on the 
 weakness in the person to whom he spoke. Mrs. Jackson, who 
 seemed fastened to her husband by an invisible leash, had 
 a hunted, resisting quality back of a certain desperate dash, 
 which she assumed rather than felt in her attitude toward 
 life. One looked at her curiously and wondered what such a 
 nature would do in a crisis, with a lurking sense of a woman 
 who carried with her her own impending tragedy. 
 
 As soon as the company had been completed and the in- 
 
202 ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK 
 
 congruity of the selection had been perceived, a smile of 
 malicious anticipation ran the rounds, which the hostess cut . 
 short by saying: 
 
 "Well, now that every one is here, this is the order of the 
 night: You can quarrel all you want, you can whisper all 
 the gossip you can think of about one another, but every one 
 is to be amusing ! Also every one is to help with the dinner 
 — nothing formal and nothing serious. We may all be bank- 
 rupt to-morrow, divorced or dead, but to-night we will be gay 
 — that is the invariable rule of the house!" 
 
 Immediately a nervous laughter broke out and the company, 
 chattering, began to scatter through the rooms. 
 
 Mrs. Kildair, stopping in her bedroom, donned a Watteau- 
 like cooking apron, and slipping her rings from her fingers 
 fixed the three on her pincushion with a hatpin. 
 
 "Your rings are beautiful, dear, beautiful," said the low 
 voice of Maude Lille, who, with Harris and Mrs. Cheever, 
 was in the room. 
 
 "There 's only one that is very valuable," said Mrs. Kil- 
 dair, touching with her thin fingers the ring that lay upper- 
 most, two large diamonds, flanking a magnificent sapphire. 
 
 "It is beautiful — very beautiful," said the journalist, her 
 eyes fastened to it with an uncontrollable fascination. She 
 put out her fingers and let them rest caressingly on the sap- 
 phire, withdrawing them quickly as though the contact had 
 burned them. 
 
 "It must be very valuable," she said, her breath catching 
 a little. Mrs. Cheever, moving forward, suddenly looked at 
 the ring. 
 
 "It cost five thousand six years ago," said Mrs. Kildair, 
 glancing down at it. *'It has been my talisman ever since. 
 For the moment, however, I am cook; Maude Lille, you are 
 scullery maid ; Harris is the chef, and we are under his orders. 
 Mrs. Cheever, did you ever peel onions?" 
 
 "Good Heavens, no!" said Mrs. Cheever, recoiling. 
 
 "Well, there are no onions to peel," said Mrs. Kildair, 
 laughing. "All you '11 have to do is to help set the table. 
 On to the kitchen!" 
 
OWEN JOHNSON 203 
 
 Under their hostess's gay guidance the seven guests began 
 to circulate busily through the rooms, laying the table, group- 
 ing the chairs, opening bottles, and preparing the material 
 for the chafing dishes. Mrs. Kildair, in the kitchen, ransacked 
 the ice box, and with her own hands chopped the fines herhes, 
 shredded the chicken and measured the cream. 
 
 *' Flanders, carry this in carefully," she said, her hands in 
 a towel. "Cheever, stop watching your wife and put the 
 salad bowl on the table. Everything ready, Harris? All 
 right. Every one sit down. I '11 be right in." 
 
 She went into her bedroom, and divesting herself of her 
 apron hung it in the closet. Then going to her dressing table 
 she drew the hatpin from the pincushion and carelessly 
 slipped the rings on her fingers. All at once she frowned 
 and looked quickly at her hand. Only two rings were there, 
 the third ring, the one with the sapphire and the two dia- 
 monds, was missing. 
 
 ' ' Stupid, ' ' she said to herself, and returned to her dressing 
 table. All at once she stopped. She remembered quite 
 clearly putting the pin through the three rings. 
 
 She made no attempt to search further, but remained with- 
 out moving, her fingers drumming slowly on the table, her 
 head to one side, her lip drawn in a little between her teeth, 
 listening with a frown to the babble from the outer room. 
 Who had taken the ring? Each of her guests had had a 
 dozen opportunities in the course of the time she had been 
 busy in the kitchen. 
 
 ''Too much time before the mirror, dear lady," called out 
 Flanders gaily, who from where he was seated could see her. 
 
 "It is not he," she said quickly. Then she reconsidered. 
 ''"Why not? He is clever — who knows? Let me think." 
 
 To gain time she walked back slowly into the kitchen, her 
 head bowed, her thumb between her teeth. 
 
 ' ' Who has taken it ? " 
 
 She ran over the characters of her guests and their situa- 
 tions as she knew them. Strangely enough, at each her mind 
 stopped upon some reason that might explain a sudden tempta- 
 tion. 
 
204 ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK 
 
 '^I shall find out nothing this way," she said to herself 
 after a moment's deliberation; ''that is not the important 
 thing to me just now. The important thing is to get the ring 
 back. ' ' 
 
 And slowly, deliberately, she began to walk back and forth, 
 her clenched hand beating the deliberate rhythmic measure of 
 her journey. 
 
 Five minutes later, as Harris, installed en maitre over the 
 chafing dish, was giving directions, spoon in the air, Mrs. 
 Kildair came into the room like a lengthening shadow. Her 
 entrance had been made with scarcely a perceptible sound, 
 and yet each guest was aware of it at the same moment, with 
 a little nervous start. 
 
 "Heavens, dear lady," exclaimed Flanders, "you come in 
 on us like a Greek tragedy! What is it you have for us, a 
 surprise ? ' ' 
 
 As he spoke she turned her swift glance on him, drawing 
 her forehead together until the eyebrows ran in a straight 
 line. 
 
 *'I have something to say to you," she said in a sharp, 
 businesslike manner, watching the company with penetrating 
 eagerness. 
 
 There was no mistaking the seriousness of her voice. Mr. 
 Harris extinguished the oil lamp, covering the chafing dish 
 clumsily with a discordant, disagreeable sound. Mrs. Cheever 
 and Mrs. Enos Jackson swung about abruptly, Maude Lille 
 rose a little from her seat, while the men imitated these move- 
 ments of expectancy with a clumsy shuffling of the feet. 
 
 "Mr. Enos Jackson?" 
 Yes, Mrs. Kildair." 
 Kindly do as I ask you." 
 Certainly. ' ' 
 
 She had spoken his name with a peremptory positiveness 
 that was almost an accusation. He rose calmly, raising his 
 eyebrows a little in surprise. 
 
 "Go to the door," she continued, shifting her glance from 
 him to the others. " Are you there ? Lock it. Bring me thft 
 key. 
 
 
 J f 
 
i < 
 
 OWEN JOHNSON 205 
 
 He executed the order without bungling, and returning 
 stood before her, tendering the key. 
 
 "You 've locked it?" she said, making the words an excuse 
 to bury her glance in his. 
 
 ''As you wished me to.'* 
 
 ' ' Thanks. ' ' 
 
 She took from him the key and, shifting slightly, likewise 
 locked the door into her bedroom through which she had 
 come. 
 
 Then transferring the keys to her left hand, seemingly 
 unaware of Jackson, who still awaited her further commands, 
 her eyes studied a moment the possibilities of the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 "Mr. Cheever?" she said in a low voice. 
 ^Yes, Mrs. Kildair." 
 
 Blow out all the candles except the candelabrum on the 
 table." 
 
 'Tut out the lights, Mrs. Kildair?" 
 
 ' ' At once. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Cheever, in rising, met the glance of his wife, and 
 the look of questioning and wonder that passed did not escape 
 the hostess. 
 
 *'But, my dear Mrs. Kildair," said Mrs. Jackson with a 
 little nervous catch of her breath, "what is it? I 'm getting 
 terribly worked up! My nerves — " 
 
 ' ' Miss Lille ? ' ' said the voice of command. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The journalist, calmer than the rest, had watched the pro- 
 ceedings without surprise, as though fore-warned by profes- 
 sional instinct that something of importance was about to 
 take place. Now she rose quietly with an almost stealthy 
 motion. 
 
 "Put the candelabrum on this table — here," said Mrs. Kil- 
 dair, indicating a large round table on which a few books 
 were grouped. "No, wait. Mr. Jackson, first clear off the 
 table. I want nothing on it. " 
 
 "But, Mrs. Kildair — " began Mrs. Jackson's shrill voice 
 
 again. 
 
206 ONE HUNDRED IN THE DAKK 
 
 ?> 
 
 ''That ^s it. Now put down the candelabrum. 
 
 In a moment, as Mr. Cheever proceeded methodically on his 
 errand, the brilliant crossfire of lights dropped in the studio, 
 only a few smoldering wicks winking on the walls, while the 
 high room seemed to grow more distant as it came under the 
 sole dominion of the three candles bracketed in silver at the 
 head of the bare mahogany table. 
 
 ' ' Now listen ! ' ' said Mrs. Kildair, and her voice had in it a 
 cold note. "My sapphire ring has just been stolen." 
 
 She said it suddenly, hurling the news among them and 
 waiting ferret-like for some indications in the chorus that 
 broke out. 
 
 ''Stolen!" 
 
 "Oh, my dear Mrs. Kildair!" 
 
 ' ' Stolen— by Jove ! ' ' 
 
 "You don't mean it!" 
 
 "What! Stolen here— to-night ? " 
 
 ' ' The ring has been taken within the last twenty minutes, ' ' 
 continued Mrs. Kildair in the same determined, chiseled tone. 
 "I am not going to mince words. The ring has been taken 
 and the thief is among you." 
 
 For a moment nothing was heard but an indescribable gasp 
 and a sudden turning and searching, then suddenly Cheever 's 
 deep bass broke out : 
 
 Stolen! But, Mrs. Kildair, is it possible?" 
 Exactly. There is not the slightest doubt," said Mrs. 
 Kildair. "Three of you were in my bedroom when I placed 
 my rings on the pincushion. Each of you has passed through 
 there a dozen times since. My sapphire ring is gone, and one 
 of you has taken it." 
 
 Mrs. Jackson gave a little scream, and reached heavily for a 
 glass of water. Mrs. Cheever said something inarticulate in 
 the outburst of masculine exclamation. Only Maude Lille s 
 calm voice could be heard saving : 
 
 "Quite true. I was in the room when you took them off. 
 The sapphire ring was on top." 
 
 "Now listen!" said Mrs. Kildair, her eyes on Maude Lille's 
 eyes. " I am not going to mince words. I am not going to 
 
 
OWEN JOHNSON 2a7 
 
 stand on ceremony. I 'm going to have that ring back. Lis- 
 ten to me carefully. I 'm going to have that ring back, and 
 until I do, not a soul shall leave this room." She tapped on 
 the table with her nervous knuckles. "Who has taken it I 
 do not care to know. All I want is my ring. Now I 'm go- 
 ing to make it possible for whoever took it to restore it without 
 possibility of detection. The doors are locked and will stay 
 locked. I am going to put out the lights, and I am going to 
 count one hundred slowly. You will be in absolute darkness; 
 no one will know or see what is done. But if at the end of 
 that time the ring is not here on this table I shall telephone 
 the police and have every one in this room searched. Am I 
 quite clear?" 
 
 Suddenly she cut short the nervous outbreak of suggestions 
 and in the same firm voice continued : 
 
 "Every one take his place about the table. That 's it. 
 That will do." 
 
 The women, with the exception of the inscrutable Maude 
 Lille, gazed hysterically from face to faccj while the men, 
 compressing their fingers, locking them or grasping their 
 chins, looked straight ahead fixedly at their hostess. 
 
 Mrs. Kildair, having calmly assured herself that all were 
 ranged as she wished, blew out two of the three candles. 
 
 "I shall count one hundred, no more, no less," she said. 
 "Either I get back that ring or every one in this room is to 
 be searched, remember." 
 
 Leaning over, she blew out the remaining candle and snuffed 
 it. 
 
 "One, two, three, four, five — " 
 
 She began to count with the inexorable regularity of a 
 clock's ticking. 
 
 In the room every sound was distinct, the rustle of a dress, 
 the grinding of a shoe, the deep, slightly asthmatic breathing 
 of a man. 
 
 "Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three — " 
 
 She continued to count, while in the methodic unvarying 
 note of her voice there was a rasping reiteration that began to 
 affect the company. A slight gasping breath, uncontrollable, 
 
208 ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK 
 
 almost on the verge of hysterics, was heard, and a man nerv- 
 ously clearing his throat. 
 
 ''Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven — " 
 
 Still nothing had happened. Mrs. Kildair did not vary 
 her measure the slightest, only the sound became more metal- 
 lic. 
 
 *' Sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine and sev- 
 enty—'' 
 
 Some one had sighed. 
 
 ''Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, 
 seventy-seven — ' ' 
 
 All at once, clear, unmistakable, on the resounding plane of 
 the table was heard a slight metallic note. 
 
 "The ring!" 
 
 It was Maude Lille's quick voice that had spoken. Mrs. 
 Kildair continued to count. 
 
 "Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one — " 
 
 The tension became unbearable. Two or three voices pro- 
 tested against the needless prolonging of the torture. 
 
 "Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine and one 
 hundred. ' ' 
 
 A match sputtered in Mrs. Kildair 's hand and on the in- 
 stant the company craned forward. In the center of the 
 table was the sparkling sapphire and diamond ring. Candles 
 were lit, flaring up like searchlights on the white accusing 
 faces. 
 
 "Mr. Cheever, you may give it to me," said Mrs. Kildair. 
 She held out her hand without trembling, a smile of triumph 
 on her face, which had in it for a moment an expression of 
 positive cruelty. 
 
 Immediately she changed, contemplating with amusement 
 the horror of her guests, staring blindly from one to another, 
 seeing the indefinable glance of interrogation that passed 
 from Cheever to Mrs. Cheever, from Mrs. Jackson to her hus- 
 band, and then without emotion she said: 
 
 "Now that that is over we can have a very gay little sup- 
 per. ' ' 
 
OWEN JOHNSON 209 
 
 When Peters had pushed back his chair, satisfied as only a 
 trained raconteur can be by the silence of a difficult audience, 
 and had busied himself with a cigar, there was an instant 
 outcry. 
 
 ''I say, Peters, old boy, that is not all!" 
 
 ''Absolutely." 
 
 "The story ends there?" 
 
 ''That ends the story." 
 
 "But who took the ring?" 
 
 Peters extended his hands in an empty gesture. 
 
 * ' What ! It was never found out ? ' ' 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "No clue?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 "I don't like the story," said De Gollyer. 
 
 "It 's no story at all," said Steingall. 
 
 "Permit me," said Quinny in a didactic way; "it is a story, 
 and it is complete. In fact, I consider it unique because it 
 has none of the banalities of a solution and leaves the prob- 
 lem even more confused than at the start." 
 
 "I don't see — " began Rankin. 
 
 "Of course you don't, my dear man," said Quinny crush- 
 ingly. "You do not see that any solution would be common- 
 place, whereas no solution leaves an extraordinary intellectual 
 problem. ' ' 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "In the first place," said Quinny, preparing to annex the 
 topic, "whether the situation actually happened or not, which 
 is in itself a mere triviality, Peters has constructed it in a 
 masterly way, the proof of which is that he has made me 
 listen. Observe, each person present might have taken the 
 ring — Flanders, a broker, just come a cropper ; Maude Lille, a 
 woman on the ragged side of life in desperate means ; either 
 Mr. and Mrs. Cheever, suspected of being card sharps — very 
 good touch that, Peters, when the husband and wife glanced 
 involuntarily at each other at the end — Mr. Enos Jackson, a 
 sharp lawyer, or his wife about to be divorced ; even Harris, 
 concerning whom, very cleverly, Peters has said nothing at 
 
i I 
 
 210 ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK 
 
 all to make him quite the most suspicious of all. There are, 
 therefore, seven solutions, all possible and all logical. But 
 beyond this is left a great intellectual problem." 
 
 ''How so?" 
 
 ''Was it a feminine or a masculine action to restore the 
 ring when threatened with a search, knowing that Mrs. Kil- 
 dair's clever expedient of throwing the room into darkness 
 made detection impossible? Was it a woman who lacked the 
 necessary courage to continue, or was it a man who repented 
 his first impulse ? Is a man or is a woman the greater natural 
 criminal?" 
 
 A woman took it, of course," said Rankin. 
 On the contrary, it was a man," said Steingall, "for the 
 second action was more difficult than the first. ' ' 
 
 "A man, certainly," said De Gollyer. "The restoration of 
 the ring was a logical decision. ' ' 
 
 "You see," said Ouinny triumphant^, "personally I in- 
 cline to a woman ^f^v the reason that a weaker feminine nature 
 is peculiarly susceptible to the domination of her own sex. 
 There you are. We could meet and debate the subject year 
 in and year out and never agree." 
 
 "I recognize most of the characters," said De Gollyer with 
 a little confidential smile toward Peters. "Mrs. Kildair, of 
 course, is all you say of her — an extraordinary woman. The 
 story is quite characteristic of her. Flanders, I am not sure 
 of, but I think I know him. ' ' 
 
 "Did it really happen?" asked Rankin, who always took 
 the commonplace point of view. 
 
 Exactly as I have told it," said Peters. 
 The only one I don't recognize is Harris," said De Gollyer 
 pensively. 
 
 "Your humble servant," said Peters, smiling. 
 
 The four looked up suddenly with a little start. 
 
 "What!" said Quinny, abruptly confused. "You — you 
 were there?" 
 
 "I was there." 
 
 The four continued to look at him without speaking, each 
 absorbed in his own thoughts, with a sudden ill ease. 
 
 
i 
 OWEN JOHNSON 211 I 
 
 A club attendant, with a telephone slip on a tray, stopped 
 by Peters' side. He excused himself and went along the 
 porch, nodding from table to table. 
 
 ''Curious chap," said De Gollyer musingly. 
 
 "Extraordinary." 
 
 The word was like a murmur in the group of four, who 
 continued watching Peters' trim, disappearing figure in si- 
 lence, without looking at one another — with a certain ill ease. 
 
A RETRIEVED REFORMATION ^ 
 
 By 0. HENRY 
 
 A GUARD came to the prison shoe-shop, where Jimmy Valen- 
 tine was assiduously stitching uppers, and escorted him to the 
 front office. There the warden handed Jimmy his pardon, 
 which had been signed that morning by the governor. Jimmy 
 took it in a tired kind of way. He had served nearly ten 
 months of a four-year sentence. He had expected to stay 
 only about three months, at the longest. When a man with 
 as many friends on the outside as Jimmy Valentine had is 
 received in the ''stir" it is hardly worth while to cut his hair. 
 
 "Now, Valentine," said the warden, ''you '11 go out in the 
 morning. Brace up, and make a man of yourself. You 're 
 not a bad fellow at heart. Stop cracking safes, and live 
 straight. ' ' 
 
 "Me?" isaid Jimmy, in surprise. "Why, I never cracked 
 a safe in my life. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, no, ' ' laughed the warden. * ' Of course not. Let 's 
 see, now. How was it you happened to get sent up on that 
 Springfield job? Was it because you would n't prove an alibi 
 for fear of compromising somebody in extremely high-toned 
 society ? Or was it simply a case of a mean aid jury that had 
 it in for you? It 's always one or the other with you inno- 
 cent victims. ' ' 
 
 " Me ? " said Jimmy, still blankly virtuous. ' ' Why, A^arden, 
 I never was in Springfield in my life ! ' ' 
 
 "Take him back, Cronin," smiled the warden, "and fix 
 him up with outgoing clothes. Unlock him at seven in the 
 morning, and let him come to the bull-pen. Better think over 
 my advice, Valentine." 
 
 1 From Roads of Destiny. Published by permission of the publishers. 
 Copyright, 1909, by Doubleday, Page & Co. 
 
 212 
 
O. HENRY 213 
 
 At a quarter past seven on the next morning Jimmy stood 
 in the warden's outer office. He had on a suit of the villain- 
 ously fitting, ready-made clothes and a pair of the stiff, 
 squeaky shoes that the state furnishes to its discharged com- 
 pulsory guests. 
 
 The clerk handed him a railroad ticket and the five-dollar 
 bill with which the law expected him to rehabilitate himself 
 into good citizenship and prosperity. The warden gave him 
 a cigar, and shook hands. Valentine, 9762, was chronicled on 
 the books "Pardoned by Governor," and Mr. James Valen- 
 tine walked out into the sunshine. 
 
 Disregarding the song of the birds, the waving green trees, 
 and the smell of the flowers, Jimmy headed straight for a 
 restaurant. There he tasted the first sweet joys of liberty in 
 the shape of a broiled chicken and a bottle of white wine — 
 followed by a cigar a grade better than the one the warden 
 had given him. From there he proceeded leisurely to the 
 depot. He tossed a quarter into the hat of a blind man sit- 
 ting by the door, and boarded his train. Three hours set him 
 down in a little town near the state line. He went to the 
 cafe of one Mike Dolan and shook hands with Mike, who 
 was alone behind the bar. 
 
 "Sorry we couldn't make it sooner, Jimmy, me boy,'' said 
 Mike. "But we had that protest from Springfield to buck 
 against, and the governor nearly balked. Feeling all right ? ' ' 
 
 "Fine," said Jimmy. "Got my key?" 
 
 He got his key and went up-stairs, unlocking the door of 
 a room at the rear. Everything was just as he had left it. 
 There on the floor was still Ben Price 's collar-button that had 
 been torn from that eminent detective's shirt-band when they 
 had overpowered Jimmy to arrest him. 
 
 Pulling out from the wall a folding-bed, Jimmy slid back 
 a panel in the wall and dragged out a dust-covered suit-case. 
 He opened this and gazed fondly at the finest set of burglar's 
 tools in the East. It was a complete set, made of specially 
 tempered steel, the latest design in drills, punches, braces 
 and bits, jimmies, clamps, and augers, with two or three 
 novelties, invented by Jimmy himself, in which he took pride. 
 
( ( 
 
 214 A RETRIEVED REFORMATION 
 
 Over nine hundred dollars they had cost him to have made 
 at , a place where they make such things for the profes- 
 sion. 
 
 In half an hour Jimmy went down stairs and through the 
 cafe. He was now dressed in tasteful and well-fitting clothes, 
 and carried his dusted and cleaned suit-case in his hand. 
 Got anything on?" asked Mike Dolan, genially. 
 Me?" said Jimmy, in a puzzled tone. "I don't under- 
 stand. I 'm representing the New York Amalgamated Short 
 Snap Biscuit Cracker and Frazzled Wheat Company. ' ' 
 
 This statement delighted Mike to such an extent that Jimmy 
 had to take a seltzer-and-milk on the spot. He never touched 
 "hard" drinks. 
 
 A week after the release of Valentine, 9762, there was a 
 neat job of safe-burglary done in Richmond, Indiana, with 
 no clue to the author. A scant eight hundred dollars was 
 all that was secured. Two weeks after that a patented, im- 
 proved, burglar-proof safe in Logansport was opened like 
 a cheese to the tune of fifteen hundred dollars, currency; se- 
 curities and silver untouched. That began to interest the 
 rogue-catchers. Then an old-fashioned bank-safe in Jefferson 
 City became active and threw out of its crater an eruption 
 of bank-notes amounting to five thousand dollars. The losses 
 were now high enough to bring the matter up into Ben Price's 
 class of work. By comparing notes, a remarkable similarity 
 in the methods of the burglaries was noticed. Ben Price in- 
 vestigated the scenes of the robberies, and was heard to re- 
 mark : 
 
 **That 's Dandy Jim Valentine's autograph. He 's resumed 
 business. Look at that combination knob — jerked out as easy 
 as pulling up a radish in wet weather. He 's got the only 
 .clamps that can do it. And look how clean those tumblers 
 were punched out! Jimmy never has to drill but one hole. 
 Yes, I guess I want Mr. Valentine. He '11 do his bit next 
 time without any short-time or clemency foolishness." 
 
 Ben Price knew Jimmy's habits. He had learned them 
 while working up the Springfield case. Long jumps, quick 
 get-aways, no confederates, and a taste for good society — 
 
0. HENRY 215 
 
 these ways had helped Mr. Valentine to become noted as a 
 successful dodger of retribution. It was given out that Ben 
 Price had taken up the trail of the elusive cracksman, and 
 other people with burglar-proof safes felt more at ease. 
 
 One afternoon Jimmy Valentine and his suit-case climbed 
 out of the mail-hack in Elmore, a little town five miles off the 
 railroad dowTi in the black-jack country of Arkansas. Jimmy, 
 looking like an athletic young senior just home from college, 
 went down the board side-walk toward the hotel. 
 
 A young lady crossed the street, passed him at the corner 
 and entered a door over which was the sign ''The Elmore 
 Bank." Jimmy Valentine looked into her eyes, forgot what 
 he was, and became another man. She lowered her eyes and 
 colored slightly. Young men of Jimmy's style and looks 
 were scarce in Elmore. 
 
 Jimmy collared a boy that was loafing on the steps of the 
 bank as if he were one of the stockholders, and began to 
 question him about the town, feeding him dimes at intervals. 
 By and by the young lady came out, looking royally uncon- 
 scious of the young man with the suit-case, and went her 
 way. 
 
 "Isn't that young lady Miss Polly Simpson?" asked 
 Jimmy, with specious guile. 
 
 *'Naw," said the boy. "She 's Annabel Adams. Her pa 
 owns this bank. What 'd you come to Elmore for? Ts that 
 a gold watch-chain? I 'm going to get a bulldog. Got any 
 more dimes?" 
 
 Jimmy went to the Planters' Hotel, registered as Ralph 
 D, Spencer, and engaged a room. He leaned on the desk and 
 declared his platform to the clerk. He said he had come to 
 Elmore to look for a location to go into business. How was 
 the shoe business, now, in the town? He had thought of the 
 shoe business. Was there an opening? 
 
 The clerk was impressed by the clothes and manner of 
 Jimmy. He, himself, was something of a pattern of fashion 
 to the thinly gilded youth of Elmore, but he now perceived 
 his shortcomings. While trying to figure out Jimmy's man- 
 ner of tying his four-in-hand he cordially gave information. 
 
216 A RETRIEVED REFORMATION 
 
 Yes, there ought to be a good opening in the shoe line. 
 There wasn't an exclusive shoe-store in the place. The dry- 
 goods and general stores handled them. Business in all lines 
 was fairly good. Hoped Mr. Spencer would decide to locate 
 in Elmore. He would find it a pleasant town to live in, and 
 the people very sociable. 
 
 Mr. Spencer thought he would stop over in the town a few 
 days and look over the situation. No, the clerk need n 't call 
 the boy. He would carry up his suit-case, himself; it was 
 rather heavy. 
 
 Mr. Ralph Spencer, the phcenix that arose from Jimmy Val- 
 entine's ashes — ashes left by the flame of a sudden and altera- 
 tive attack of love — remained in Elmore, and prospered. He 
 opened a shoe-store and secured a good run of trade. 
 
 Socially he was also a success, and made many friends. 
 And he accomplished the wish of his heart. He met Miss 
 Annabel Adams, and became more and more captivated by 
 her charms. 
 
 At the end of a year the situation of Mr. Ralph Spencer was 
 this : he had won the respect of the community, his shoe-store 
 was flourishing, and he and Annabel were engaged to be mar- 
 ried in two weeks. Mr. Adams, the typical, plodding, country 
 banker, approved of Spencer. Annabel's pride in him almost 
 equalled her affection. He was as much at home in the family 
 of Mr. Adams and that of Annabel's married sister as if he 
 were already a member. 
 
 One day Jimmy sat down in his room and wrote this letter, 
 which he mailed to the safe address of one of his old friends 
 in St. Louis : 
 
 Dear Old Pal: 
 
 I want you to be at SulHvan's place, in Little Rock, next Wednes- 
 day night, at nine o'clock. I want you to wind up some little mat- 
 ters for me. And, also, I want to make you a present of my kit of 
 tools. I know you '11 be glad to get them — you could n't dupUeate 
 the lot for a thousand dollars. Say, Billy, I 've quit the old business 
 — a year ago. I 've got a nice store. I 'm making an honest hving, 
 and I 'm going to marry the finest girl on earth two weeks from now. 
 It 's the only life, Billy— the straight one. I would n't touch a dollar 
 of another man's money now for a million. After I get married 
 
0. HENRY 217 
 
 I 'm going to sell out and go West, where there won't be so much 
 danger of having old scores brought up against me. I tell you, 
 Billy, she 's an angel. She believes in me ; and I would n't do an- 
 other crooked thing for the whole world. Be sure to be at Sully's, 
 for I must see you. I'll bring the tools with me. 
 
 Your old friend, 
 
 Jimmy. 
 
 On the Monday night after Jimmy wrote this letter, Ben 
 Price jogged unobtrusively into Elmore in a livery buggy. 
 He lounged about tov^n in his quiet way until he found out 
 what he wanted to know. From the drug-store across the 
 street from Spencer's shoe-store he got a good look at Ralph 
 D. Spencer. 
 
 "Going to marry the banker's daughter are you, Jimmy?" 
 said Ben to himself, softly. "Well, I don't know !" 
 
 The next morning Jimmy took breakfast at the Adamses. 
 He was going to Little Rock that day to order his wedding- 
 suit and buy something nice for Annabel. That would be the 
 first time he had left town since he came to Elmore. It had 
 been more than a year now since those last professional 
 "jobs," and he thought he could safely venture out. 
 
 After breakfast quite a family party went downtown 
 together — Mr. Adams, Annabel, Jimmy, and Annabel's mar- 
 ried sister with her two little girls, aged five and nine. They 
 came by the hotel where Jimmy still boarded, and he ran up 
 to his room and brought along his suit-case. Then they went 
 on to the bank. There stood Jimmy's horse and buggy and 
 Dolph Gibson, who was going to drive him over to the railroad 
 station. 
 
 All went inside the high, carved oak railings into the 
 banking-room — Jimmy included, for Mr. Adams 's future son- 
 in-law was welcome anywhere. The clerks were pleased to 
 be greeted by the good-looking, agreeable young man who was 
 going to marry Miss Annabel. Jimmy set his suit-case down. 
 Annabel, whose heart was bubbling with lively youth, put on 
 Jimmy's hat, and picked up the suit-case. "Would n't I make 
 a nice drummer?" said Annabel. "My! Ralph, how heavy it 
 is? Feels like it was full of gold bricks." 
 
218 A RETRIEVED REFORMATION 
 
 *'Lot of nickel-plated shoe-horns in there," said Jimmy, 
 coolly, "that I 'm going to return. Thought I 'd save ex- 
 press charges by taking them up. I 'm getting awfully 
 economical. ' ' 
 
 The Elmore Bank had just put in a new safe and vault. 
 Mr. Adams was very proud of it, and insisted on an inspection 
 by every one. The vault was a small one, but it had a new, 
 patented door. It fastened with three solid steel bolts thrown 
 simultaneously with a single handle, and had a time-lock. 
 Mr. Adams beamingly explained its workings to Mr. Spencer, 
 who showed a courteous but not too intelligent interest. The 
 two children. May and Agatha, were delighted by the shining 
 metal and funny clock and knobs. 
 
 While they were thus engaged Ben Price sauntered in and 
 leaned on his elbow, looking casually inside between the rail- 
 ings. He told the teller that he did n't want anything ; he was 
 just waiting for a man he knew. 
 
 Suddenly there was a scream or two from the women, and a 
 commotion. Unperceived by the elders. May, the nine-year- 
 old girl, in a spirit of play, had shut Agatha in the vault. She 
 had then shot the bolts and turned the knob of the combination 
 as she had seen Mr. Adams do. 
 
 The old banker sprang to the handle and tugged at it for a 
 moment. ''The door can't be opened," he groaned. "The 
 clock hasn't been wound nor the combination set." 
 
 Agatha's mother screamed again, hysterically. 
 
 "Hush!" said Mr. Adams, raising his trembling hand. 
 "All be quiet for a moment. Agatha !" he called as loudly as 
 he could. "Listen to me." During the following silence 
 they could just hear the faint sound of the child wildly 
 shrieking in the dark vault in a panic of terror. 
 
 "My precious darling!" wailed the mother. "She will die 
 of fright! Open the door! Oh, break it open! Can't you 
 men do something?" 
 
 ' ' There is n 't a man nearer than Little Rock who can open 
 that door," said Mr. Adams, in a shaky voice. "My God! 
 Spencer, what shall we do? That child — she can't stand it 
 
0. HENRY 219 
 
 long in there. There is n 't enough air, and, besides, she '11 
 go into convulsions from fright." 
 
 Agatha's mother, frantic now, beat the door of the vault 
 with her hands. Somebody wildly suggested dynamite. An- 
 nabel turned to Jimmy, her large eyes full of anguish, but not 
 yet despairing. To a woman nothing seems quite impossible 
 to the powers of the man she worships. 
 
 ''Can't you do something, Ralph — try, won't you?" 
 
 He looked at her with a queer, soft smile on his lips and in 
 his keen eyes. 
 
 "Annabel," he said, "give me that rose you are wearing, 
 will you ? " 
 
 Hardly believing that she heard him aright, she unpinned 
 the bud from the bosom of her dress, and placed it in his 
 hand. Jimmy stuffed it into his vest-pocket, threw off his 
 coat and pulled up his shirt-sleeves. With that act Ralph 
 D. Spencer passed away and Jimmy Valentine took his 
 place. 
 
 "Get away from the door, all of you," he commanded, 
 shortly. 
 
 He set his suit-case on the table, and opened it out flat. 
 From that time on he seemed to be unconscious of the pres- 
 ence of any one else. He laid out the shining, queer imple- 
 ments swiftly and orderly, whistling softly to himself as he 
 always did when at work. In a deep silence and immovable, 
 the others watched him as if under a spell. 
 
 In a minute Jimmy's pet drill was biting smoothly into the 
 steel door. In ten minutes — breaking his own burglarious 
 record — he threw back the bolts and opened the door. 
 
 Agatha, almost collapsed, but safe, was gathered into her 
 mother's arms. 
 
 Jimmy Valentine put on his coat, and walked outside the 
 railings toward the front door. As he went he thought he 
 heard a far-away voice that he once knew call "Ralph!" 
 But he never hesitated. 
 
 At the door a big man stood somewhat in his way. 
 Hello, Ben!" said Jimmy, still with his strange smile 
 
 i I 
 
220 A RETRIEVED REFORMATION 
 
 ''Got around at last, have you? Well, let 's go. I don*t 
 know that it makes much difference, now. ' ' 
 
 And then Ben Price acted rather strangely. 
 
 ''Guess you 're mistaken, Mr. Spencer/' he said. "Don't 
 believe I recognize you. You 're buggy 's waiting for you, 
 ain't it?" 
 
 And Ben Price turned and strolled down the street. 
 
BROTHER LEO 
 
 By PHYLLIS BOTTOME 
 
 It was a sunny morning, and I was on my way to Torcello. 
 Venice lay behind us a dazzling line, with towers of gold 
 against the blue lagoon. All at once a breeze sprang up from 
 the sea ; the small, feathery islands seemed to shake and quiver, 
 and, like leaves driven before a gale, those flocks of colored 
 butterflies, the fishing-boats, ran in before the storm. Far 
 away to our left stood the ancient tower of Altinum, with the 
 island of Burano a bright pink beneath the towering clouds. 
 To our right, and much nearer, was a small cypress-covered 
 islet. One large umbrella-pine hung close to the sea, and 
 behind it rose the tower of the convent church. The two 
 gondoliers consulted together in hoarse cries and decided to 
 make for it. 
 
 ''It is San Francesco del Deserto," the elder explained to 
 me. ''It belongs to the little brown brothers, who take no 
 money and are very kind. One would hardly believe these 
 ones had any religion, they are such a simple people, and they 
 live on fish and the vegetables they grow in their garden." 
 
 We fought the crooked little waves in silence after that; 
 only the high prow rebelled openly against its sudden twistings 
 and turnings. The arrowy-shaped gondola is not a structure 
 made for the rough jostling of waves, and the gondoliers put 
 forth all their strength and skill to reach the tiny haven 
 under the convent wall. As we did so, the black bars of 
 cloud rushed down upon us in a perfect deluge of rain, and 
 we ran speechless and half drowned across the tossed field of 
 grass and forget-me-nots to the convent door. A shivering 
 beggar sprang up from nowhere and insisted on ringing the 
 bell for us. 
 
 The door opened, and I saw before me a young brown 
 
 221 
 
222 BEOTHER LEO 
 
 brother with the merriest eyes I have ever seen. They were 
 unshadowed, like a child's, dancing and eager, and yet there 
 was a strange gentleness and patience about him, too, as if 
 there was no hurry even about his eagerness. 
 
 He was very poorly dressed and looked thin. I think he 
 was charmed to see us, though a little shy, like a hospitable 
 country hostess anxious to give pleasure, but afraid that she 
 has not much to offer citizens of a larger world. 
 
 ''What a tempest!" he exclaimed. ''You have come at a 
 good hour. Enter, enter, Signore ! And your men, will they 
 not come in?" 
 
 We found ourselves in a very small rose-red cloister; in 
 the middle of it was an old well under the open sky, but above 
 us was a sheltering roof spanned by slender arches. The 
 young monk hesitated for a moment, smiling from me to the 
 two gondoliers. I think it occurred to him that we should like 
 different entertainment, for he said at last: 
 
 "You men would perhaps like to sit in the porter's lodge for 
 a while ? Our Brother Lorenzo is there ; he is our chief fisher- 
 man, with a great knowledge of the lagoons; and he could 
 light a fire for you to dry yourselves by — Signori. And you, 
 if I mistake not, are English, are you not, Signore? It is 
 probable that you would like to see our chapel. It is not 
 much. We are very proud of it, but that, you know, is 
 because it was founded by our blessed father. Saint Francis. 
 He believed in poverty, and we also believe in it, but it does 
 not give much for people to see. That is a misfortune, to 
 come all this way and to see nothing." Brother Leo looked 
 at me a little wistfully. I think he feared that I should be 
 disappointed. Then he passed before me with swift, eager 
 feet toward the little chaj)el. 
 
 It was a very little chapel and quite bare ; behind the altar 
 some monks were chanting an office. It was clean, and there 
 were no pictures or images, only, as I knelt there, I felt as if 
 the little island in its desert of waters had indeed secreted some 
 vast treasure, and as if the chapel, empty as it had seemed at 
 first, was full of invisible possessions. As for Brother Leo, he 
 had stood beside me nervously for a moment; but on seeing 
 
PHYLLIS BOTTOME 223 
 
 that I was prepared to kneel, he started, like a bird set free, 
 toward the altar steps, where his lithe young impetuosity 
 sank into sudden peace. He knelt there so still, so rapt, so 
 incased in his listening silence, that he might have been part 
 of the stone pavement. Yet his earthly senses were alive, for 
 the moment I rose he was at my side again, as patient and 
 courteous as ever, though I felt as if his inner ear were listen- 
 ing still to some unheard melody. 
 
 We stood again in the pink cloister. *' There is little to 
 see,^' he repeated. "We are poverelli; it has been like this 
 for seven hundred years." He smiled as if that age-long, 
 simple service of poverty were a light matter, an excuse, 
 perhaps, in the eyes of the citizen of a larger world for their 
 having nothing to show. Only the citizen, as he looked at 
 Brother Leo, had a sudden doubt as to the size of the world 
 outside. Was it as large, half as large, even, as the eager 
 young heart beside him which had chosen poverty as a bride ? 
 
 The rain fell monotonously against the stones of the tiny 
 cloister. 
 
 "What a tempest!" said Brother Leo, smiling contentedly 
 at the sky. "You must come in and see our father. I sent 
 word by the porter of your arrival, and I am sure he will 
 receive you; that will be a pleasure for him, for he is of the 
 great world, too. A very learned man, our father; he knows 
 the French and the English tongue. Once he went to Rome ; 
 also he has been several times to Venice. He has been a great 
 traveler." 
 
 "And you," I asked — "have you also traveled?" 
 
 Brother Leo shook his head. 
 
 "I have sometimes looked at Venice," he said, "across the 
 water, and once I went to Burano with the marketing brother; 
 otherwise, no, I have not traveled. But being a guest-brother, 
 you see, I meet often with those who have, like your Excel- 
 lency, for instance, and that is a great education." 
 
 We reached the door of the monastery, and I felt sorry 
 when another brother opened to us, and Brother Leo, with the 
 most cordial of farewell smiles, turned back across the cloister 
 to the chapel door. 
 
224 BROTHER LEO 
 
 **Even if he does not hurry, he will still find prayer there/' 
 said a quiet voice beside me. 
 
 I turned to look at the speaker. He was a tall old man 
 with white hair and eyes like small blue flowers, very bright 
 and innocent, with the same look of almost superb contentment 
 in them that I had seen in Brother Leo's eyes. 
 
 "But what will you have?" he added with a twinkle. 
 "The young are always afraid of losing time; it is, perhaps, 
 because they have so much. But enter, Signore ! If you will 
 be so kind as to excuse the refectory, it will give me much 
 pleasure to bring you a little refreshment. You will pardon 
 that we have not much to offer ? ' ' 
 
 The father — for I found out afterward that he was the su- 
 perior himself — brought me bread and wine, made in the con- 
 vent, and waited on me with his own hands. Then he sat 
 down on a narrow bench opposite to watch me smoke. I 
 offered him one of my cigarettes, but he shook his head, 
 smiling. 
 
 "I used to smoke once," he said. "I was very particular 
 about my tobacco. I think it was similar to yours — at least 
 the aroma, which I enjoy very much, reminds me of it. It is 
 curious, is it not, the pleasure we derive from remembering 
 what we once had? But perhaps it is not altogether a 
 pleasure unless one is glad that one has not got it now. Here 
 one is free from things. I sometimes fear one may be a little 
 indulgent about one's liberty. Space, solitude, and love — 
 it is all very intoxicating." 
 
 There was nothing in the refectory except the two narrow 
 benches on which we sat, and a long trestled board which 
 formed the table ; the walls were white-washed and bare, the 
 floor was stone. I found out later that the brothers ate and 
 drank nothing except bread and wine and their own vegetables 
 in season, a little macaroni sometimes in winter, and in sum- 
 mer flgs out of their own garden. They slept on bare boards, 
 with one thin blanket winter and summer alike. The fish they 
 caught they sold at Burano or gave to the poor. There was no 
 doubt that they enjoyed very great freedom from "things." 
 
 It was a strange experience to meet a man who never had 
 
PHYLLIS BOTTOME 225 
 
 heard of a flying-machine and who could not understand why 
 it was important to save time by using the telephone or the 
 wireless-telegraphy system; but despite the fact that the 
 father seemed very little impressed by our modern urgencies, 
 I never have met a more intelligent listener or one who seized 
 more quickly on all that was essential in an explanation. 
 
 ' ' You must not think we do nothing at all, we lazy ones who 
 follow old paths," he said in answer to one of my questions. 
 ' ' There are only eight of us brothers, and there is the garden, 
 fishing, cleaning, and praying. We are sent for, too, from 
 Burano to go and talk a little with the people there, or from 
 some island on the lagoons which perhaps no priest can reach 
 in the winter. It is easy for us, with our little boat and no 
 cares." 
 
 "But Brother Leo told me he had been to Burano only 
 once, ' ' said the father, and for a moment or two he was silent, 
 and I found his blue eyes on mine, as if he were weighing me. 
 
 "Brother Leo," said the superior at last, "is our youngest. 
 He is very young, younger perhaps than his years; but we 
 have brought him up altogether, you see. His parents died 
 of cholera within a few days of each other. As there were no 
 relatives, we took him, and when he was seventeen he decided 
 to join our order. He has always been happy with us, but one 
 cannot say that he has seen much of the world." He paused 
 again, and once more I felt his blue eyes searching mine. 
 ' ' Who knows ? " he said finally. * ' Perhaps you were sent here 
 to help me. I have prayed for two years on the subject, and 
 that seems very likely. The storm is increasing, and you 
 will not be able to return until to-morrow. This evening, if 
 you will allow me, we will speak more on this matter. Mean- 
 while I will show you our spare room. Brother Lorenzo will 
 see that you are made as comfortable as we can manage. It 
 is a great privilege for us to have this opportunity; believe 
 me, we are not ungrateful." 
 
 It would have been of no use to try to explain to him that 
 it was for us to feel gratitude. It was apparent that none of 
 the brothers had ever learned that important lesson of the 
 worldly respectable — that duty is what other people ought to 
 
226 BROTHER LEO 
 
 do. They were so busy thinking of their own obligations as 
 to overlook entirely the obligations of others. It was not 
 that they did not think of others. I think they thought only 
 of one another, but they thought without a shadow of judg- 
 ment, with that bright, spontaneous love of little children, too 
 interested to point a moral. Indeed, they seemed to me very 
 like a family of happy children listening to a fairy -story and 
 knowing that the tale is true. 
 
 After supper the superior took me to his office. The rain 
 had ceased, but the wind howled and shrieked across the 
 lagoons, and I could hear the waves breaking heavily against 
 the island. There was a candle on the desk, and the tiny, 
 shadowy cell looked like a picture by Rembrandt. 
 
 ''The rain has ceased now," the father said quietly, '*and 
 to-morrow the waves will have gone down, and you, Signore, 
 will have left us. It is in your power to do us all a great 
 favor. I have thought much whether I shall ask it of you, 
 and even now I hesitate; but Scripture nowhere tells us that 
 the kingdom of heaven was taken by precaution, nor do I 
 imagine that in this world things come oftenest to those who 
 refrain from asking. 
 
 "All of us," he continued, "have come here after seeing 
 something of the outside world; some of us even had great 
 possessions. Leo alone knows nothing of it, and has possessed 
 nothing, nor did he ever wish to ; he has been willing that 
 nothing should be his own, not a flower in the garden, not any- 
 thing but his prayers, and even these I think he has oftenest 
 shared. But the visit to Burano put an idea in his head. 
 It is, perhaps you know, a factory town where they make 
 lace, and the people live there with good wages, many of them, 
 but also much poverty. There is a poverty which is a grace, 
 but there is also a poverty which is a great misery, and this 
 Leo never had seen before. He did not know that poverty 
 could be a pain. It filled him with a great horror, and in his 
 heart there was a certain rebellion. It seemed to him that in 
 a world with so much money no one should suffer for the lack 
 of it. 
 
 It was useless for me to point out to him that in a world 
 
 << 
 
PHYLLIS BOTTOME 227 
 
 where there is so much health God has permitted sickness; 
 where there is so much beauty, ugliness; where there is so 
 much holiness, sin. It is not that there is any lack in the gifts 
 of God ; all are there, and in abundance, but He has left their 
 distribution to the soul of man. It is easy for me to believe 
 this. I have known what money can buy and what it cannot 
 buy; but Brother Leo, who never has owned a penny, how 
 should he know anything of the ways of pennies ? 
 
 ''I saw that he could not be contented with my answer; and 
 then this other idea came to him — the idea that is, I think, the 
 blessed hope of youth: that this thing being wrong, he, Leo, 
 must protest against it, must resist it ! Surely, if money can 
 do wonders, we who set ourselves to work the will of God 
 should have more control of this wonder-working power ? He 
 fretted against his rule. He did not permit himself to believe 
 that our blessed father. Saint Francis, was wrong, but it w^as 
 a hardship for him to refuse alms from our kindly visitors. 
 He thought the beggars' rags would be made whole by gold; 
 he wanted to give them more than bread, he wanted, poverino! 
 to buy happiness for the whole world. " 
 
 The father paused, and his dark, thought-lined face lighted 
 up with a sudden, beautiful smile till every feature seemed as 
 young as his eyes. 
 
 *'I do not think the human being ever has lived who has not 
 thought that he ought to have happiness," he said. ^'We 
 begin at once to get ready for heaven ; but heaven is a long 
 way off. We make haste slowly. It takes us all our lives, 
 and perhaps purgatory, to get to the bottom of our own hearts. 
 That is the last place in which we look for heaven, but I think 
 it is the first in which we shall find it." 
 
 ' ' But it seems to me extraordinary that, if Brother Leo has 
 this thing so much on his mind, he should look so happy," I 
 exclaimed. "That is the first thing I noticed about him." 
 
 *'Yes, it is not for himself that he is searching," said the 
 superior. ''If it w^ere, I should not wish him to go out into 
 the world, because I should not expect him to find anything 
 there. His heart is utterly at rest ; but though he is person- 
 ally happy, this thing troubles him. His prayers are eating 
 
228 BROTHER LEO 
 
 into his soul like flame, and in time this fire of pity and sor- 
 row will become a serious menace to his peace. Besides, I see 
 in Leo a great power of sympathy and understanding. He has 
 in him the gift of ruling other souls. He is very young to 
 rule his own soul, and yet he rules it. When I die, it is prob- 
 able that he will be called to take my place, and for that it 
 is necessary he should have seen clearly that our rule is 
 right. At present he accepts it in obedience, but he must have 
 more than obedience in order to teach it to others; he must 
 have a personal light. 
 
 ''This, then, is the favor I have to ask of you, Signore. I 
 should like to have you take Brother Leo to Venice to-morrow, 
 and, if you have the time at your disposal, I should like you to 
 show him the towers, the churches, the palaces, and the poor 
 who are still so poor. I wish him to see how people spend 
 money, both the good and the bad. I wish him to see the 
 world. Perhaps then it will come to him as it came to me — 
 that money is neither a curse nor a blessing in itself, but only 
 one of God's mysteries, like the dust in a sunbeam." 
 
 "I will take him very gladly; but will one day be enough?" 
 I answered. 
 
 The superior arose and smiled again. 
 
 "Ah, we slow worms of earth," he said, ''are quick about 
 some things! You have learned to save time by flying- 
 machines; we, too, have certain methods of flight. Brother 
 Leo learns all his lessons that way. I hardly see him start 
 before he arrives. You must not think I am so myself. No, 
 no. I am an old man who has lived a long life learning noth- 
 ing, but I have seen Leo grow like a flower in a tropic night. I 
 thank you, my friend, for this great favor. I think God will 
 reward you." 
 
 Brother Lorenzo took me to my bedroom ; he was a talk- 
 ative old man, very anxious for my comfort. He told me that 
 there was an office in the chapel at two o'clock, and one at 
 five to begin the day. but he hoped that I should sleep through 
 them. 
 
 "They are all very well for us," he explained, "but for a 
 stranger, what cold, what disturbance, and what a difficulty 
 
PHYLLIS BOTTOME 229 
 
 to arrange the right thoughts in the head during chapel! 
 Even for me it is a great temptation. I tind my mind run- 
 ning on coffee in the morning, a thing we have only on great 
 feast-days. I may say that I have fought this thought for 
 seven years, but though a small devil, perhaps, it is a very 
 strong one. Now, if you should heiir our bell in the night, as 
 a favor pray that I may not think about coffee. Such an im- 
 perfection ! I say to myself, the sin of Esau ! But he, you 
 know, had some excuse; he had been hunting. Now, I ask 
 you — one has not much chance of that on this little island ; one 
 has only one's sins to hunt, and, alas! they don't run away as 
 fast as one could wish ! I am afraid they are tame, these ones. 
 May your Excellency sleep like the blessed saints, only a trifle 
 longer!" 
 
 I did sleep a trifle longer; indeed, I was quite unable to 
 assist Brother Lorenzo to resist his coffee devil during chapel- 
 time. I did not wake till my tiny cell was flooded with sun- 
 shine and full of the sound of St. Francis's birds. Through 
 my window I could see the fishing-boats pass by. First came 
 one with a pair of lemon-yellow sails, like floating primroses ; 
 then a boat as scarlet as a dancing flame, and half a dozen 
 others painted some with jokes and some with incidents in 
 the lives of patron saints, all gliding out over the blue lagoon 
 to meet the golden day. 
 
 I rose, and from my window I saw Brother Leo in the gar- 
 den. He was standing under St. Francis's tree — the old 
 gnarled umbrella-pine which hung over the convent-wall above 
 the water by the island's edge. His back was toward me, 
 and he was looking out over the blue stretch of lagoon into 
 the distance, where Venice lay like a moving cloud at the 
 horizon's edge; but a mist hid her from his eyes, and while I 
 watched him he turned back to the garden-bed and began pull- 
 ing out weeds. The gondoliers were already at the tiny pier 
 when I came out. 
 
 *'Per Bacco, Signore!" the elder explained. '*Let us 
 hasten back to Venice and make up for the Lent we have had 
 here. The brothers gave us all they had, the holy ones — a 
 little wine, a little bread, cheese that couldn't fatten one's 
 
230 BROIHER LEO 
 
 grandmother, and no macaroni — not so much as would go 
 round a baby's tongue! For my part, I shall wait till I get 
 to heaven to fast, and pay some attention to my stomach while 
 I have one." And he spat on his hands and looked toward 
 Venice. 
 
 *'And not an image in the chapel!" agreed the younger 
 man. *'Why, there is nothing to pray to but the Signore Dio 
 Himself! Veramente, Signore, you are a witness that I 
 speak nothing but the truth." 
 
 The father superior and Leo appeared at this moment down 
 the path between the cypresses. The father gave me thanks 
 and spoke in a friendly way to the gondoliers, who for their 
 part expressed a very pretty gratitude in their broad Venetian 
 patois, one of them saying that the hospitality of the monks 
 had been like paradise itself, and the other hasting to agree 
 with him. 
 
 The two monks did not speak to each other, but as the gon- 
 dolier turned the huge prow toward Venice, a long look passed 
 between them — such a look as a father and son might exchange 
 if the son were going out to war, while his father, remember- 
 ing old campaigns, was yet bound to stay at home. 
 
 It was a glorious day in early June; the last traces of the 
 storm had vanished from the serene, still waters; a vague 
 curtain of heat and mist hung and shimmered between our- 
 selves and Venice ; far away lay the little islands in the lagoon, 
 growing out of the water like strange sea-flowers. Behind us 
 stood San Francesco del Deserto, with long reflections of its 
 one pink tower and arrowy, straight cypresses, soft under the 
 blue water. 
 
 The father superior walked slowly back to the convent, his 
 brown-clad figure a shining shadow between the two black rows 
 of cypresses. Brother Leo waited till he had disappeared, 
 then turned his eager eyes toward Venice. 
 
 As we approached the city the milky sea of mist retreated, 
 and her towers sprang up to greet us. I saw a look in Brother 
 Leo's eyes that was not fear or wholly pleasure; yet there 
 was in it a certain awe and a strange, tentative joy, as if 
 
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PHYLLIS BOTTOME 231 
 
 something in him stretched out to greet the world. He mut- 
 tered half to himself: 
 
 ''What a great world, and how many children il Signore 
 
 Bio has ! " 
 
 When we reached the piazzetta, and he looked up at the 
 amazing splendor of the ducal palace, that building of soft 
 yellow, with its pointed arches and double loggias of white 
 marble, he spread out both hands in an ecstasy. 
 
 ''But what a miracle !" he cried. "What a joy to God .and 
 to His angels ! How I wish my brothers could see this ! Do 
 you not imagine that some good man was taken to paradise to 
 see this great building and brought back here to copy it?" 
 
 "Chi lo saV I replied guardedly, and we landed by the 
 column of the Lion of St. i\Iark's. That noble beast, astride 
 on his pedestal, with wings outstretched, delighted the young 
 monk, who walked round and round him. 
 
 "What a tribute to the saint!" he exclaimed. "Look, they 
 have his wings, too. Is not that faith?" 
 
 "Come," I said, "let us go on to Saint Mark's. I think 
 you would like to go there first; it is the right way to begin 
 our pilgrimage." 
 
 The piazza was not very full at that hour of the morning, 
 and its emptiness increased the feeling of space and size. 
 The pigeons wheeled and circled to and fro, a dazzle of soft 
 plumage, and the cluster of golden domes and sparkling 
 minarets glittered in the sunshine like flames. Every image 
 and statue on St. Mark's wavered in great lines of light like 
 a living pageant in a sea of gold. 
 
 Brother Leo said nothing as he stood in front of the three 
 great doorways that lead into the church. He stood quite 
 still for a while, and then his eyes fell on a beggar beside the 
 pink and cream of the new campanile, and I saw the wistful- 
 ness in his eyes suddenly grow as deep as pain. 
 
 "Have you money, Signore?" he asked me. That seemed 
 to him the only question. I gave the man something, but I 
 explained to Brother Leo that he was probably not so poor as 
 he looked. 
 
232 BROTHER LEO 
 
 "They live in rags," I explained, '^because they wish to 
 arouse pity. Many of them need not beg at all. ' ' 
 
 "Is it possible?" asked Brother Leo, gravely; then he fol- 
 lowed me under the brilliant doorways of mosaic which lead 
 into the richer dimness of St. Mark's. 
 
 When he found himself within that great incrusted jewel, 
 he fell on his knees. I think he hardly saw the golden roof, 
 the jeweled walls, and the five lifted domes full of sunshine 
 and old gold, or the dark altars, with their mysterious, rich 
 shimmering. All these seemed to pass away beyond the sense 
 of sight; even I felt somehow as if those great walls of St. 
 Mark's were not so great as I had fancied. Something 
 greater was kneeling there in an old habit and with bare feet, 
 half broken-hearted because a beggar had lied. 
 
 I found myself regretting the responsibility laid on my 
 shoulders. "Why should I have been compelled to take this 
 strangely innocent, sheltered boy, with his fantastic third- 
 century ideals, out into the shoddy, decorative, unhappy 
 world? I even felt a kind of anger at the simplicity of his 
 soul. I wished he were more like other people; T suppose 
 because he had made me wish for a moment that I was less 
 like them. 
 
 "What do you think of Saint Mark's?" I asked him as we 
 stood once more in the hot sunshine outside, with the strutting 
 pigeons at our feet and wheeling over our heads. 
 
 Brother Leo did not answer for a moment, then he said: 
 
 "I think Saint Mark would feel it a little strange. You 
 see, I do not think he was a great man in the world, and the 
 great in paradise — " He stooped and lifted a pigeon with a 
 broken foot nearer to some corn a passer-by was throwing for 
 the birds. "I cannot think," he finished gravely, "that they 
 care very much for palaces in paradise ; I should think every 
 one had them there or else — nobody." 
 
 I was surprised to see the pigeons that wheeled away at 
 my approach allow the monk to handle them, but they seemed 
 unaware of his touch. 
 
 **Poverino!'^ he said to the one with the broken foot. 
 "Thank God that He has given you wings' 
 
PHYLLIS BOTTOME 233 
 
 Brother Leo spoke to every child he met, and they all 
 answered him as if there was a secret freemasonry between 
 them; but the grown-up people he passed with troubled eyes. 
 
 "It seems strange to me," he said at last, "not to speak to 
 these brothers and sisters of ours, and yet I see all about me 
 that they do not salute one another. ' ' 
 
 "They are many, and they are all strangers," I tried to 
 explain. 
 
 ' ' Yes, they are very many, ' ' he said a little sadly. ' ' I had 
 not known that there were so many people in the world, and 
 I thought that in a Christian country they would not be 
 strangers. ' ' 
 
 I took another gondola by the nearest bridge, and we rowed 
 to the Frari. I hardly knew what effect that great church, 
 with its famous Titian, would have upon him. A group of 
 tourists surrounded the picture. I heard a young lady ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 "My! but I 'd like her veil! Ain't she cute, looking round 
 it that way?" 
 
 Brother Leo did not pause; he passed as if by instinct 
 toward the chapel on the right which holds the softest, tender- 
 est of Bellinis. There, before the Madonna with her four 
 saints and two small attendant cherubs, he knelt again, and 
 his eyes filled with tears. I do not think he heard the return 
 of the tourists, who were rather startled at seeing him there. 
 The elder lady remarked that he might have some infectious 
 disease, and the younger that she did not think much of 
 Bellini, anyway. 
 
 He knelt for some time, and I had not the heart to dis- 
 turb him; indeed, I had no wish to, either, for Bellini's "Ma- 
 donna" is my favorite picture, and that morning I saw in it 
 more than I had ever seen before. It seemed to me as if that 
 triumphant, mellow glow of the great master was an eternal 
 thing, and as if the saints and their gracious Lady, with the 
 stalwart, standing Child upon her knee, were more real than 
 flesh and blood, and would still be more real when flesh and 
 blood had ceased to be. I never have recaptured the feeling ; 
 perhaps there was something infectious about Brother Leo, 
 
234 BROTHER LEO 
 
 after all. He made no comment on the Madonna, nor did I 
 expect one, for we do not need to assert that we find the 
 object of our worship beautiful ; but I was amused at his calm 
 refusal to look upon the great Titian as a Madonna at all. 
 
 **No, no," he said firmly. "This one is no doubt some 
 good and gracious lady, but the Madonna ! Signore, you jest. 
 Or, if the painter thought so, he was deceived by the devil. 
 Yes, that is very possible. The father has often told us that 
 artists are exposed to great temptations: their eyes see para- 
 dise before their souls have reached it, and that is a great 
 danger. ' ' 
 
 I said no more, and we passed out into the street again. I 
 felt ashamed to say that I wanted my luncheon, but I did say 
 so, and it did not seem in the least surprising to Brother Leo ; 
 he merely drew out a small wallet and offered me some bread, 
 which he said the father had given him for our needs. 
 
 I told him that he must not dream of eating that ; he was 
 to come and dine with me at my hotel. He replied that he 
 would go wherever I liked, but that really he would prefer 
 to eat his bread unless indeed we were so fortunate as to find 
 a beggar who would like it. However, we were not so fortu- 
 nate, and I was compelled to eat my exceedingly substantial 
 five-course luncheon while my companion sat opposite me and 
 ate his half-loaf of black bread with what appeared to be appe- 
 tite and satisfaction. 
 
 He asked me a great many questions about what everything 
 in the room was used for and what everything cost, and ap- 
 peared very much surprised at my answers. 
 
 "This, then," he said, "is not like all the other hoiTses in 
 Venice? Is it a special house — perhaps for the English 
 only?" 
 
 I explained to him that most houses contained tables and 
 chairs; that this, being a hotel, was in some ways even less 
 furnished than a private house, though doubtless it was larger 
 and was arranged with a special eye to foreign requirements. 
 
 "But the poor — they do not live like this?" Leo asked. I 
 had to own that the poor did not. "But the people here are 
 rich ? ' ' Leo persisted. 
 
PHYLLIS BOTTOMS 235 
 
 **Well, yes, I suppose so, tolerably well off," I admitted. 
 
 ' ' How miserable they must be ! " exclaimed Leo, compas- 
 sionately. ' ' Are they not allowed to give away their money ? ' ' 
 
 This seemed hardly the way to approach the question of the 
 rich and the poor, and I do not know that I made it any better 
 by an after-dinner exposition upon capital and labor. I 
 finished, of course, by saying that if the rich gave to the poor 
 to-day, there would still be rich and poor to-morrow. It did 
 not sound very convincing to me, and it did nothing whatever 
 to convince Brother Leo. 
 
 ''That is perhaps true," he said at last. *'One would not 
 wish, however, to give all into unready hands like that poor 
 beggar this morning who knew no better than to pretend in 
 order to get more money. No, that would be the gift of a 
 madman. But could not the rich use their money in trust for 
 the poor, and help and teach them little by little till they 
 learned how to share their labor and their wealth? But you 
 know how ignorant am I who speak to you. It is probable 
 that this is what is already being done even here now in Venice 
 and all over the world. It would not be left to a little one 
 like me to think of it. What an idea for the brothers at home 
 to laugh at!" 
 
 "Some people do think these things," I admitted. 
 But do not all?" asked Brother Leo, incredulously. 
 No, not all," I confessed. 
 
 ^'Andiamo!'^ said Leo, rising resolutely. ''Let us pray to 
 the Madonna. What a vexation it must be to her and to all 
 the blessed saints to watch the earth ! It needs the patience 
 of the Blessed One Himself, to bear it." 
 
 In the Palazzo Giovanelli there is one of the loveliest of 
 Giorgiones. It is called "His Family," and it represents a 
 beautiful nude woman with her child and her lover. It 
 seemed to me an outrage that this young brother should know 
 nothing of the world, of life. I was determined that he 
 should see this picture. I think I expected Brother Leo to 
 be shocked when he saw it. I know I was surprised that he 
 looked at it — at the serene content of earth, its exquisite ulti- 
 mate satisfaction — a long time. Then he said in an awed voice ; 
 
 
236 BROTHER LEO 
 
 **It is SO beautiful that it is strange any one in all the world 
 can doubt the love of God who gave it. ' ' 
 
 "Have you ever seen anything more beautiful; do you be- 
 lieve there is anything more beautiful?" I asked rather 
 cruelly. 
 
 **Yes/' said Brother Leo, very quietly; "the love of God 
 is more beautiful, only that cannot be painted." 
 
 After that I showed him no more pictures, nor did I try 
 to make him understand life. I had an idea that he under- 
 stood it already rather better than I did. 
 
 When I took him back to the piazza, it was getting on 
 toward sunset, and we sat at one of the little tables at 
 Florian's, where I drank coffee. We heard the band and 
 watched the slow-moving, good-natured Venetian crowd, and 
 the pigeons winging their perpetual flight. 
 
 All the light of the gathered day seemed to fall on the 
 great golden church at the end of the piazza. Brother Leo 
 did not look at it very much ; his attention was taken up com- 
 pletely in watching the faces of the crowd, and as he watched 
 them I thought to read in his face what he had learned in 
 that one day in Venice — whether my mission had been a suc- 
 cess or a failure ; but, though I looked long at that simple and 
 childlike face, I learned nothing. 
 
 What is so mysterious as the eyes of a child? 
 
 But I was not destined to part from Brother Leo wholly in 
 ignorance. It was as if, in his open kindliness of nature, he 
 would not leave me with any unspoken puzzle between us. I 
 had been his friend and he told me, because it was the way 
 things seemed to him, that I had been his teacher. 
 
 We stood on the piazzetta. I had hired a gondola with two 
 men to row him back ; the water was like beaten gold, and the 
 horizon the softest shade of pink. 
 
 * ' This day I shall remember all my life, ' ' he said, * ' and you 
 in my prayers with all the world — always, always. Only I 
 should like to tell you that that little idea of mine, which th& 
 father told me he had spoken to you about, I see now that it 
 is too large for me. I am only a very poor monk. I should 
 think I must be the poorest monk God has in all His family of 
 
PHYLLIS BOTTQME 237 
 
 monks. If He can be patient, surely I can. And it came over 
 me while we were looking at all those wonderful things, that 
 if money had been the way to save the world, Christ himself 
 would have been rich. It was stupid of me. I did not re- 
 member that when he wanted to feed the multitude, he did not 
 empty the great granaries that were all his, too ; he took only 
 five loaves and two small fishes ; but they were enough. 
 
 "We little ones can pray, and God can change His world. 
 Speriamo!'^ He smiled as he gave me his hand — a smile 
 which seemed to me as beautiful as anything we had seen 
 that day in Venice. Then the high-prowed, black gondola 
 glided swiftly out over the golden waters with the little brown 
 figure seated in the smallest seat. He turned often to wave 
 to me, but I noticed that he sat with his face away from 
 Venice. 
 
 He had turned back to San Francesco del Deserto, and I 
 knew as I looked at his face that he carried no single small 
 regret in his eager heart. 
 
A FIGHT WITH DEATH ^ 
 By IAN MACLAREN 
 
 When Drumsheugh 's grieve was brought to the gates of 
 death by fever, caught, as was supposed, on an adventurous 
 visit to Glasgow, the London doctor at Lord Kilspindie 's shoot- 
 ing lodge looked in on his way from the moor, and declared it 
 impossible for Saunders to live through the night. 
 
 "I give him six hours, more or less; it is only a question 
 of time," said the oracle, buttoning his gloves and getting 
 into the brake. "Tell your parish doctor that I was sorry 
 not to have met him. ' ' 
 
 Bell heard this verdict from behind the door, and gave way 
 utterly, but Drumsheugh declined to accept it as final, and 
 devoted himself to consolation. 
 
 "Dinna greet like that, Bell, wumman, sae lang as Saun- 
 ders is still livin'; a '11 never give up houp, for ma pairt, till 
 oor ain man says the word, 
 
 "A' the doctors in the land dinna ken as muckle aboot us as 
 Weelum MacLure, an' he 's ill tae beat when he 's tryin' tae 
 save a man's life." 
 
 MacLure, on his coming, would say nothing, either weal or 
 woe, till he had examined Saunders. Suddenlj- his face 
 turned into iron before their eyes, and he looked like one 
 encountering a merciless foe. For there was a feud between 
 MacLure and a certain mighty power which had lasted 
 for forty years in Drumtochty. 
 
 "The London doctor said that Saunders wud sough awa* 
 afore mornin', did he? Weel, he 's an' authority on fevers 
 an' sic like diseases, an' ought tae ken. 
 
 1 From Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush. Copyright, 1894, by Dodd, 
 Mead & Company. 
 
 238 
 
IAN IklACLAREN 239 
 
 *'It 's may be presumptuous o* me tae differ frae him, and it 
 wudna be verra respeetfu' o' Saunders tae live aifter this 
 opeenion. But Saunders wes aye thraun an' ill tae drive, 
 an' he 's as like as no tae gang his ain gait. 
 
 *'A 'm no meanin' tae reflect on sae clever a man, but he 
 didna ken the seetuation. He can read fevers like a bulk, but 
 he never cam' across sic a thing as the Drumtochty constitu- 
 tion a' his days. 
 
 ''Ye see, when onybody gets as lov7 as puir Saunders here, 
 it 's a juist a hand-to-hand wrastle atween the fever and his 
 constitution, an' of coorse, if he hed been a shilpit, stuntit, 
 feckless e&eegy o' a cratur, fed on tea an' made dishes and 
 pushioned wi' bad air, Saunders wud hae nae chance; he wes 
 boond tae gae oot like the snuff o' a candle. 
 
 ''But Saunders has been fiUin' his lungs for five and thirty 
 year wi' strong Drumtochty air, an' eatin' naethin' but kirny 
 aitmeal, and drinkin' naethin' but fresh milk frae the coo, an' 
 followin' the ploo through the new-turned, sweet-smellin' 
 earth, an' swingin' the scythe in haytime and harvest, till 
 the legs an' airms o' him were iron, an' his chest wes like the 
 cuttin' o' an oak tree. 
 
 "He 's a waesome sicht the nicht, but Saunders wes a 
 buirdly man aince, and wull never lat his life be taken lichtly 
 frae him. Na, na; he hesna sinned against Nature, and 
 Nature 'ill stand by him noo in his oor o' distress. 
 
 "A' daurna say yea, Bell, muckle as a' wud like, for this is 
 an evil disease, cunnin' an' treacherous as the deevil himsel', 
 but a' winna say nay, sae keep yir hert frae despair. 
 
 "It wull be a sair fecht, but it 'ill be settled one wy or 
 anither by six o'clock the morn's morn. Nae man can 
 prophecee hoo it 'ill end, but ae thing is certain, a '11 no see 
 Deith tak a Drumtochty man afore his time if a' can help it. 
 
 "Noo, Bell, ma wumman, yir near deid wi' tire, an' nae 
 wonder. Ye 've dune a' ye cud for yir man an' ye 'ill lippen 
 (trust) him the nicht tae Drumsheugh an' me; we 'ill no fail 
 him or you. 
 
 ' ' Lie doon an ' rest, an ' if it be the wull o ' the Almichty a '11 
 wauken ye in the mornin' tae see a livin', conscious man, an' 
 
240 A FIGHT WITH DEATH 
 
 if it be itherwise a 'U come for ye the suner, Bell, ' ' and' the 
 big red hand went out to the anxious wife. "A' gie ye ma 
 word." 
 
 Bell leant over the bed, and at the sight of Saunders' face 
 a superstitious dread seized her. 
 
 **See, doctor, the shadow of deith is on him that never lifts. 
 A 've seen it afore, on ma father an' mither. A' canna leave 
 him ; a' canna leave him ! ' ' 
 
 **It 's hoverin'. Bell, but it hesna fallen; please God it 
 never wull. Gang but and get some sleep, for it 's time we 
 were at oor wark. 
 
 **The doctors in the toons hae nurses an' a' kinds o' handy 
 apparatus," said MacLure to Drumsheugh when Bell had 
 gone, '*but you an' me 'ill need tae be nurse the nicht, an' 
 use sic things as we hev. 
 
 **It 'ill be a lang nicht and anxious wark, but a' wud raither 
 hae ye, auld freend, wi' me than ony man in the Glen. Ye 're 
 no feared tae gie a hand ? ' ' 
 
 *'Me feared? No likely. Man, Saunders cam' tae me a 
 haflin, an' hes been on Drumsheugh for twenty years, an' 
 though he be a dour chiel, he 's a faithfu' servant as ever 
 lived. It 's waesome tae see him lyin' there moanin' like some 
 dumb animal f rae mornin ' to nicht, an ' no able tae answer his 
 ain wife when she speaks. 
 
 *'Div ye think, Weelum, he hes a chance?" 
 
 **That he hes, at ony rate, and it 'ill no be your blame or 
 mine if he hesna mair. " 
 
 While he was speaking, MacLure took off his coat and waist- 
 coat and hung them on the back of the door. Then he rolled 
 up the sleeves of his shirt and laid bare two arms that were 
 nothing but bone and muscle. 
 
 ' ' It gar 'd ma very blood rin faster tae the end of ma fingers 
 juist tae look at him," Drumsheugh expatiated afterwards to 
 Hillocks, "for a' saw noo that there was tae be a stand-up 
 fecht atween him an' Deith for Saunders, and when a' 
 thocht o' Bell an' her bairns, a' kent wha wud win. 
 
 '' 'Aff wi' yir coat, Drumsheugh,' said MacLure; 'ye 'ill 
 need tae bend yir back the nicht; gither a' the pails in the 
 
IAN MACIAREN 241 
 
 hoose and fill them at the spring, an ' a '11 come doon tae help 
 ye wi' the carry in'/ " 
 
 It was a wonderful ascent up the steep pathway from the 
 spring to the cottage on its little knoil, the two men in single 
 file, bareheaded, silent, solemn, each with a pail of water in 
 either hand, MacLure limping painfully in front, Drumsheugh 
 blowing behind; and when they laid down their burden in 
 the sick room, where the bits of furniture had been put to a 
 side and a large tub held the centre, Drumsheugh looked curi- 
 ously at the doctor. 
 
 ''No, a 'm no daft ; ye needna be feared ; but yir tae get yir 
 first lesson in medicine the nicht, an' if we win the battle ye 
 can set up for yersel' in the Glen. 
 
 ''There 's twa dangers — that Saunders' strength fails, an* 
 that the force o' the fever grows; and we have juist tw-a 
 weapons. 
 
 "Yon milk on the drawers' head an' the bottle of whisky 
 is tae keep up the strength, and this cool caller water is tae 
 keep doon the fever. 
 
 "We 'ill cast cot the fever by the virtue o-' the earth an' 
 the water." 
 
 "Div ye mean tae pit Saunders in the tub ?" 
 
 "Ye hiv it noo, Drumsheugh, and that 's hoo a' need yir 
 help." 
 
 "Man, Hillocks," Drumsheugh used to moralise, as often 
 as he remembered that critical night, "it wes humblin' tae see 
 how low sickness can bring a pooerfu' man, an' ocht tae keep 
 us f rae pride. 
 
 "A month syne there wesna a stronger man in the Glen than 
 Saunders, an' noo he wes juist a bundle o' skin and bone, that 
 naither saw nor heard, nor moved nor felt, that kent naethin' 
 that was dune tae him. 
 
 "Hillocks, a' wudna hae wished ony man tae hev seen Saun- 
 ders — for it wull never pass frae before ma een as long as a' 
 live — ^but a' wish a' the Glen hed stude by MacLure kneelin' 
 on the floor wi' his sleeves up tae his oxters and waitin' on 
 Saunders. 
 
 Yon big man wes as pitifu' an' gentle as a wumman, and 
 
 i (' 
 
242 A FIGHT WITH DEATH 
 
 when he laid the puir fallow in his bed again, he happit him 
 ower as a mither dis her bairn. ' ' 
 
 Thrice it was done, Drumsheugh ever bringing up colder 
 water from the spring, and twice MacLure was silent; but 
 after the third time there was a gleam in his eye. 
 
 ' ' We 're haudin ' oor ain ; we 're no bein ' maistered, at 
 ony rate ; mair a' canna say for three oors. 
 
 *'We 'ill no need the water again, Drumsheugh ; gae oot and 
 tak a breath o' air; a 'm on gaird masel'." 
 
 It was the hour before daybreak, and Drumsheugh wan- 
 dered through the fields he had trodden since childhood. The 
 cattle lay sleeping in the pastures; their shadowy forms, 
 with a patch of whiteness here and there, having a weird 
 suggestion of death. He heard the burn running over the 
 stones; fifty years ago he had made a dam that lasted till 
 winter. The hooting of an owl made him start; one had 
 frightened him as a boy so that he ran home to his mother — 
 she died thirty years ago. The smell of ripe corn filled the 
 air ; it would soon be cut and garnered. He could see the dim 
 outlines of his house, all dark and cold; no one he loved was 
 beneath the roof. The lighted window in Saunders' cottage 
 told where a man hung between life and death, but love was 
 in that home. The futility of life arose before this lonely 
 man, and overcame his heart with an indescribable sadness. 
 What a vanity was all human labor; what a mystery all 
 human life ! 
 
 But while he stood, a subtle change came over the night, and 
 the air trembled round him as if one had whispered. Drum- 
 sheugh lifted his head and looked eastward. A faint gray 
 stole over the distant horizon, and suddenly a cloud reddened 
 before his eyes. The sun was not in sight, but was rising, 
 and sending forerunners before his face. The cattle began to 
 stir, a blackbird burst into song, and before Drumsheugh 
 crossed the threshold of Saunders' house, the first ray of the 
 sun had broken on a peak of the Grampians. 
 
 MacLure left the bedside, and as the light of the candle fell 
 on the doctor's face, Drumsheugh could see that it was going 
 well with Saunders. 
 
IAN MACLAREN 243 
 
 **He 's nae waur; an' it 's half six noo; it 's ower sune tae 
 say mair, but a 'm houpin' for the best. Sit doon and take a 
 sleep, for ye 're needin' 't, Drumsheugh, an', man, ye hae 
 worked for it." 
 
 As he dozed off, the last thing Drumsheugh saw was the 
 doctor sitting erect in his chair, a clenched fist resting on 
 the bed, and his eyes already bright with the vision of vic- 
 tory. 
 
 He awoke with a start to find the room flooded with the 
 morning sunshine, and every trace of last night's work re- 
 moved. 
 
 The doctor was bending over the bed, and speaking to 
 Saunders. 
 
 '*It 's me, Saunders; Doctor MacLure, ye ken; dinna try 
 tae speak or move ; juist let this drap milk slip ower — ye 'ill 
 be needin' yir breakfast, lad — and gang tae sleep again." 
 
 Five minutes, and Saunders had fallen into a deep, healthy 
 sleep, all tossing and moaning come to an end. Then Mac- 
 Lure stepped softly across the floor, picked up his coat and 
 waistcoat, and went out at the door. 
 
 Drumsheugh arose and followed him without a word. 
 They passed through the little garden, sparkling with dew, 
 and beside the byre, where Hawkie rattled her chain, im- 
 patient for Bell's coming, and by Saunders' little strip of corn 
 ready for the scythe, till they reached an open field. There 
 they came to a halt, and Dr. MacLure for once allowed him- 
 self to go. 
 
 His coat he flung east and his waistcoat west, as far as he 
 could hurl them, and it was plain he would have shouted had 
 he been a complete mile from Saunders' room. Any less dis- 
 tance was useless for adequate expression. He struck Drum- 
 sheugh a mighty blow that well-nigh levelled that substantial 
 man in the dust, and then the doctor of Drumtochty issued his 
 bulletin. 
 
 ' ' Saunders wesna tae live through the nicht, but he 's livin ' 
 this meenut, an' like to live. 
 
 ''He 's got by the warst clean and fair, and wi' him that 's 
 as good as cure. 
 
244 A FIGHT WITH DEATH 
 
 *'It 'ill be a graund waukenin' for Bell; she 'ill no be a 
 weedow yet, nor the bairnies fatherless. 
 
 "There 's nae use glowerin' at me, Drumsheugh, for a 
 body 's daft at a time, an' a' canna contain masel', and a 'm 
 no gaein' tae try." 
 
 Then it dawned upon Drumsheugh that the doctor was 
 attempting the Highland fling. 
 
 "He 's ill made, tae begin wi'," Drumsheugh explained in 
 the kirkyard next Sabbath, "and ye ken he 's been terrible 
 mishannelled by accidents, sae ye may think what like it wes, 
 but, as sure as deith, o' a' the Hielan' flings a' ever saw yon 
 wes the bonniest. 
 
 "A' hevna shaken ma ain legs for thirty years, but a' con- 
 fess tae a turn masel'. Ye may lauch an' ye like, neeburs, 
 but the thocht o' Bell an' the news that wes waitin' her got 
 the better o' me." 
 
 Drumtochty did not laugh. Drumtochty looked as if it 
 could have done quite otherwise for joy. 
 
 "A' wud hae made a third gin a' hed been there," an- 
 nounced Hillocks aggressively. 
 
 "Come on, Drumsheugh," said Jamie Soutar, "gie 's the 
 end 't ; it wes a michty mornin '. ' ' 
 
 " 'We 're twa auld fules,' says MacLure tae me, as he 
 gaithers up his claithes. 'It wud set us better tae be tellin' 
 Bell. ' 
 
 "She was sleep in' on the top o' her bed wrapped in a plaid, 
 fair worn oot wi' three weeks' nursin' o' Saunders, but at the 
 first touch she was oot upon the floor. 
 
 " 'Is Saunders deein', doctor?' she cries. 'Ye promised tae 
 wauken me; dinna tell me it 's a' ower.' 
 
 "There 's nae deein' aboot him, Bell; ye 're no tae lose yir 
 man this time, sae far as a' can see. Come ben an' jidge for 
 yersel '. ' 
 
 "Bell lookit at Saunders, and the tears of joy fell on the 
 bed like rain. 
 
 " 'The shadow 's lifted,' she said; 'he 's come back frae 
 the mooth o ' the tomb. 
 
 A' prayed last nicht that the Lord wud leave Saunders 
 
 ( < I 
 
IAN MACLAREN 245 
 
 till the laddies cud dae for themselves, an' thae words came 
 intae ma mind, "Weepin' may endure for a nicht, but joy 
 Cometh in the mornin'." 
 
 *' 'The Lord heard ma prayer, and joy hes come in the 
 mornin',' a^i' she gripped the doctor's hand. 
 
 " 'Ye 've been the instrument, Doctor MacLure. Ye wudna 
 gie him up, and ye did what nae ither cud for him, an' a've ma 
 man the day, and the bairns hae their father. ' 
 
 "An' afore MacLure kent what she was daein', Bell lifted 
 his hand to her lips an' kissed it." 
 
 "Did she, though?" cried Jamie. "Wha wud hae thocht 
 there wes as muckle spunk in Bell?'* 
 
 "MacLure, of coorse, was clean scandalised," continued 
 Drumsheugh, "an' pooed awa' his hand as if it hed been 
 burned. 
 
 "Nae man can thole that kind o' fraikin', and a' never 
 heard o' sic a thing in the parish, but we maun excuse Bell, 
 neeburs; it wes an occasion by ordinar, " and Drumsheugh 
 made Bell's apology to Drumtochty for such an excess of feel- 
 ing. 
 
 "A* see naethin' tae excuse," insisted Jamie, who was in 
 great fettle that Sabbath; "the doctor hes never been bur- 
 dened wi' fees, and a'm judgin' he coonted a wumman's 
 gratitude that he saved frae weedowhood the best he ever 
 got." 
 
 "A' gaed up tae the Manse last nicht," concluded Drum- 
 sheugh, "an' telt the minister hoo the doctor focht aucht oors 
 for Saunders' life, an' won, an' ye never saw a man sae car- 
 ried. He walkit up an' doon the room a' the time, and every 
 other meenut he blew his nose like a trumpet. 
 
 " 'I 've a cold in my head to-night, Drumsheugh,' says he; 
 * never mind me.' " 
 
 "A've hed the same masel' in sic circumstances; they come 
 on sudden," said Jamie. 
 
 "A' wager there 'ill be a new bit in the laist prayer tht- 
 day, an' somethin' worth hearin'." 
 
 And tRe fathers went into kirk in great expectation. 
 We beseech Thee for such as be sick, that Thy hand may 
 
 (( 
 
246 A FIGHT WITH DEATH 
 
 be on them for good, and that Thou wouldst restore them 
 again to health and strength," was the familiar petition of 
 every Sabbath. 
 
 The congregation waited in a silence that might be heard, 
 and were not disappointed that morning, for the minister con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "Especially we tender Thee hearty thanks that Thou 
 didst spare Thy servant who was brought down into the dust 
 of death, and hast given him back to his wife and children, 
 and unto that end didst wonderfully bless the skill of him who 
 goes out and in amongst us, the beloved physician of this 
 parish and adjacent districts." 
 
 "Didna a' tell ye, neeburs?" said Jamie, as they stood at 
 the kirkyard gate before dispersing, *' there 's no a man in the 
 coonty cud hae dune it better. 'Beloved physician,' an' his 
 'skill,' tae, an' bringing in 'adjacent districts'; that 's Glen 
 Urtach ; it wes handsome, and the doctor earned it, ay, every 
 word. 
 
 "It 's an awfu' peety he didna hear yon; but dear knows 
 whar he is the day, maist likely up " 
 
 Jamie stopped suddenly at the sound of a horse's feet, and 
 there, coming down the avenue of beech trees that made a long 
 vista from the kirk gate, they saw the doctor and Jess. 
 
 One thought flashed through the minds of the fathers of 
 the commonwealth. 
 
 It ought to be done as he passed, and it would be done if 
 it were not Sabbath. Of course it was out of the question 
 on Sabbath. 
 
 The doctor is now distinctly visible, riding after his fashion. 
 
 There was never such a chance, if it were only Saturday; 
 and each man read his own regret in his neighbour's face. 
 
 The doctor is nearing them rapidly ; they can imagine the 
 shepherd's tartan. 
 
 Sabbath or no Sabbath, the Glen cannot let him pass with- 
 out some tribute of their pride. 
 
 Jess has recognised friends, and the doctor is drawing 
 rein. 
 
 "It hes tae be dune," said Jamie desperately, "say what 
 
IAN MACLcAREN 247 
 
 ye like/' Then they all looked towards him, and Jamie led. 
 
 ' ' Hurrah ! ' ' swinging his Sabbath hat in the air, ' ' hurrah ! ' ' 
 and once more, "hurrah !" Whinnie Knowe, Drumsheugh, and 
 Hillocks joining lustily, but Tammas Mitchell carr^ang all 
 before him, for he had found at last an expression for his 
 feelings that rendered speech unnecessary. 
 
 It was a solitary experience for horse and rider, and Jess 
 bolted without delay. But the sound followed and surrounded 
 them, and as they passed the corner of the kirkyard, a figure 
 waved his college cap over the wall and gave a cheer on his 
 own account. 
 
 "God bless you, doctor, and well done!" 
 
 "If it isna the minister," cried Drumsheugh, "in his goon 
 an' bans; tae think o' that; but a' respeck him for it." 
 
 Then Drumtochty became self-conscious and went home in 
 confusion of face and unbroken silence, except Jamie Soutar, 
 who faced his neighbours at the parting of the ways without 
 shame. 
 
 "A' wud dae it a' ower again if a' hed the chance; he got 
 naethin' but his due." 
 
 It was two miles before Jess composed her mind, and the 
 doctor and she could discuss it quietly together. 
 
 "A' can hardly believe me ears, Jess, an' the Sabbath tae; 
 their verra jidgment hes gane frae the fouk o' Drumtochty. 
 
 "They've heard about Saunders, a'm thinkin', wumman, 
 and they 're pleased we brocht him roond ; he 's fairly on the 
 mend, ye ken, noo. 
 
 "A' never expeckit the like o' this, though, and it wes 
 juist a wee thingie mair than a' cud hae stude. 
 
 "Ye hev yir share in't tae, lass; we 've hed mony a hard 
 nicht and day thegither, an' yon wes oor reward. No mony 
 men in this warld 'ill ever get a better, for it cam' from the 
 hert ' honest fouk. ' ' 
 
THE DAN-NAN-RON 1 
 
 By FIONA MACLEOD 
 
 When Anne Gillespie, that was my friend in Eilanmore, 
 left the island after the death of her uncle, the old man Robert 
 Achanna, it was to go far west. 
 
 Among the men of the Outer Isles who for three summers 
 past had been at the fishing off Eilanmore there was one 
 named Manus MacCodrum. He was a fine lad to see, but 
 though most of the hsher-folk of the Lews and North Uist 
 are fair, either with reddish hair and grey eyes, or blue- 
 eyed and yellow-haired, he was of a brown skin with dark 
 hair and dusky brown eyes. He was, however, as unlike 
 to the dark Celts of Arran and the Inner Hebrides as to the 
 northmen. He came of his people, sure enough. All the 
 MacCodrums of North Uist had been brown-skinned and 
 brown-haired and brown-eyed; and herein may have lain the 
 reason why, in by-gone days, this small clan of Uist was 
 known throughout the Western Isles as the Sliochd non Bdn, 
 the offspring of the Seals. 
 
 Not so tall as most of the men of North Uist and the 
 Lews, Manus MacCodrum was of a fair height, and supple and 
 strong. No man was a better fisherman than he, and he was 
 well liked of his fellows, for all the morose gloom that was 
 upon him at times. He had a voice as sweet as a woman's 
 when he sang, and he sang often, and knew all the old runes of 
 the islands, from the Obb of Harris to the Head of Mingulay. 
 Often, too, he chanted the beautiful orain spioradail of the 
 Catholic priests and Christian Brothers of South Uist and 
 Barra, though where he lived in North Uist he was the sole 
 man who adhered to the ancient faith. 
 
 It may have been because Anne was a Catholic too, though, 
 
 1 From The Dominion of Dreams, Under the Dark Star. By permis- 
 sion of Mrs. William Sharp. Copyright, 1910, by Dufiield & Company. 
 
 "^248 
 
FIONA MACLEOD 249 
 
 sure, the Achannas were so also, notwithstanding that their 
 forebears and kindred in Galloway were Protestant (and this 
 because of old Robert Aehanna's love for his wife, who was 
 of the old Faith, so it is said) — it may have been for this 
 reason, though I think her lover's admiring eyes and soft 
 speech and sweet singing had more to do with it, that she 
 pledged her troth to Manus. It was a south wind for him 
 as the saying is; for with her rippling brown hair and soft, 
 grey eyes and cream-white skin, there was no comelier lass 
 in the isles. 
 
 So when Achanna was laid to his long rest, and there was 
 none left upon Eilanmore save only his three youngest sons, 
 Manus MacCodrum sailed north-eastward across the Minch 
 to take home his bride. Of the four eldest sons, Alasdair 
 had left Eilanmore some months before his father died, and 
 sailed westward, though no one knew whither or for what 
 end or for how long, and no word had been brought from 
 him, nor was he ever seen again in the island which had come 
 to be called Eilan-nan-Allmharachain, the Isle of the 
 Strangers; Allan and William had been drowned in a wild 
 gale in the Minch ; and Robert had died of the white fever, that 
 deadly wasting disease which is the scourge of the isles. 
 Marcus was now ^'Eilanmore," and lived there with Gloom 
 and Seumas, all three unmarried, though it was rumoured 
 among the neighbouring islanders that each loved Marsail nic 
 Ailpean,^ in Eilean-Rona of the Summer Isles hard by the 
 coast of Sutherland. 
 
 "When Manus asked Anne to go with him she agreed. The 
 three brothers were ill-pleased at this, for apart from their not 
 wishing their cousin to go so far away, they did not want to 
 lose her, as she not only cooked for them and did all that a 
 woman does, including spinning and weaving, but was most 
 sweet and fair to see, and in the long winter nights sang by 
 the hour together, while Gloom played strange wild airs 
 upon his feadan, a kind of oaten pipe or flute. 
 
 1 Marsail nic Ailpean is the Gaelic of which an English translation 
 would be Marjory MacAlpine. Nic is a contraction for nighean mhic, 
 "daughter of the line of " 
 
250 THE DAN-NAN-RON 
 
 She loved him, I know; but there was this reason also 
 for her going, that she was afraid of Gloom. Often upon 
 the moor or on the hill she turned and hastened home, be- 
 cause she heard the lilt and fall of that feadan. It was an 
 eerie thing to her, to be going through the twilight when she 
 thought the three men were in the house, smoking after their 
 supper, and suddenly to hear beyond and coming toward 
 her the shrill song of that oaten flute, playing ' ' The Dance of 
 the Dead," or "The Flow and Ebb," or ''The Shadow- 
 Reel." 
 
 That, sometimes at least, he knew she was there was clear 
 to her, because, as she stole rapidly through the tangled fern 
 and gale, she would hear a mocking laugh follow her like a 
 leaping thing. 
 
 Manus was not there on the night when she told Marcus and 
 his brothers that she was going. He was in the haven on 
 board the Luatli, with his two mates, he singing in the moon- 
 shine as all three sat mending their fishing gear. 
 
 After the supper was done, the three brothers sat smoking 
 and talking over an offer that had been made about some 
 Shetland sheep. For a time, Anne watched them in silence. 
 They were not like brothers, she thought. Marcus, tall, 
 broad-shouldered, with yellow hair and strangely dark blue- 
 black eyes and black eyebrows; stern, with a weary look on 
 his sun-brown face. The light from the peats glinted upon 
 the tawny curve of thick hair that trailed from his upper lip, 
 for he had the caisean-feusag of the Northmen. Gloom, 
 slighter of build, dark of hue and hair, but with hairless face ; 
 with thin, white, long-fingered hands that had ever a nervous 
 motion, as though they were tide-wrack. There was always 
 a frown on the centre of his forehead, even when he smiled 
 with his thin lips and dusky, unbetraying eyes. He looked 
 what he was, the brain of the Achannas. Not only did he 
 have the English as though native to that tongue, but could 
 and did read strange unnecessary books. Moreover, he was 
 the only son of Robert Achanna to whom the old man had 
 imparted his store of learning, for Achanna had been a school- 
 master in his youth, in Galloway, and he had intended Gloom 
 
FIONA MACLEOD 251 
 
 for the priesthood. His voice, too, was low and clear, but 
 cold as pale-green water running under ice. As for Seumas, 
 he was more like Marcus than Gloom, though not so fair. 
 He had the same brown hair and shadowy hazel eyes, the 
 same pale and smooth face, with something of the same in- 
 tent look which characterised the long-time missing, and prob- 
 ably dead, eldest brother, Alasdair. He, too, was tall and 
 gaunt. On Seumas 's face there was that indescribable, as 
 to some of course imperceptible, look which is indicated by 
 the phrase "the dusk of the shadow," though few there are 
 who know what they mean by that, or, knowing, are fain 
 to say. 
 
 Suddenly, and without any word or reason for it. Gloom 
 turned and spoke to her. 
 
 "Well, Anne, and what is it?" 
 
 "I did not speak, Gloom." 
 
 "True for you, mo cailinn. But it 's about to speak you 
 were." 
 
 ' ' Well, and that is true. Marcus, and you Gloom, and you 
 Seumas, I have that to tell which you will not be altogether 
 glad for the hearing. 'T is about — about — me and — and 
 Manus. ' ' 
 
 There was no reply at first. The three brothers sat looking 
 at her like the kye at a stranger on the moorland. There was 
 a deepening of the frown on Gloom's brow, but when Anne 
 looked at him his eyes fell and dwelt in the shadow at his feet. 
 Then Marcus spoke in a low voice: 
 
 "Is it Manus MacCodrum you will be meaning?" 
 
 "Ay, sure." 
 
 Again silence. Gloom did not lift his eyes, and Seumas was 
 now staring at the peats. Marcus shifted uneasily. 
 
 "And what will Manus MacCodrum be wanting?" 
 
 ' ' Sure, Marcus, you know well what I mean. Why do you 
 make this thing hard for me? There is but one thing he 
 would come here wanting. And he has asked me if I will go 
 with him; and I have said yes; and if you are not willing 
 that he come again with the minister, or that we go across to 
 the kirk in Berneray of Uist in the Sound of Harris, then I 
 
2&2 THE DAN-NAN-r5n 
 
 will not stay under this roof another night, but will go away 
 from Eilanmore at sunrise in the Luath, that is now^ in the 
 haven. And that is for the hearing and knowing, Marcus 
 and Gloom and Seumas!" 
 
 Once more, silence followed her speaking. It was broken 
 in a strange way. Gloom slipped his feadan into his hands, 
 and so to his mouth. The clear, cold notes of the flute filled 
 the flame-lit room. It was as though white polar birds were 
 drifting before the coming of snow. 
 
 The notes slid in to a wild, remote air: cold moonlight on 
 the dark o' the sea, it was. It was the Ddn-nan-Ron. 
 
 Anne flushed, trembled, and then abruptly rose. As she 
 leaned on her clenched right hand upon the table, the light 
 of the peats showed that her eyes were aflame. 
 
 ''Why do you play that, Gloom Achanna?" 
 
 The man finished the bar, then blew into the oaten pipe, 
 before, just glancing at the girl, he replied: 
 
 "And what harm will there be in that, Anna-ban?" 
 
 "Do you know why Gloom played the 'Dan-nan-Ron'?" 
 
 "Ay, and what then, Anna-ban?" 
 
 "What then? Are you thinking I don't know what you 
 mean by playing the 'Song o' the Seals'?" 
 
 With an abrupt gesture Gloom put the feadan aside. As 
 he did so, he rose. 
 
 "See here, Anne," he began roughly, when Marcus inter- 
 vened. 
 
 "That will do just now, Gloom. Anne-a-ghraidh, do you 
 mean that you are going to do this thing?" 
 
 "Ay, sure." 
 
 "Do you know why Gloom played the * Dan-nan-Ron '? " 
 
 "It was a cruel thing." 
 
 "You know what is said in the isles about — about — this 
 or that man, who is under gheasan, who is spell-bound and — 
 and — about the seals — " 
 
 "Yes, Marcus, it is knowing it that I am: *Tha iad a' 
 cantuinn gur h-e daoine fo gheasan a th' anns no roin.* " 
 
 " 'They say that seals,' " he repeated slowly. '' *They say 
 

 FIONA MACLEOD 253 
 
 tJiat seals are men under magic spells.' And have you ever 
 pondered that thing, Anne, my cousin? 
 
 "1 am knowing well what you mean. 
 
 "Then you will know that the MacCodrums of North Uist 
 are called the Sliochd-nan-Ronf" 
 
 ''I have heard." 
 
 "And would you be for marrying a man that is of the race 
 of the beasts, and himself knowing what that geas means, 
 and who may any day go back to his people ? ' ' 
 
 "Ah, now, Marcus, sure it is making a mock of me you are. 
 Neither you nor any here believe that foolish thing. How 
 can a man born of a woman be a seal, even though his sinnsear 
 were the offspring of the sea-people, which is not a saying I 
 am believing either, though it may be ; and not that it matters 
 much, whatever, about the far-back forebears. 
 
 Marcus frowned darkly, and at first made no response. 
 At last he a'Uswered, speaking sullenly : 
 
 "You may be believing this or you may be believing that, 
 Anna-nic-Gilleasbuig, but two things are as well known as 
 that the east wind brings the blight and the west wind the 
 rain. And one is this: that long ago a Seal-man wedded a 
 woman of North Uist, and that he or his son was called Neil 
 IMacCodrum; and that the sea-fever of the seal was in the 
 blood of his line ever after. And this is the other : that twice 
 within the memory of living folk, a MacCodrum has taken 
 upon himself the form of a seal, and has so met his death, 
 once Neil MacCodrum of Ru' Tormaid, and once Anndra 
 MacCodrum of Berneray in the Sound. There 's talk of 
 others, but these are known of us all. And you will not be 
 forgetting now that Neildonn was the grandfather, and that 
 Anndra was the brother of the father of Manus MacCodrum?" 
 
 "I am not caring what you say, Marcus. It is all foam of 
 the sea." 
 
 "There 's no foam without wind or tide, Anne, an' it 's 
 a dark tide that will be bearing you away to Uist, and a 
 black wind that will be blowing far away behind the East, 
 the wind that will be carrying his death-cry to your ears 
 
 ) t 
 
254 THE d1N-NA^-R5n 
 
 The girl shuddered. The brave spirit in her, however, did 
 not quail. 
 
 "Well, so be it. To each his fate. But, seal or no seal, 
 I am going to wed Manus MacCodrum, who is a man as good 
 as any here, and a true man at that, and the man I love, and 
 that will be my man, God willing, the praise be His ! ' ' 
 
 Again Gloom took up the f eadan, and sent a few cold, white 
 notes floating through the hot room, breaking, suddenly, into 
 the wild, fantastic, opening air of the ''Dan-nan-Ron." 
 
 With a low cry and passionate gesture Anne sprang for- 
 ward, snatched the oat-flute from his grasp, and would have 
 thrown it in the fire. Marcus held her in an iron grip, 
 however. 
 
 "Don't you be minding Gloom, Anne," he said quietly, as 
 he took the feadan from her hand and handed it to his 
 brother: "sure he 's only telling you in his way what I am 
 telling you in mine." 
 
 She shook herself free, and moved to the other side of the 
 table. On the opposite wall hung the dirk which had belonged 
 to old Achanna. This she unfastened. Holding it in her 
 right hand, she faced the three men. — 
 
 "On the cross of the dirk I swear I will be the woman of 
 Manus MacCodrum." 
 
 The brothers made no response. They looked at her fixedly. 
 
 "And by the cross of the dirk I swear that if any man 
 come between me and Manus, this dirk will be for his remem- 
 bering in a certain hour of the day of the days." 
 
 As she spoke, she looked meaningly at Gloom, whom she 
 feared more than Marcus or Seumas. 
 
 "And by the cross of the dirk I swear that if evil come to 
 Manus, this dirk will have another sheath, and that will be 
 my milkless breast; and by that token I now throw the old 
 sheath in the fire." 
 
 As she finished, she threw the sheath on to the burning 
 peats. Gloom quietly lifted it, brushed off the sparks of 
 flame as though they were dust, and put it in his pocket. 
 
 "And by the same token, Anne," he said, "your oaths will 
 come to nought. 
 
 > T 
 
FIONA MACLEOD 255 
 
 Rising, he made a sign to his brothers to follow. When 
 they were outside he told Seumas to return, and to keep 
 Anne within, by peace if possible, by force if not. Briefly 
 they discussed their plans, and then separated. AVhile 
 Seumas went back, Marcus and Gloom made their way to the 
 haven. 
 
 Their black figures were visible in the moonlight, but at 
 first they were not noticed by the men on board the Luath, for 
 Manus was singing. 
 
 When the islesman stopped abruptl}^ one of his compan- 
 ions asked him jokingly if his song had brought a seal along- 
 side, and bid him beware lest it was a woman of the sea- 
 people. 
 
 His face darkened, but he made no reply. When the others 
 listened they heard the wild strain of the "Dan-nan-Ron" 
 stealing through the moonshine. Staring against the shore, 
 they could discern the two brothers. 
 
 ' ' What will be the meaning of that ? ' ' asked one of the men, 
 uneasily. 
 
 "When a man comes instead of a woman," answered Manus, 
 slowly, ' ' the young corbies are astir in the nest. ' ' 
 
 So, it meant blood. Aulay MacNeil and Donull ^Macdonull 
 put down their gear, rose, and stood waiting for what Manus 
 would do. 
 
 "Ho, there!" he cried. 
 
 "Ho-ro!" 
 
 "What will you be wanting, Eilanmore?" 
 
 "We are wanting a word of you, Manus MacCodrum. 
 Will you come ashore ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' If you want a word of me, you can come to me. ' ' 
 
 ' ' There is no boat here. ' ' 
 
 "I '11 send the hata-heag.'^ 
 
 When he had spoken, Manus asked Donull, the younger of 
 his mates, a lad of seventeen, to row to the shore. 
 
 "And bring back no more than one man," he added, 
 "whether it be Eilanmore himself or Gloom-mhic-Achanna." 
 
 The rope of the small boat was unfastened, and Donull 
 rowed it swiftly through the moonshine. The passing of a 
 
256 THE d1n-NAN-R5N 
 
 cloud dusked the shore, but they saw him throw a rope for 
 the guiding of the boat alongside the ledge of the landing- 
 place; then the sudden darkening obscured the vision. 
 Donull must be talking, they thought, for two or three min- 
 utes elapsed without sign, but at last the boat put off again, 
 and with two figures only. Doubtless the lad had had to 
 argue against the coming of both Marcus and Gloom. 
 
 This, in truth, was what Donull had done. But while he 
 was speaking Marcus was staring fixedly beyond him. 
 
 * ' Who is it that is there ? " he asked, ' ' there, in the stern ? ' * 
 
 "There is no one there." 
 
 *'I thought I saw the shadow of a man." 
 
 *'Then it was my shadow, Eilanmore. " 
 
 Achanna turned to his brother. 
 
 "I see a man's death there in the boat." 
 
 Gloom quailed for a moment, then laughed low. 
 
 ''I see no death of a man sitting in the boat, ]\Iarcus, but 
 if I did I am thinking it would dance to the air of the 'Dan- 
 nan-Ron,' which is more than the wraith of you or me would 
 do." 
 
 "It is not a wraith I was seeing, but the death of a man. ' ' 
 
 Gloom whispered, and his brother nodded sullenly. The 
 next moment a heavy muffler was round Donull 's mouth ; and 
 before he could resist, or even guess what had happened, he 
 was on his face on the shore, bound and gagged. A minute 
 later the oars were taken by Gloom, and the boat moved 
 swiftly out of the inner haven. 
 
 As it drew near Manus stared at it intently. 
 
 "That is not Donull that is rowing, Aulay!" 
 
 "No: it will be Gloom Achanna, I 'm thinking." 
 
 MacCodrum started. If so, that other figure at the stern 
 was too big for Donull. The cloud passed just as the boat 
 came alongside. The rope was made secure, and then Marcus 
 and Gloom sprang on board. 
 
 "Where is Donull MacDonuU?" demanded Manus sharply. 
 
 Marcus made no reply, so Gloom answered for him. 
 
 "He has gone up to the house with a message to Anne-nic- 
 Gilleasbuig. " 
 
FIONA MACLEOD 25? 
 
 *'And what will that message be?" 
 
 "That Manus MacCodrum has sailed away from Eilan- 
 more, and will not see her again." 
 
 MacCodrum laughed. It was a low, ugly laugh. 
 
 "Sure, Gloom Achanna, you should be taking that feadan 
 of yours and playing the Cod-hail-nan-Pairtean, for 1 'm 
 thinkin' the crabs are gathering about the rocks down below 
 us, an' laughing wi' their claws." 
 
 "Well, and that is a true thing," Gloom replied slowly 
 and quietly. "Yes, for sure I might, as you say, be playing 
 the 'Meeting of the Crabs.' Perhaps," he added, as by a 
 sudden afterthought, "perhaps, though it is a calm night, you 
 will be hearing the comh-thonn. The 'Slapping of the Waves' 
 is a better thing to be hearing than the 'Meeting of the 
 Crabs.' " 
 
 "If I hear the comh-thonn it is not in the way you will 
 be meaning, Gloom-mhic- Achanna. 'T is not the 'Up Sail and 
 Good-bye' they will be saying, but 'Home wi' the Bride.' " 
 
 Here Marcus intervened. 
 
 "Let us be having no more words, Manus MacCodrum. 
 The girl Anne is not for you. Gloom is to be her man. So 
 get you hence. If you will be going quiet, it is quiet we will 
 be. If you have your feet on this thing, then you will be 
 having that too which I saw in the boat." 
 
 "And what was it you saw in the boat, Achanna?" 
 
 "The death of a man." 
 
 "So — . And now" (this after a prolonged silence, wherein 
 the four men stood facing each other, "is it a blood-matter if 
 not of peace?" 
 
 "Ay. Go, if you are wise. If not, 'tis your own death 
 you will be making." 
 
 There was a flash as of summer lightning. A bluish flame 
 seemed to leap through the moonshine. Marcus reeled, with 
 a gasping cry; then, leaning back, till his face blenched in 
 the moonlight, his knees gave way. As he fell, he turned 
 half round. The long knife which IManus had hurled at him 
 had not penetrated his breast more than an inch at most, but 
 as he fell on the deck it was driven into him up to the hilt. 
 
258 THE DAN-NAN-RON 
 
 In the blank silence that followed, the three men could 
 hear a sound like the ebb-tide in sea-weed. It was the gurgling 
 of the bloody froth in the lungs of the dead man. 
 
 The first to speak was his brother, and then only when thin 
 reddish-white foam-bubbles began to burst from the blue 
 lips of Marcus. 
 
 "It is murder." 
 
 He spoke low, but it was like the surf of breakers in the 
 ears of those who heard. 
 
 "You have said one part of a true word. Gloom Achanna. 
 It is murder — that you and he came here for!" 
 
 "The death of Marcus Achanna is on you, Manus Mac- 
 Codrum. ' ' 
 
 "So be it, as between yourself and me, or between all of 
 your blood and me ; though Aulay MacNeil, as well as you, can 
 witness that though in self-defence I threw the knife at 
 Achanna, it was his own doing that drove it into him." 
 
 "You can whisper that to the rope when it is round your 
 neck. ' ' 
 
 "And what will you be doing now, Gloom-mhic-Achanna ? " 
 
 For the first time Gloom shifted uneasily. A swift glance 
 revealed to him the awkward fact that the boat trailed behind 
 the Luath, so that he could not leap into it, while if he turned 
 to haul it close by the rope he was at the mercy of the two 
 men. 
 
 "I will go in peace," he said quietly. 
 
 "Ay," was the answer, in an equally quiet tone, "in the 
 white peace." 
 
 Upon this menace of death the two men stood facing each 
 other. 
 
 Achanna broke the silence at last. 
 
 "You '11 hear the * Dan-nan-Ron ' the night before you die, 
 Manus MacCodrum, and lest you doubt it you 11 hear it 
 again in your death-hour." 
 
 **Ma tha sin an Dan — if that be ordained." Manus spoke 
 gravely. His very quietude, however, boded ill. There was 
 no hope of clemency ; Gloom knew that. 
 
 Suddenly he laughed scornfully. Then, pointing with his 
 
FIONA MACLEOD 259 
 
 right hand as if to some one behind his two adversaries, he 
 cried out: "Put the death-hand on them, Marcus! Give 
 them the Grave ! ' ' Both men sprang aside, the heart of each 
 nigh upon bursting. The death-touch of the newly slain is an 
 awful thing to incur, for it means that the wraith can transfer 
 all its evil to the person touched. 
 
 The next moment there was a heavy splash. Manus real- 
 ised that it was no more than a ruse, and that Gloom had 
 escaped. With feverish haste he hauled in the small boat, 
 leaped into it, and began at once to row so as to intercept 
 his enemy. 
 
 Achanna rose once, between him and the Luath. Mac- 
 Codrum crossed the oars in the thole-pins and seized the boat- 
 hook. 
 
 The swimmer kept straight for him. Suddenly he dived. 
 In a flash, Manus knew that Gloom was going to rise under 
 the boat, seize the keel, and upset him, and thus probably be 
 able to grip him from above. There was time and no more 
 to leap ; and, indeed, scarce had he plunged into the sea ere 
 the boat swung right over, Achanna clambering over it the 
 next moment. 
 
 At first Gloom could not see where his foe was. He 
 crouched on the upturned craft, and peered eagerly into the 
 moonlit water. All at once a black mass shot out of the 
 shadow between him and the smack. This black mass laughed 
 — the same low, ugly laugh that had preceded the death of 
 Marcus. 
 
 He who was in turn the swimmer was now close. When 
 a fathom away he leaned back and began to tread water 
 steadily. In his right hand he grasped the boat-hook. The 
 man in the boat knew that to stay where he was meant cer- 
 tain death. He gathered himself together like a crouching 
 cat. Manus kept treading the water slowly, but with the 
 hook ready so that the sharp iron spike at the end of it 
 should transfix his foe if he came at him with a leap. Now 
 and again he laughed. Then in his low sweet voice, but 
 brokenly at times between his deep breathings, he began 
 to sing: 
 
260 THE d1n-NA^^-r6n 
 
 The tide was dark, an' heavy with the burden that it bore; 
 
 1 heard it talkin', whisperin', upon the weedy shore; 
 
 Each wave that stirred the sea-weed was like a closing' door; 
 
 'T is closing doors they hear at last who hear no more, no more. 
 
 My Grief, 
 No more! 
 
 The tide was in the salt sea-weed, and like a knife it tore ; 
 The wild sea-wind went moaning, sooing, moaning o'er and o'er,* 
 The deep sea-heart was brooding deep upon its ancient lore — 
 I heard the sob, the sooing sob, the dying sob at its core, 
 
 My Grief, 
 Its core! 
 
 The white sea-waves were wan and gray its ashy lips before, 
 The yeast within its ravening mouth was red with streaming gore ; 
 red sea-weed, red sea-waves, hollow baffled roar, 
 Since one thou hast, dark dim Sea, why callest thou for more. 
 
 My Grief, 
 For more! 
 
 In the quiet moonlight the chant, with its long, slov^ 
 cadences, sung as no other man in the isles could sing it, 
 sounded sweet and remote beyond words to tell. The glit- 
 tering shine was upon the water of the haven, and moved 
 in waving lines of fire along the stone ledges. Sometimes a 
 fish rose, and split a ripple of pale gold ; or a sea-nettle swam 
 to the surface, and turned its blue or greenish globe of living 
 jelly to the moon dazzle. 
 
 The man in the water ma^e a sudden stop in his treading 
 and listened intently. Then once more the phosphorescent 
 light gleamed about his slow-moving shoulders. In a louder 
 chanting voice came once again: 
 
 Each wave that stirs the sea-weed is like a closing door; 
 'T is closing doors they hear at last who hear no more — no more, 
 "* My Grief, 
 
 No more! 
 
 Yes, his quick ears had caught the inland strain of a voice 
 he knew. Soft and white as the moonshine came Anne's 
 singing as she passed along the corrie leading to the haven. 
 
FIONA MACLEOD 261 
 
 In vain his travelling gaze sought her; she was still in the 
 shadow, and, besides, a slow drifting cloud obscured the moon- 
 light. When he looked back again a stifled exclamation came 
 from his lips. There was not a sign of Gloom Achanna. He 
 had slipped noiselessly from the boat, and was now either 
 behind it, or had dived beneath it, or was swimming under 
 water this way or that. If only the cloud would sail by, 
 muttered Manus, as he held himself in readiness for an at- 
 tack from beneath or behind. As the dusk lightened, he swam 
 slowly toward the boat, and then swiftly round it. There was 
 no one there. He climbed on to the keel, and stood, leaning 
 forward, as a salmon-leisterer by torchlight, with his spear- 
 pointed boat-hook raised. Neither below nor beyond could 
 he discern any shape. A whispered call to Aulay ]MacNeil 
 showed that he, too, saw nothing. Gloom must have swooned, 
 and sunk deep as he slipped through the water. Perhaps the 
 dog-fish were already darting about him. 
 
 Going behind the boat Manus guided it back to the smack. 
 It was not long before, with MacNeil's help, he righted the 
 punt. One oar had drifted out of sight, but as there was a 
 sculling-hole in the stern that did not matter. 
 
 ''What shall we do with it?" he muttered, as he stood at 
 last by the corpse of Marcus. 
 
 ' ' This is a bad night for us, Aulay ! ' ' 
 
 **Bad it is ; but let us be seeing it is not worse. I 'm think- 
 ing we should have left the boat. ' ' 
 And for why that?" 
 
 We could say that Marcus Achanna and Gloom Achanna 
 left us again, and that we saw no more of them nor of our 
 boat." 
 
 MacCodrum pondered a while. The sound of voices, borne 
 faintly across the water, decided him. Probably Anne and 
 the lad Donull were talking. He slipped into the boat, and 
 with a sail-knife soon ripped it here and there. It filled, and 
 then, heavy with the weight of a great ballast-stone which 
 Aulay had first handed to his companion, and surging with 
 a foot-thrust from the latter, it sank. 
 
 1 1 
 
262 THE DAN-NAN-RON 
 
 *'We 11 hide the — the man there — behind the windlass, 
 below the spare sail, till we 're out at sea, Aulay. Quick, 
 give me a hand ! ' ' 
 
 It did not take the two men long to lift the corpse, and 
 do as Manus had suggested. They had scarce accomplished 
 this, when Anne's voice came hailing silver-sweet across the 
 water. 
 
 "With death-white face and shaking limbs, MacCodrum stood 
 holding the mast, while with a loud voice, so firm and strong 
 that Aulay MacNeil smiled below his fear, he asked if the 
 Achannas were back yet, and if so for Donull to row out at 
 once, and she with him if she would come. 
 
 It was nearly half an hour thereafter that Anne rowed out 
 toward the Luath. She had gone at last along the shore to 
 a creek where one of Marcus 's boats was moored and returned 
 with it. Having taken Donull on board, she made way with 
 all speed, fearful lest Gloom or Marcus should intercept her. 
 
 It did not take long to explain how she had laughed at 
 Seumas's vain efforts to detain her, and had come down to 
 the haven. As she approached, she heard Manus singing, and 
 so had herself broken into a song she knew he loved. Then, 
 by the water-edge she had come upon Donull lying upon his 
 back, bound and gagged. After she had released him they 
 waited to see what would happen, but as in the moonlight 
 they could not see any small boat come in, bound to or from 
 the smack, she had hailed to know if Manus were there. 
 
 On his side he said briefly that the two Achannas had come 
 to persuade him to leave without her. On his refusal they 
 had departed again, uttering threats against her as well as 
 himself. He heard their quarrelling voices as they rowed 
 into the gloom, but could not see them at last because of the 
 obscured moonlight. 
 
 *'And now, Ann-mochree, ' ^ he added, **is it coming with 
 me you are, and just as you are? Sure, you '11 never repent 
 it, and you '11 have all you want that I can give. Dear of 
 my heart, say that you will be coming away this night of 
 the nights ! By the Black Stone on Tcolmkill I swear it, and 
 by the Sun, and by the Moon, and by Himself!" 
 
FIONA MACLEOD 263 
 
 "I am trusting you, Manus dear. Sure it is not for me 
 to be going back to that house after what has been done and 
 said. I go with you, now and always, God save us." 
 
 "Well, dear lass o' my heart, it 's farewell to Eilanmore 
 it is, for by the Blood of the Cross I '11 never land on it 
 again ! ' ' 
 
 "And that will be no sorrow to me, Manus, my home!" 
 
 And this was the way that my friend, Anne Gillespie, left 
 Eilanmore to go to the isles of the west. 
 
 It was a fair sailing, in the white moonshine, with a whisper- 
 ing breeze astern. Anne leaned against Manus, dreaming her 
 dream. The lad Donull sat drowsing at the helm. Forward, 
 Aulay MacNeil, with his face set against the moonshine to the 
 west, brooded dark. 
 
 Though no longer was land in sight, and there was peace 
 among the deeps of the quiet stars and upon the sea, the 
 shadow of fear was upon the face of Manus MacCodrum. 
 
 This might well have been because of the as yet unburied 
 dead that lay beneath the spare sail by the windlass. The 
 dead man, however, did not affright him. What went moan- 
 ing in his heart, and sighing and calling in his brain, was a 
 faint falling echo he had heard, as the Luath glided slow out 
 of the haven. Whether from the water or from the shore 
 he could not tell, but he heard the wild, fantastic air of the 
 "Dan-nan Ron," as he had heard it that very night upon the 
 feadan of Gloom Achanna. 
 
 it was his hope that his ears had played him false. When 
 he glanced about him, and saw the sombre flame in the eyes 
 of Aulay MacNeil, staring at him out of the dusk, he knew 
 that which Oisin the son of Fionn cried in his pain: "his 
 soul swam in mist." 
 
 II 
 
 For all the evil omens, the marriage of Anne and Manus 
 MacCodrum went well. He was more silent than of yore, 
 and men avoided rather than sought him ; but he was happy 
 with Anne, and content with his two mates, who were now 
 
264 THE d1n-NAN-r5n 
 
 Galium MacCodrum and Ranald MacRanald. The youth 
 Donull had bettered himself by joining a Skye skipper who 
 was a kinsman, and Aulay MacNeil had surprised every one, 
 except Manus, by going away as a seaman on board one of 
 the Loch line of ships which sail for Australia from the Clyde. 
 
 Anne never knew what had happened, though it is possible 
 she suspected somewhat. All that was known to her was 
 that Marcus and Gloom Achanna had disappeared, and were 
 supposed to have been drowned. There was now no Achanna 
 upon Eilanmore, for Seumas had taken a horror of the place 
 and his loneliness. As soon as it was commonly admitted 
 that his two brothers must have drifted out to sea, and been 
 drowned, or at best picked up by some ocean-going ship, he 
 disposed of the island-farm, and left Eilanmore forever. All 
 this confirmed the thing said among the islanders of the 
 west, that old Robert Achanna had brought a curse with 
 him. Blight and disaster had visited Eilanmore over and 
 over in the many years he had held it, and death, sometimes 
 tragic or mysterious, had overtaken six of his seven sons, 
 while the youngest bore upon his brows the *'dusk of the 
 shadow." True, none knew for certain that three out of the 
 six were dead, but few for a moment believed in the possibility 
 that Alasdair and Marcus and Gloom were alive. On the 
 night when Anne had left the island with Manus MacCodrum, 
 he, Seumas, had heard nothing to alarm him. Even when, 
 an hour after she had gone down to the haven, neither she 
 nor his brothers had returned, and the Luath had put out to 
 sea, he was not in fear of any ill. Clearly, Marcus and Gloom 
 had gone away in the smack, perhaps determined to see that 
 the girl was duly married by priest or minister. 
 
 He would have perturbed himself a little for days to come, 
 but for a strange thing that happened that night. He had 
 returned to the house because of a chill that was upon him, 
 and convinced, too, that all had sailed in the Luath. He was 
 sitting brooding by the peat-fire, when he was startled by a 
 sound at the window at the back of the room. A few bars of 
 a familiar air struck painfully upon his ear, though played 
 so low that they were just audible. What could it be but the 
 
FIONA MACLEOD 265 
 
 ' ' Dan-nan-Ron, ' ' and who would be playing that but Gloom 1 
 What did it mean? Perhaps after all, it was fantasy only, 
 and there was no feadan out there in the dark. He was pon- 
 dering this when, still low but louder and sharper than be- 
 fore, there rose and fell the strain which he hated, and Gloom 
 never played before him, that of the Ddvsa-na mairv, the 
 ''Dance of the Dead." Swiftly and silently he rose and 
 crossed the room. In the dark shadows cast by the byre he 
 could see nothing, but the music ceased. He went out, and 
 searched everywhere, but found no one. So he returned, 
 took down the Holy Book, with awed heart, and read slowly 
 till peace came upon him, soft and sweet as the warmth of 
 the peat-glow. 
 
 But as for Anne, she had never even this hint that one of 
 the supposed dead might be alive, or that, being dead, Gloom 
 might yet touch a shadowy feadan into a wild remote air of 
 the grave. 
 
 When month after month went by, and no hint of ill came 
 to break upon their peace, Manus grew light-hearted again. 
 Once more his songs were heard as he came back from the 
 fishing, or loitered ashore mending his nets. A new happi- 
 ness was nigh to them, for Anne was with child. True, there 
 was fear also, for the girl was not well at the time when 
 her labor was near, and grew weaker daily. There came 
 a day when Manus had to go to Loch Boisdale in South Uist : 
 and it was with pain and something of foreboding that he 
 sailed away from Berneray in the Sound of Harris, where he 
 lived. It was on the third night that he returned. He was 
 met by Katreen MacRanald, the wife of his mate, with the 
 news that on the morrow after his going Anne had sent for 
 the priest who was stajdng at Loch Maddy, for she had felt 
 the coming of death. It was that very evening she died, 
 and took the child with her. 
 
 Manus heard as one in a dream. It seemed to him that 
 the tide was ebbing in his heart, and a cold, sleety rain falling, 
 falling through a mist in his brain. 
 
 Sorrow lay heavily upon him. After the earthing of her 
 whom he loved, he went to and fro solitary : often crossing the 
 
266 THE DAK-NAN-RON- 
 
 Narrows and going to the old Pictish Towre under the shadow 
 of Ban Breac. He would not go upon the sea, but let his 
 kinsman Galium do as he liked with the Luath. 
 
 Now and again Father Allan MacNeil sailed northward to 
 see him. Each time he departed sadder. "The man is going 
 mad, I fear," he said to Galium, the last time he saw Manus. 
 
 The long summer nights brought peace and beauty to the 
 isles. It was a great herring-year, and the moon-fishing was 
 unusually good. All the Uist men who lived by the sea-har- 
 vest were in their boats whenever they could. The pollack, 
 the dog-fish, the otters, and the seals, with flocks of sea-fowl 
 beyond number, shared in the common joy. Manus Mac- 
 Godrum alone paid no heed to herring or mackerel. He was 
 often seen striding along the shore, and more than once had 
 been heard laughing; sometimes, too, he was come upon at 
 low tide by the great Reef of Berneray, singing wild strange 
 runes and songs, or crouching upon a rock and brooding dark. 
 
 The midsummer moon found no man on Berneray except 
 MacGodrum, the Rev. Mr. Black, the minister of the Free 
 Kirk, and an old man named Anndra Mclan. On the night 
 before the last day of the middle month, Anndra was re- 
 proved by the minister for saying that he had seen a man rise 
 out of one of the graves in the kirk-yard, and steal down by 
 the stone-dykes towards Balnahunnur-sa-mona,^ where Manus 
 MacGodrum lived. 
 
 The dead do not rise and walk, Anndra.'* 
 That may be, maigstir, but it may have been the Watcher 
 of the Dead. Sure it is not three weeks since Padruig Mc- 
 Alistair was laid beneath the green mound. He '11 be weary- 
 ing for another to take his place." 
 
 ' ' Hoots, man, that is an old superstition. The dead do not 
 rise and walk, I tell you." 
 
 "It is right you may be, maigstir, but I heard of this from 
 my father, that was old before you were young, and from his 
 father before him. When the last-buried is weary with be- 
 ing the Watcher of the Dead he goes about from place to 
 place till he sees man, woman, or child with the death- 
 
 1 Baille-'na-aonar^sa mhonadh, "the solitary farm on the hill-slope." 
 
 i ( I 
 a I 
 
FIONA MACLEOD 267 
 
 shadow in the eyes, and then he goes back to his grave and 
 lies down in peace, for his vigil it will be over now." 
 
 The roinister laughed at the folly, and went into his house 
 to make ready for the Sacrament that was to be on the 
 morrow. Old Anndra, however, was uneasy. After the 
 porridge, he went down through the gloaming to Balnahun- 
 nur-sa-mona. He meant to go in and warn Manus Mac- 
 Codrum. But when he got to the west wall, and stood near 
 the open window, he heard Manus speaking in a loud voice, 
 though he was alone in the room. 
 
 ^^B'ionganntach do ghrddh dhomhsa, a' toirt harrachd air 
 grddh nam han!^', . .^ 
 
 This, Manus cried in a voice quivering with pain. Anndra 
 stopped still, fearful to intrude, fearful also, perhaps, to see 
 some one there beside MacCodrum, whom eyes should not see. 
 Then the voice rose into a cry of agony. 
 
 ^'Aoi^ani dhuit, ay an deigh dhomh fas aosda!*'^ 
 
 With that, Anndra feared to stay. As he passed the byre 
 he started, for he thought he saw the shadow of a man. When 
 he looked closer he could see nought, so went his way, trem- 
 bling and sore troubled. 
 
 It was dusk when Manus came out. He saw that it was to 
 be a cloudy night ; and perhaps it was this that, after a brief 
 while, made him turn in his aimless walk and go back to the 
 house. He was sitting before the flaming heart of the peats, 
 brooding in his pain, when suddenly he sprang to his feet. 
 
 Loud and clear, and close as though played under the very 
 window of the room, came the cold, white notes of an oaten 
 flute. Ah, too well he knew that wild, fantastic air. Who 
 could it be but Gloom Achanna, playing upon his f eadau ; and 
 what air of all airs could that be but the "Dan-nan-Ron"? 
 
 Was it the dead man, standing there unseen in the shadow of 
 the Grave? Was Marcus beside him, INIarcus with the knife 
 still thrust up to the hilt, and the lung-foam upon his lips? 
 Can the sea give up its dead? Can there be strain of any 
 f eadan that ever was made of man, there in the Silence ? 
 
 1 "Thy lovo to me was wonderful, surpassing the love of women." 
 - '1 shall worship thee, ay, even after I have become old." 
 
268 THE d1n-NAN-r6n 
 
 In vain Manus MacCodrum tortured himself thus. Too 
 well he knew that he had heard the ' ' Dan -nan-Ron, ' ' and that 
 no other than Gloom Aehanna was the player. 
 
 Suddenly an access of fury wrought him to madness. With 
 an abrupt lilt the tune swung into the Davsd-na mairv, and 
 thence, after a few seconds, and in a moment, into that mys- 
 terious and horrible Codhail-nan-Pairtean which none but 
 Gloom played. 
 
 There could be no mistake now, nor as to what was meant by 
 the muttering, jerking air of the "Gathering of the Crabs." 
 
 With a savage cry Manus snatched up a long dirk from its 
 place by the chimney, and rushed out. 
 
 There was not the shadow of a sea-gull even in front ; so he 
 sped round by the byre. Neither was anything unusual dis- 
 coverable there. 
 
 "Sorrow upon me," he cried; "man or wraith, I will be 
 putting it to the dirk ! ' ' 
 
 But there was no one ; nothing ; not a sound. 
 
 Then, at last, with a listless droop of his arms, MacCodrum 
 turned and went into the house again. He remembered what 
 Gloom Aehanna had said; *'You 'II hear the ^ Ddn-nan-Rdn^ 
 the night before you die, Manus MacCodrum, and lest you 
 doiiht it, you ^11 hear it in your death-hour.' ' 
 
 He did not stir from the fire for three hours ; then he rose, 
 and went over to his bed and lay down without undressing. 
 
 He did not sleep, but lay listening and watching. The 
 peats burned low, and at last there was scarce a flicker along 
 the floor. Outside he could hear the wind moaning upon the 
 sea. By a strange rustling sound he knew that the tide was 
 ebbing across the great reef that runs out from Berneray. 
 By midnight the clouds had gone. The moon shone clear and 
 full. When he heard the clock strike in its worm-eaten, 
 rickety case, he sat up, and listened intently. He could hear 
 nothing. No shadow stirred. Surely if the wraith of Gloom 
 Aehanna were waiting for him it would make some sign, now, 
 in the dead of night. 
 
 An hour passed. Manus rose, crossed the room on tip-toe, 
 and soundlessly opened the door. The salt wind blew fresh 
 
FIONA MACLEOD 269 
 
 against his face. The smell of the shore, of wet sea-wrack and 
 pungent bog-myrtle, of foam and moving water, came sweet to 
 his nostrils. Pie heard a skua calling from the rocky promon- 
 tory. From the slopes behind, the wail of a moon-restless lap- 
 wing rose and fell mournfully. 
 
 Crouching, and with slow, stealthy step, he stole round by 
 the seaward wall. At the dyke he stopped, and scrutinised 
 it on each side. He could see for several hundred yards, and 
 there was not even a sheltering sheep. Then, soundlessly as 
 ever, he crept close to the byre. He put his ear to chink after 
 chink : but not a stir of a shadow even. As a shadow, himself, 
 he drifted lightly to the front, past the hay-rick; then, with 
 swift glances to right and left, opened the door and entered. 
 As he did so, he stood as though frozen. Surely, he thought, 
 that was a sound as of a step, out there by the hay-rick. A 
 terror was at his heart. In front, the darkness of the byre, 
 with God knows what dread thing awaiting him; behind, a 
 mysterious walker in the night, swift to take him unawares. 
 The trembling that came upon him was nigh overmastering. 
 At last, with a great effort, he moved towards the ledge, where 
 he kept a candle. With shaking hand he struck a light. The 
 empty byre looked ghostly and fearsome in the flickering 
 gloom. But there was no one, nothing. He was about to 
 turn, when a rat ran along a loose-hanging beam, and stared at 
 him, or at the yellow shine. He saw its black eyes shining like 
 peat-water in moonlight. 
 
 The creature was curious at first, then indifferent. At last, 
 it began to squeak, and then made a swift scratching with its 
 fore-paws. Once or twice came an answering squeak; a 
 faint rustling was audible here and there among the straw. 
 
 With a sudden spring Manus seized the beast. Even in the 
 second in which he raised it to his mouth and scrunched its 
 back with his strong teeth, it bit him severely. He let his 
 hands drop, and groped furtively in the darkness. With 
 stooping head he shook the last breath out of the rat, holding 
 it with his front teeth, with back-curled lips. The next mo- 
 ment he dropped the dead thing, trampled upon it, and burst 
 out laughing. There was a scurrying of pattering feet, a 
 
270 THE DAN-NAN-R(5n 
 
 rustling of straw. Then silence again. A draught from the 
 door had caught the flame and extinguished it. In the silence 
 and darkness MacCodrum stood, intent, but no longer afraid. 
 He laughed again, because it was so easy to kill with the 
 teeth. The noise of his laughter seemed to him to leap hither 
 and thither like a shadowy ape. He could see it ; a blackness 
 within the darkness. Once more he laughed. It amused 
 him to see the thirig leaping about like that. 
 
 Suddenly he turned, and walked out into the moonlight. 
 The lapwing was still circling and wailing. He mocked it, 
 with loud shrill pee-weety, pce-weety, pee-weet. The bird 
 swung waywardly, alarmed : its abrupt cry, and dancing 
 flight aroused its fellows. The air was full of the lamentable 
 crying of plovers. 
 
 A sough of the sea came inland. Manus inhaled its breath 
 with a sigh of delight. A passion for the running wave 
 was upon him. He yearned to feel green water break against 
 his breast. Thirst and hunger, too, he felt at last, though he 
 had known neither all day. How cool and sweet, he thought, 
 would be a silver haddock, or even a brown-backed liath, alive 
 and gleaming, wet with the sea-water still bubbling in its 
 gills. It would writhe, just like the rat; but then how he 
 would throw his head back, and toss the glittering thing up 
 into the moonlight, catch it on the downwhirl just as it neared 
 the wave on whose crest he was, and then devour it with swift 
 voracious gulps ! 
 
 "With quick, jerky steps he made his way past the landward 
 side of the small, thatch-roofed cottage. He was about to 
 enter, when he noticed that the door, which he had left ajar, 
 was closed. He stole to the window and glanced in. 
 
 A single, thin, wavering moonbeam flickered in the room. 
 But the flame at the heart of the peats had worked its way 
 through the ash, and there was now a dull glow, though that 
 was within the *'smooring," and threw scarce more than a 
 glimmer into the room. 
 
 There was enough light, however, for Manus MacCodrum to 
 see that a man sat on the three-legged stool before the fire. 
 His head was bent, as though he were listening. The face 
 
FIONA MACLEOD 271 
 
 was away from the window. It was his own wraith, of course ; 
 of that, Manus felt convinced. What was it doing there? 
 Perhaps it had eaten the Holy Book, so that it was beyond his 
 putting a i^osad on it ! At the thought he laughed loud. The 
 shadow-man leaped to his feet. 
 
 The next moment MacCodrum swung himself on to the 
 thatched roof, and clambered from rope to rope, where these 
 held down the big stones which acted as dead-weight for the 
 thatch, against the fury of tempests. Stone after stone he 
 tore from its fastenings and hurled to the ground over beyond 
 the door. Then with tearing hands he began to burrow an 
 opening in the thatch. All the time he whined like a beast. 
 
 He was glad the moon shone full upon him. When he had 
 made a big enough hole, he would see the evil thing out of the 
 grave that sat in his room, and would stone it to death. 
 
 Suddenly he became still. A cold sweat broke out upon 
 him. The thing, whether his own wraith, or the spirit of his 
 dead foe, or Gloom Achanna himself, had begun to play, low 
 and slow, a wild air. No piercing, cold music like that of the 
 feadan ! Too well he knew it, and those cool, white notes that 
 moved here and there in the darkness like snowflakes. As 
 for the air, though he slept till Judgment Day and heard but 
 a note of it amidst all the clamor of heaven and hell, sure he 
 would scream because of the '^ Dan-nan-Ron. " 
 
 The ''Dan-nan-Ron!" The RoinI the Seals! Ah, what 
 was he doing there, on the bitter-weary land ! Out there was 
 the sea. Safe would he be in the green waves. 
 
 With a leap he was on the ground. Seizing a huge stone, 
 he hurled it through the window. Then, laughing and scream- 
 ing, he fled tow^ards the Great Reef, along whose sides the ebb- 
 tide gurgled and sobbed, with glistening white foam. 
 
 He ceased screaming or laughing as he heard the "Dan-nan- 
 Ron" behind him, faint, but following; sure, following. 
 Bending low, he raced towards the rock-ledges from w^hich ran 
 the reef. 
 
 When at last he reached the extreme ledge he stopped 
 abruptly. Out on the reef he saw from ten to twenty seals, 
 some swimming to and fro, others clinging to the reef, one or 
 
272 THE DA^-NAN-R5n 
 
 two making a curious barking sound, with round heads lifted 
 against the moon. In one place there was a surge and lash- 
 ing of water. Two bulls were fighting to the death. 
 
 With swift, stealthy movements Manus unclothed himself. 
 The damp had clotted the leathern thongs of his boots, and 
 he snarled with curled lip as he tore at them. He shone white 
 in the moonshine, but was sheltered from the sea by the ledge 
 behind which he crouched. ' ' What did Gloom Achanna mean 
 by that?" he muttered savagely, as he heard the nearing air 
 change into the "Dance of the Dead." For a moment Manus 
 was a man again. He was nigh upon turning to face his foe, 
 corpse or wraith or living body ; to spring at this thing which 
 followed him, and tear it with hands and teeth. Then, once 
 more, the hated ' ' Song of the Seals ' ' stole mockingly through 
 the night. 
 
 With a shiver he slipped into the dark water. Then with 
 quick, powerful strokes he was in the moon-flood, and swim- 
 ming hard against it out by the leeside of the reef. 
 
 So intent were the seals upon the fight of the two great 
 bulls that they did not see the swimmer, or if they did, took 
 him for one of their own people. A savage snarling and bark- 
 ing and half -human crying came from them. Manus was 
 almost within reach of the nearest, when one of the combatants 
 sank dead, with torn throat. The victor clambered on the 
 reef, and leaned high, swaying its great head and shoulders 
 to and fro. In the moonlight its white fangs were like red 
 coral. Its blinded eyes ran with gore. 
 
 There was a rush, a rapid leaping and swirling, as Manus 
 surged in among the seals, which were swimming round the 
 place where the slain bull had sunk. 
 
 The laughter of this long, white seal terrified them. 
 
 When his knees struck against a rock, MacCodrum groped 
 with his arms, and hauled himself out of the water. 
 
 From rock to rock and ledge to ledge he went, with a fan- 
 tastic, dancing motion, his body gleaming foam-white in the 
 moonshine. 
 
 As he pranced and trampled along the weedy ledges, he sang 
 snatches of an old rune — the lost rune of the MacCodrums 
 
FTONA MACLEOD 273 
 
 of Uist. The seals on the rocks crouched spell-bound; those 
 slow-swimming in the water stared with brown unwinking 
 eyes, with their small ears strained against the sound : 
 
 It is I, Manus MacCodrum, 
 
 I am telling you that, you, Anndra of my blood, 
 
 And you, Neil my grandfather, and you, and you, and you ! 
 
 Ay, ay, Manus my name is, Manus MacManus! 
 
 It is I myself, and no other. 
 
 Your brother, Seals of the Sea ! 
 
 Give me blood of the red fish, 
 
 And a bite of the flying sgaclan: 
 
 The green wave on my belly. 
 
 And the foam in my eyes ! 
 
 I am your bull-brother, Bulls of the Sea, 
 
 Bull — better than any of you, snarling bulls ! 
 
 Come to me, mate, seal of the soft, furry womb. 
 
 White am I still, though red shall I be, 
 
 Red with the streaming red blood if any dispute me! 
 
 Aoh, aoh, aoh, aro, aro, ho-ro ! 
 
 A man was I, a seal am I, 
 
 My fangs churn the yellow foam from my lips: 
 
 Give way to me, give way to me. Seals of the Sea ; 
 
 Give way, for I am fey of the sea 
 
 And the sea-maiden I see there. 
 
 And my name, true, is Manus MacCodrum, 
 
 The bull-seal that was a man, Ara ! Ara ! 
 
 By this time he was close upon the great black seal, which 
 was still monotonously swaying its gory head, with its sight- 
 less eyes rolling this way and that. The sea-folk seemed fas- 
 cinated. None moved, even when the dancer in the moonshine 
 trampled upon them. 
 
 When he came within arm-reach he stopped. 
 
 ''Are you the Ceann-Cinnidh?" he cried. 
 
 "Are you the head of this clan of the sea-folk?" 
 
 The huge beast ceased its swaying. Its curled lips moved 
 from its fangs. 
 
 * ' Speak, Seal, if there 's no curse upon you ! Maybe, now, 
 you '11 be Anndra himself, the brother of my father ! Speak ! 
 H'st — are you hearing thai music on the shore? 'T is the 
 'Dan-nan-Ron'! Death o' my soul, it 's the 'Dan-nan-Ron'! 
 
274 THE DAN-NAN-R5n 
 
 Aha, 't is Gloom Achanna out of the Grave. Back, beast, 
 and let me move on!" 
 
 With that, seeing the great bull did not move, he struck it 
 full in the face with clenched fist. There was a hoarse, 
 strangling roar, and the seal champion was upon him with 
 lacerating fangs. 
 
 Manus swayed this way and that. All he could hear now 
 was the snarling and growling and choking cries of the mad- 
 dened seals. As he fell, they closed in upon him. His 
 screams wheeled through the night like mad birds. With 
 desperate fury he struggled to free himself. The great bidl 
 pinned him to the rock ; a dozen others tore at his white flesh, 
 till his spouting blood made the rocks scarlet in the white 
 shine of the moon. 
 
 For a few seconds he still fought savagely, tearing with teeth 
 and hands. Once, a red ir recognisable mass, he staggered to 
 his knees. A wild cry burst from his lips, when from the 
 shore-end of the reef came loud and clear the lilt of the rune 
 of his fate. 
 
 The next moment he was dragged down and swept from the 
 reef into the sea. As the torn and mangled body disappeared 
 from sight, it was amid a seething crowd of leaping and strug- 
 gling seals, their eyes wild with affright and fury, their fangs 
 red with human gore. 
 
 And Gloom Achanna, turning upon the reef, moved swiftly 
 inland, playing low on his feadan, as he went. 
 
CRITICAL COMMENT 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON AND SUSANNA 
 By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 No one knows when stoiy telling began. It is as old as the human 
 race. It goes beyond hisloiy mto the unknown darkness of the 
 past. Some of the stories we still read originated far back in primi- 
 tive life. Such stories, that have been told for many years, and are 
 common to the race, we call 'Tolk-Lore" stories. 
 
 Every Folk-Lore story probably began in the simplest form. 
 Something happened, — and someone tried to tell about the event. 
 If the story was interesting enough to repeat, it gradually became 
 exaggerated. Thus the germ of The Adventures of Simon and 
 Susanna is the common-enough story of a successful elopement in 
 which the cleverness of the young people, — of the girl in particular, 
 — eluded the pursuing father. Their means of making their escape 
 must have been quite ordinary, but when the story was told again 
 and again, — if this really is a Folk-Lore story, the cleverness was 
 exaggerated and gradually turned into magic. 
 
 In reading this storv we come into close touch with the oriirin of all 
 story telling. We see one man, a common, ignorant man, telling a 
 story to an interested listener, and undoubtedly "putting in a few 
 extra touches" to make the story more wonderful. The primitive 
 stories must always have been presented orally, and at first to few 
 listeners. Then came the days of story tellers for the crowd, and 
 finally the written story. 
 
 The author of The Adventures of Simon and Susanna, Joel 
 Chandler Harris, re-told many folk-lore stories. He was born in 
 Georgia in 1848, and died there in 1908. He devoted all his mature 
 life to journalism and literature. His many books about Uncle 
 Remus presented that person so clearly that the good-natured negro 
 story teller has almost ceased to be merely a book-character, and 
 has become a living reality. 
 
 Every story that Mr. Harris wrote has plot interest, but it also has 
 pith and wisdom. 
 
 THE CROW CHILD 
 By MARY MAPES DODGE 
 
 The ordinai*y "Fairy Stoi-y" is a developed form of the "Folk- 
 Lore" story. Instead of having the roughness, and naive simplicity 
 
 275 
 
276 CRITICAL COMMENT 
 
 characteristic of primitive ways of stoiy telling it has polish, and 
 definite literary or moral purpose, it is not a mere wonder stoiy 
 told in the first person by some definite individual, and made by the 
 exaggeration of an actual event. It is a written rather than a 
 spoken story, based, in the remote past, on some actual event, but 
 now told in the third person, and directed strongly to aii artistic, 
 literary purpose, — frequently to a moral purpose. In every way 
 the best type of "Fairy Stoi-y" is a distinct advance towards devel- 
 oped story telling. 
 
 The Crow Child is not an actual "Fairy Story ,'^ but it illus- 
 trates remarkably well the way in which "Fairy Stories" developed. 
 Every event in The Crow Child is strictly true, but much of the story 
 appears to be based on magic. A true story of this sort, told in 
 primitive times, and retold again and again, with new emphasis 
 placed on the elements of wonder, would have developed into a pure 
 story of wonder, — a '^Fairy Story." 
 
 The author of this original, and modem, "Fairy Story," Mary 
 Mapes Dodge, was born in New York in 1838. For many years she 
 was the efficient editor of St. Nicholas, a young people's magazine of 
 the highest type. In addition to her editorial work she wrote many 
 books for young people, the most famous being Hans Brinker, or 
 the Silver Skates. She died in 1905. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE GREAT BELL 
 By LAFCADIO HEAEN 
 
 Very often the earliest stories are not crude accounts of ordinary 
 events, exaggerated enough to be worthy of note. They are poetic 
 narratives founded on matters of deep significance in the life of a 
 people. All primitive people are poetic, because they see the world 
 through the eyes of emotion rather than of scientific understanding. 
 They also have an instinctive recognition of fundamental nobility. 
 Therefore we have such stories as the legends of Hiawatha, in which 
 an ideal man is presented, bringing benefit to his kind. Any story 
 that is handed down from generation to generation, and that pre- 
 sents as facts matters that have no other verification, is legendary. 
 The highest type of legendary story is one that presents high ideals. 
 
 The Chinese, whose literature is exceedingly ancient, have always 
 been an idealistic people. It is not surprising that they should create 
 such an appealing legendary tale as The Sotil of the Great Bell. 
 Although the elements are quite simple the story has been turned 
 from being a simple account of tragic self-sacrifice, and has become 
 an explanation of the music of the bell, as well as an example of 
 filial devotion. The preservation of such stories shows natural ap- 
 preciation of short story values. 
 
CRITICAL COMMENT 277 
 
 The present rendering of The Soul of the Great Bell undoubtedly 
 far surpasses the Chinese version. The story has been appropriately 
 introduced, amplified and given added poetic and dramatic effect by 
 careful choice of words, descriptive passages, suspense, onomato- 
 poeia, and climax. 
 
 Lafcadio Hearn was born in 1850, of Irish and Greek parentage, 
 in Leucadia, of the Greek Ionian Islands. At 19 he came to Amer- 
 ica and engaged in newspaper work, living at various times in New 
 Orleans and in New York. From 1891 until his death in 1904 he 
 made his home in Japan, where he became a Buddhist and a natural- 
 ized Japanese citizen under the name of Yakumo Koizumi. He 
 learned to know the oriental peoples as few others have known them. 
 His literary work is marked by poetic treatment, and an atmosphere 
 of the Orient. He wrote Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan, Out of 
 the East, Some Chinese Ghosts, and many other books on oriental 
 subjects. 
 
 Ta-chung sz'. Temple of the Bell. A building in Pekin, holding the 
 bell that i8 the subject of the story. Tlie bell was made in the reign 
 of Yong-lo, about 1406 a. d. It weighs over 120,000 pounds, and is 
 the largest bell known to be in actual use. 
 
 Kwang-chan-fu. The Broad City. Canton. 
 
 THE TEN TRAILS 
 By ERNEST THOMPSON SETON 
 
 The fable and the proverb are much alike in that both are highly 
 condensed, and both are told to instruct. The short, direct, applied 
 narratives known as "Fables" are among the oldest ancestors of the 
 short story. Even in the most ancient times there were fables, 
 those of v5]sop having been told perhaps as early as the sixth cen- 
 tury, B. c. Many familiar fables have animals for their characters, 
 their known characteristics needing no comment. Thus the fox and 
 the wolf appear frequently, their mere names suggesting traits of 
 character. The fable, as a type of wisdom literature, is always 
 short, simple, and emphatic. It always emphasizes marked human 
 characteristics, and usually ends with a "moral" that adds to the 
 emphasis. The influence of the fable helped to make the story 
 short, condensed, vivid, pointed, and based on character. 
 
 The Ten Trails is a modem imitation of older fables. Its direct- 
 ness, simplicity, clear story, and appended moral are characteristic 
 of the type. 
 
 Ernest Thompson Seton, born in England in 1860, has written 
 many stories in which he presents animal life with appealing sym- 
 pathy. He has devoted himself particularly to cultivating a love 
 for outdoors life, and for animate nature. Wild Animals I Have 
 
278 CRITICAL COMMENT 
 
 Known, The Biography of a Grizzly, and similar books, are full of 
 original interest. 
 
 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 
 By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI 
 
 An allegory is a story that has an underlying meaning or 
 moral. It is in some ways an expanded fable, with the mean- 
 ing understood rather than presented. The chief difference be- 
 tween the "Fable" and the "Allegory" lies in length and complexity 
 of treatment, and in the way of presenting the underljdng meaning. 
 The "Fable" is short and usually appends the moral. The "Alle- 
 gory" is usually long, and tells the story in such a way that the 
 reader is sure to grasp the meaning without further comment. The 
 purpose, as in the "Fable," is double, — to tell a story, and to teach 
 a truth. All literatures have numerous allegories, Spenser's 
 Faerie Queene, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, and Tennesson's Idylls 
 of the King being notable examples in English literature. 
 
 Where Love Is, There God Is Also is an allegorical story of a 
 pleasing type that is often found in our present day literature. The 
 story has such evident good humor, appreciation of the needs of 
 humble life, and such an unselfish spirit of sympathy that it appeals 
 to any reader. Its strong realism, effective plan, and clear, em- 
 phatic presentation make the story one of the best of its kind. 
 
 Count Leo Tolstoi, bom at Yasnaya Polyana, in Russia, in 1828, 
 and dying at Astapovo in 1910, is one of the greatest and most in- 
 teresting figures in all modem literature. The story of his career, 
 with its surprising changes from the life of a nobleman to that of a 
 peasant, from a life given over to pleasure to a life devoted to the 
 moral uplift of a whole people, is even more astonishing than any 
 <of the stories he told in his many works of fiction. Student, soldier, 
 traveler, lover of social life, philosopher, reformer, and self-sacri- 
 ficing idealist, he developed a personality unique in the extreme, and 
 became a world-wide influence for good. His best known novels are 
 War and Peace, and Anna Karenina. In them, as in all that he 
 wrote, the notable qualities are realism, dramatic force, original 
 thought, and courageous expression of beliefs. 
 
 Grivenki. A grivenka is 10 copecks, or about five cents. 
 
 WOOD LADIES 
 By PERCEVAL GIBBON 
 
 There is a strange fascination about the supernatural, for men of 
 ■all races instinctively believe that they are surrounded by a world 
 
CRITICAL COMMENT 279 
 
 of good and evil that lies just beyond their touch. Some have 
 thought the woods and mountains peopled with unseen divinities; 
 others have believed in strange gnomes and dwarfs who are thought 
 to live in the depths of the earth; some have believed in pale 
 ghosts, specters that move by night, haunting the scenes of unat- 
 toned crime. One of the most pleasing beliefs is that in fairies, or 
 "Little Folk," — unseen, beautiful, and usually beneficent beings 
 who live in woodland places and are endowed with all powers of 
 magic. 
 
 Stories of the unseen world that may lie about us have appeared 
 in all ages. Sometimes such stories have been beautiful and fan- 
 ciful, and sometimes filled with the spirit of fear. In the latter 
 part of the eighteenth century and the first of the nineteenth it 
 became quite the fashion to tell stories of ghosts and strange ter- 
 rors. Ernst Hoffmann and Ludwig Tieck in Germany set an exam- 
 ple that was followed by Washington Irving, Nathaniel Hawtliome, 
 and Edgar Allan Poe in this country, as well as by many other 
 writers since their time. 
 
 There is another and more healthful attitude of mind. Instead 
 of the horror of Gothic romance it presents the fancy of Celtic 
 thought. In stories of this gentler type one does not feel that the 
 unseen world is wholly to be feared. 
 
 Such a story is Wood Ladies, in which the spirit of Celtic fancy 
 has found full play. In this story everything is woodsy, delicate, 
 half-seen, as though one were treading the very edges of fairyland 
 without knowing it. Mother-love fills the whole story and gives it a 
 noble beauty. And yet, in a certain sense, the child, conscious of 
 another world, is wiser than the mother. A story of this sort, deal- 
 ing with the supernatural, rests the mind like sweet music. 
 
 Perceval Gibbon w^as bom in Carmarthenshire in South Wales, 
 in 1879. He has spent much time in the merchant service on Brit- 
 ish, French, and American vessels. He has done unusual work as 
 war coiTespondent. Among his literary works are Souls in Bond- 
 age, The Adventures of Miss Gregory, The Second Class Passenger, 
 and a collection of Poems. His work is marked by originality, and 
 a clever mastery of technique. 
 
 ON THE FEVER SHIP 
 By RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 
 
 Love is so essential a part of life that it must also be a part 
 of literature; therefore romantic love has been a leading liter- 
 ary theme for centuries. Some of the world's greatest stories of 
 love flash into our minds when we repeat the names of Juliet, 
 Rosalind, Portia, Elaine, and Evangeline. Such stories suggest 
 
280 CRITICAL COMMENT 
 
 depth of emotion, charm, womanly worth, pure and innocent love, 
 or a love that lasts beyond the years. In the days of chivalry 
 the knight bore his lady's token, and fought in her honor. To- 
 day men love just as deeply, and fight for land and hearth and 
 sweetheart just as truly as men did in the long ago. 
 
 On the Fever Ship is the story of a modem knight, — a soldier 
 who went into his country's war, bearing in his heart the memory 
 of one he loved. When he is wounded, and lies fever-stricken on 
 the deck of a transport, he does not think at all of himself but 
 only of the one who is far away. That is the story, an abiding 
 love in absence, with dreams at last made true. 
 
 The author makes the story notably strong and tender. With- 
 out formal introduction he presents the realistic picture of the 
 fever ship, — the inexplicable monotony, the dream-world, the child- 
 likeness of the womided man's life. Old scenes and faces come 
 before the womided soldier in tantalizing dreams. Little by little 
 tbe author draws us closer into sympathy with the central figure. 
 He makes us share in the man's intensity of feeling. We feel 
 the force of the strong ejoisode of the somewhat unfeeling nurse, 
 and become indignant in the man's behalf. Finally, lifted by the 
 power of the story, we rise with it into full comprehension 
 of the depth of the hero's love. Then, quickly and with artistic 
 effect, the story comes to an end. Simply, surely, strongly, with 
 real sentiment instead of sentimentality, it has made us realize the 
 all-powerful force of love. 
 
 The story is written with much sympathy and evident tender- 
 ness of spirit, and is so touched with real pathos, that it comes 
 to us as a transcription of some real story the author had found 
 in his work as war correspondent. 
 
 Richard Harding Davis was one of the most romantic fisrures in 
 recent literary life. As war correspondent he saw fighting in the 
 Spanish-American War, the Boer War, the Japanese-Russian War, 
 and the Great War. He traveled in all parts of Europe, in Cen- 
 tral and in South America, and in the little-visited districts of the 
 Congo in Africa. He saw the magnificent coronation ceremonies 
 of the King of Spain, the King of England, and the Czar of 
 Russia. He attended gorgeous state occasions in various lands. 
 He also lived the hard field and camp life of a soldier and an 
 explorer. 
 
 He wrote a number of extraordinarily good short stories, several 
 stirring novels, — among which are The King's Jackal, Ransom's 
 •Folly, The White Mice, and The Princess Aline, — several plays, and 
 a number of works of travel and war correspondence. 
 
 Richard Harding Davis was bom in Philadelphia in 1864, and 
 .died in New York in 1916. 
 
CRITICAL COMMENT 281 
 
 San Juan. A fortified hill position in Cuba, near Santiago de Cuba, 
 
 captured in the Spanish-American War by the United States soldiers 
 
 July 1, 1898. 
 Maitre d'hotel. Chief attendant — head-waiter. 
 
 Embankment. The Thames Embankment, a noted part of London. 
 Chasseur. Footman. 
 Numero cinq, sur la terrace, un couvert. Number five, on the terrace, 
 
 one place. 
 Baiquiri. A landing place in Cuba near Santiago de Cuba. The United 
 
 States soldiers landed here, June 21-23, 1898. 
 Tampa. A seaport in Florida. 
 
 A SOURCE OF IRRITATION 
 By STACY AUMONIER 
 
 An interesting type of story shows an ordinary person in an ex- 
 traordinary situation. In Robinson Crusoe, for example, an ordi- 
 nary Englishman is left alone on an uninhabited island; in Stock- 
 ton's The Casting Away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine two good 
 old New England women with little worldly experience are wrecked 
 on a mysterious island in the Pacific ; in Howard Pyle's The Ruby of 
 Kishmore a peace-loving Philadelphia Quaker is suddenly involved 
 in a series of bloody encounters in the West Indies. Such stories 
 always arouse interest or develop humor by the astonishing contrast 
 between setting and characters, and they always emphasize character 
 by. showing how it acts in unusual circumstances. Thus Robinson 
 Crusoe at once attracts our interest and awakens admiration for the 
 hero. 
 
 A Source of Irritation is especially clever in every way. There 
 could be no greater contrast than that between old Sam Gates' usual 
 hum-drum, eventless life, and the sudden transfer to an aeroplane, 
 a foreign land, the trenches, battle, and the search for a spy. Very 
 rarely, too, is a character presented so emphatically as this 69-3'ear- 
 old gardener, with his irritable moods, his insistence on the habits of 
 a life-time, his stolidity, and his real manliness. Equally rare is a 
 story told so effectively, with just the proper combination of realism 
 and romance, with quick touches of comedy and of tragedy, with a 
 closeness to life that is indisputable, and a romance that is unusual. 
 In its every part the story is a masterpiece of construction. 
 
 Stacy Aumonier is an Englishman of Huguenot descent. 
 
 Swede. A Swedish turnip. 
 
 Shag. A fine-cut tobacco. 
 
 "Mare vudish. ' Alerkwiirdig, remarkable. 
 
 A fearful noise. The English made an attack on the German aeroplan 
 
 Uglaubllch. Incredible. 
 
 A foreign country. Evidently Flanders. 
 
282 CRITICAL COMMENT 
 
 Boche. German. 
 
 G. H. Q. General Head Quarters. 
 
 Norfolk. One of the eastern counties of England, bordering on the 
 North Sea. 
 
 MOTI GUJ— MUTINEER 
 By RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 One of the pleasures of life is to travel and see the world. If we 
 are unable to travel far in reality we may at least see much of 
 strange lands through short stories of distant places and ways of life 
 different from the ordinary. 
 
 Moti Guj — Mutineer is a stoiy of life in India, of elephants and 
 mahouts and strange events. It has all the atmosphere of India, 
 given by half-humorous realistic touches that transport us from the 
 land of everyday. It is a story of animal life, told wdth an intimate 
 knowledge that shows close familiarity with ''elephanthood." Be- 
 yond that, it has what eveiy story must have, — close relation to hu- 
 man character as we see it in any land at any time. Even the ele- 
 phant is made to act and to think as if he were a human being. The 
 humorous style, and the quickness with which the stoiy is told, as 
 well as the vivid pictures it gives, are typical of its author's work. 
 
 Rudyard Kipling was born in Bombay, India, in 1865. After 
 education in England he became a sub-editor of a paper published in 
 Lahore, India, where he lived for some years, becoming intimate 
 with all the life of the land. He has lived at various times in India, 
 the United States, South Africa, and England. He has written a 
 great number of astonishingly clever stories, poems, and novels, all 
 in quick, vigorous style, with freedom from restraint, with rough 
 realism, and with genuine humor and pathos. Among his most not- 
 able books are: Plain Tales from the Hills, The Jungle Book, Cap- 
 tains Courageous, The Day's Work, and Puck of Pook's Hill, 
 
 Arrack. A fermented drink. 
 
 Coir-swab. A mop made from cocoanut fiber. 
 
 GULLIVER THE GREAT 
 By WALTER A. DYER 
 
 There is a wonderfully close sympathy between man and the 
 animal world. — a sympathy that is especially strong in the case 
 of either the horse or the dog, animals that are the close associates 
 of man. Ancient literature, — The Bible and The Odyssey, — tell of 
 the faithfulness of the dog, man's friend and protector. In recent 
 times writers have turned to the whole world of nature for subjects, 
 — the stag, the grizzly bear, the wolf, and other animals, but stories 
 
CRITICAL COMMENT 283 
 
 of dogs still awaken interest and sympathy, and will continue to do 
 so as long as the faithfulness of dogs endures, — which is forever. 
 
 Gulliver the Great is told in an interestingly suggestive manner, 
 every part of the story being rich with hints on which our imagina- 
 tions build. The pleasant calm of the setting adds much to the 
 effect. The man's character is emphasized from the start, making 
 the story he tells have full meaning. The story is dramatic, but 
 its power rests far more on sympathy than on events. The art of 
 the story is in the clever way in which the almost human soul of 
 the dog is revealed, acting upon the soul of the man. 
 
 Walter A. Dyer was boni in Massachusetts in 1878. Since his 
 graduation from Amherst College in 1900 he has been engaged in 
 editorial and other literary work. His natural fondness for dogs 
 has led to such books as Pierrot: Dog of Belgium, and Gulliver the 
 Great. 
 
 Early Victorian comforts. The comforts characteristic of the first part 
 of the reign of Queen Victoria of England, before city life and com- 
 mercial life were highly developed. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick. The humorous hero of Charles Dickens' famous novel, 
 Pickwick Papers. 
 
 James G. Blaine. An American statesman, 1830-1893. He held many 
 high offices, and was once candidate for the Presidency 
 
 Simplicissimus. A humorous and satirical German periodical. 
 
 Brunos. From the Latin "brunus" — brown. A name frequently given 
 to dogs. 
 
 Mores. The Malay inhabitants of certain islands of the Philippines 
 
 Great Dane. A type of dog noted for great size and graceful build. 
 
 Vohl's Vulcan. A famous dog. 
 
 Wurtemburg breed. A well-known breed of dogs. 
 
 Manna Loa, A noted Hawaiian volcano nearly 14,000 feet in height. 
 
 Bulls of Bashan. The Bible makes frequent mention of the bulls of 
 Bashan, a section of Palestine east of the valley of the Jordan. 
 
 SONNY'S SCHOOLING 
 By RUTH McENERY STUART 
 
 Laughter is a legitimate part of life, especially when it clarifies 
 the mind. The short story has seized upon all the elements of hu- 
 mor and made them its own, especially the anecdote. Some writers 
 have used whimsical humor to give relief from sombre tales, or 
 have told stories lightly and fancifully humorous, like several in 
 this book. Others have written with broader effects. Every one 
 of the many types of humorous story is good. — the unusual situa- 
 tion, the surprising climax, the fantastic character, the utter absurd- 
 ity, — but every type must follow the dictates of good taste. Humor 
 need never be coarse, or vulgar, or in any way aimed at persona) 
 satire. It may criticize, but it must do so with friendly good will. 
 
284 CRITICAL COM^^IEXT 
 
 Sonny's SchooUn' is a series of connected anecdotes, told in mono- 
 logue. The humor of the anecdotes lies in their absurdity — m the 
 presence of Sonny eveiy one is so helpless! Any modern teacher 
 would deal with Sonny m a way that he would understand. The 
 humor of the naiTation lies partly in the events, partly in the speak- 
 er's naive, unconscious exposition of self, and partly in the amusing 
 dialect. Two qualities illuminate the story: one, the gradual pres- 
 entation of Sonny's really lovable nature, seen to better advantage 
 by the father-and-mother-love behind it; the other, the gi'adual 
 criticism of the older system of education, and the suggestion of a 
 type well adapted to quick, active, original minds like Sonny's. 
 
 Kuth McEuery Stuart, a native of Louisiana, contributed to our 
 best periodicals, and wrote many amusing, and wholly sympathetic, 
 stories of southeni life, such as HoUi/ and Pi-en, Napoleon Jackson, 
 Sonny, and Sonny's Father. She died in 1917. 
 
 HER FIEST HORSE SHOW 
 Bv DAVID GRAY 
 
 Every side of life contributes short story material, — the deeds of 
 people in strange surroundings, unusual aces of heroism iu war or in 
 peace, the lives of the poor, and the lives of the rich. Since men's 
 characters are independent of either wealth or poverty, the stoiy of 
 society life, when written effectively, may awaken as deep feelings 
 of sympathy or brotherhood as the story of humble life. Any story 
 is worthy if it broadens the understanding of life and presents its 
 material in artistic form. 
 
 On the surface Her First Horse Show is a story of society life, 
 of rich people who delight in the fashionable horse show, and in 
 dining at the Waldorf. Fundamentally, it is a story of human 
 understanding, cleverness, and daring, in which the chaiTQ of a girl, 
 and the thoroughbred qualities of a horse, play leading parts. 
 Quick, suggestive conversation makes the story ^4vidly interesting, 
 and clear arrangement leads effectivelv to the climax. 
 
 David Gray was bom in Buffalo, New York, in 1S70. He has 
 done editorial work on various papers, and has written a large num- 
 ber of interesting *^ioi*se stories" collected in such books as GoUops 
 I, Gallops II, and Mr. Carteret and Others. In 1S99 Mr. Gray 
 entered the legal profession. 
 
 Doubting Thomas. A reference to the Bible story of St. Thomas, who 
 at first doubted the resurrection of .Tegus. See John: 20: 25. 
 
 "Hands." Much of the skill in riding high spirited horses depends upon 
 the use of the hands in holding the reins. 
 
CRITICAL COMMENT 285 
 
 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK 
 By JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE 
 
 Sometimes the short story is used as an effective means of satire 
 of a type resembling that employed by Addison m The Spectator 
 Papers. Satire can be given in so few words, and in the vei-y 
 speech and actions of the persons satirized, that it is well adapted 
 as material for the short story. It should be the aim of all satiiicaJ 
 short stories of the milder sort to follow Addison's rule, and point 
 out little follies rather than great wickednesses, and to aim at a 
 thousand people rather than at one. 
 
 My Husband's Book is an admirable example of ideal satire of 
 the lighter type. The husband is typical— of whom!— of every or^e 
 who puts off until tomorrow what he should do today. The wife 
 is presented whimsically as altogether adoring, but as somewhat 
 persistently and mischievously suspicious. At no time does the 
 husband become aware of his real defect of character, nor the wife 
 lose all her loving faith. Kindly satire like this is playful in nature, 
 the sort to be expected from the author of Peter Pan. We laugh 
 good-naturedly at the husband — and see ouselves in him? 
 
 Sir James Matthew Bame was bom in Kirriemuir, Scotland, in 
 1860. His delightfully romantic Aidd Licht Idylls, A Window in 
 Thrums, and especially The Litlle Minister, made him known to all 
 the English-speaking world. His remarkably original and fanciful 
 plays, Quality Street, Peter Pan, What Every Woman Knows, and 
 numerous other dramatic works have added to his already great repu- 
 tation. He is one of the leading English writers of the present 
 time. 
 
 WAR 
 
 By JACK LONDON 
 
 The short story often rises beyond the light and the commonplace 
 to act as a stem critic of world conditions. With vivid, realistic 
 touches it points at reality. By focussing every light upon a single 
 human figure who compellingly commands sympathy it arouses in 
 us a sense of kinship with all who suffer. Short stories of this 
 type have teaching force that is all powerful. 
 
 War is such a story. Although little more than a vi\ad sketch it 
 presents the brutality of war in all its horror, — not by picturing 
 the slaughter of thousands, but by showing a boy, — shrinking, eager 
 to perform his full duty, loving life, fearing death, stopping to 
 gather apples in a boyish way, — a boy whose instinctive and noble 
 hesitation to kill rebounds on himself, as if in irony, and causes his 
 own death. In a certain sense, the boy with his kindly manhood 
 
286 CRITICAL COMMENT 
 
 and generous motives represents the American spirit. The opposite 
 type of spirit, the love of war for war's sake, brutality for the sake 
 of brutakty, is shown in the boy's enemies, — ^harsh foreigners who 
 hang men to trees, who shoot at the boy as at a target, and laugh 
 at his death. The stoiy individualizes war, and thereby gives 
 emphasis to its horror. Such a story demands on the part of the 
 author a heartfelt interest m his theme, an mtense love of life, and 
 the ability to write m realistic style. 
 
 Jack London was deeply interested in the world of men. Far 
 from being a recluse, he lived an active life with his fellows. He 
 left his college class m order to go with other adventurers into the 
 Klondike ; he went to Japan, and seal hunting m the Behring Sea as 
 a sailor before the mast; he tramped about the country; he traveled 
 as a war correspondent, and went on an adventurous voyage into the 
 South Seas in a 55-foot yacht. He wrote a great number of books, 
 all of which show a quick understanding of the needs of humanity. 
 Some of his works are thoughtful studies of social conditions. His 
 best known books are: The Call of the Wild, The Sea Wolf, and 
 The Mutiny of the Elsinore, He was born in San Francisco in 1876, 
 and died in 1916. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE MONSTERS 
 By MORGAN ROBERTSON 
 
 In this day when science plays so great a part in life it is only 
 natural that many stories should be based on scientific knowledge. 
 Since such stories must almost always more or less distort scientific 
 \ruth in order to make the facts have story-interest they are usually 
 called "pseudo-scientific," that is, falsely scientific. 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe, who did so much for the short story, was one 
 of the first to write pseudo-scientific stories, his Descent into the 
 Maelstrom, and A Tale of the Ragged Mountains being good exam- 
 ples of his peculiar power. 
 
 The Battle, of the Monsters is a wonderfully clever pseudo-scien- 
 tific story. In it we enter the minute world of the miscroscope, 
 every character being infinitesimally small. 
 
 The story tells how a microbe of Asiatic cholera enters the veins of 
 John Anderson at the same moment when he is bitten by a rabid 
 dog. The "white, corrugated wall" is the dog's tooth; the army of 
 dog-faced creatures is composed of the microbes of rabies, or hy- 
 drophobia. The vibrant roar heard from time to time, is the beat 
 of the man's heart. In the veins the cholera microbe finds the 
 red corpuscles and other cells and microbes that exist in the blood, 
 and also the white corpuscles that, according to Metschnikoff, act as 
 destroyers of the microbes of disease. We go with the cholera 
 
CRITICAL COMMENT 287 
 
 microbe through the series of blood vessels into the heart and thence 
 back mto the arteries and veins, all the time seeing the struggle 
 between the beneticent white corpuscles and the deadly microbes of 
 rabies. We see the desperate eliorts to keep the inicrubes of rabies 
 from entering the cells and finding their way to the brain. As the 
 microbes of rabies reproduce they begin to wm the battle. The 
 cholera microbe, himself lighting the hosts of rabies, is about to be 
 overcome, when the physician's injection of antitoxin brings a new 
 army to light the dog-faced creatures. Kow that the danger of 
 rabies has been overcome attention is paid to the hero of the story, 
 who declares himself to be the microbe of Asiatic cholera. At once 
 the police guardians of the blood, the white corpuscles, close on 
 him and destroy him. Thus John Anderson escapes all danger 
 from rabies and from cholera, to both of which he had been ex- 
 posed. The battle, if microscopic, had been real, had been on a 
 grand scale, and had been of tremendous importance. 
 
 The pseudo-scientific story could have no better illustration. Ev- 
 ery detail is clear, vi\dd with action, and tense with interest. There 
 is no turning aside to give scientific information — nothing that is 
 dry-as-dust. The microbes and corpuscles, without losing their es- 
 sential characteristics, speak and act in ways that we can understand. 
 That is why the story is so successful. It is a human story, based 
 upon human interest. Familiar language, familiar ways of thought, 
 events that we can understand, convey to us information on a learned 
 scientific subject— the work of the white blood corpuscles. 
 
 Morgan Robertson, 1861-1915, was born in Oswego, N. Y. From 
 1877 to LS86 he lived the life of a sailor at sea. Gifted with natural 
 literary abilitv he turned to wanting, and wrote a number of dis- 
 tinctly original stories, most of them about the sea, such as Spun 
 Yarn, Masters of Men, Shipmates, and Down to the Sea. 
 
 Metschnikoff's theory. The great Russian physiologist, Iliya Metschni- 
 kofT, 1845-1016, taught that the white blood corpuscles act as de- 
 stroyers of disease microbes. 
 
 The wounds of Milton's warring angels. In Milton's Paradise Lost the 
 aneels, wounded in the war in heaven, at once recovered. 
 
 Darwin. Charles Darwin. 1809-1882 The great English naturalist, 
 founder of the "Darwinian Theory" of evolution from lower forms. 
 
 Pasteur. Louis Pasteur, 1822-1805. The great French microscopist, 
 and student of hydrophobia. He was the first to inoculate for 
 
 hydrophobia. , . . x. jt- 
 
 Koch. Robert Kooh, 184.'?-1010. a great German physician who dis- 
 covered the bacilli of tuberculosis and of cholera. 
 
288 CRITICAL COMMENT 
 
 A DILEMMA 
 By S. WEIR MITCHELL 
 
 A popular type of story leaves the reader, at the conclusion, to 
 choose one of two endings, either of which is open to objections. 
 Such a story sets the reader's mind at work, leads him to review 
 every part of the story, and leaves a peculiarly lasting impression 
 of construction and emphasis. In stories of this sort there is care- 
 ful exclusion of everything that does not tend to lead to, or to 
 increase, the difficulty. 
 
 A Dilemma makes complete preparation for the final puzzle by 
 giving all the necessary facts, and all the motives for possible action, 
 or non-action. When the reader reviews all that has been said, and 
 sees how cleverly the story is constructed, he finds that the difficulty 
 of solution appears even gTeater than at first. 
 
 Dr. S. Weir Mitchell, 1829-1914, was born in Philadelphia, and 
 there spent most of his life. As a physician he wrote many medical 
 books, and became one of the most distinguished neurologists in the 
 world. His unusual ability led to his becoming member of many 
 learned scientific societies in this country and in Europe. In spite 
 of his active medical work he found time for much writmg of a 
 purely literary nature. Such books as Hugh Wynne, The Adven- 
 tures of Francois, and Dr. North and His Friends, are distinctly 
 original American contributions, and made their author unusually 
 popular. 
 
 Empress-Queen Maria Theresa. Maria Theresa, 1717-1780. Arch- 
 duchess of Austria, Queen of Hungary, and wife of Emperor Francis 
 I of Austria. One of the most interesting and notable women in 
 history. 
 
 THE RED HEADED LEAGUE 
 By A. CONAN DOYLE 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe was the first author to succeed in the "detective 
 story." His Murders in the Rue Morque, The Mystery of Marie 
 Roget, and The Purloined Letter are among the first stories of their 
 type. Since Poe's time there have been all sorts of detective 
 stories, — good, bad, and indifferent, — from cheap penny-dreadfuls 
 to elaborate novels. Poe's method has been followed in nearly 
 every one, whether written in this country, or abroad, as by Sir 
 Arthur Conan Doyle in England, Emile Gaboriau in France, or 
 Anton Chekhov in Russia. 
 
 Of all the thousands who have tried their hands in writing 
 detective stories Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has won the most pleas- 
 ing success. His Sherlock Holmes is a world-known character. 
 
CRITICAL COMMENT 289 
 
 The Red Headed League is an admirable example of the author's 
 method. The story is told by the hero's friend, Dr. Watson, allow- 
 ing opportunity for close appearance of reality, and for unstinted 
 praise. The problem is mtroduced at first hand, apparently with 
 every detail. To a certain degree we are allowed to enter the 
 series of deductive reasonings pursued by Sherlock Holmes. We 
 are given a brilliant series of events, and then the final solution. 
 Occasional hints at other work performed by Sherlock Holmes 
 tend to awaken further interest. There is such closeness to life, 
 realistic character drawing, good humor, and natural conversatiuii, 
 that the stoiy, — like all the four books of the Sherlock Holmes 
 series, — is most attractive. 
 
 Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was born in Edinburgh in 1859. Both 
 his father and grandfather achieved fame as artists. Sir Arthur 
 began life as a physician and surgeon, but soon found his real 
 work in letters. He has written a number of our best historical 
 novels. The White Company, Micah Clarke, The Refuges, Sir 
 Nigel, etc., and four books of stories about Sherlock Holmes, as 
 well as much other work both in prose and in verse. 
 
 Omne ignotum pro magnifico. Whatever is unknown is thought to be 
 
 magnificent. 
 Sarasate. A famous Spanish violinist, 1844-. 
 Partie carree. A party of four. 
 "L'homme c'est rien — I'oeuvre c'est tout." The man is nothing — the 
 
 work is everything. 
 Gustave Flaubert. 1821-1880. One of the greatest French novelists. 
 George Sand. The pseudonym of the Baroness Dudevant, 1804-1876, a 
 
 great French novelist and playwright. 
 
 ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK 
 By OWEN JOHNSON 
 
 In One Hundred in the Dark Owen Johnson makes one of the 
 characters say that the peculiar fascination of the detective story 
 lies more in the statement of the problem than in the solution. 
 "The solution does n't count. It is usually banal ; it should be 
 prohibited. What interests us is, can we guess it?" 
 
 One Hundred in the Dark illustrates that type of detective story 
 that presents a problem but gives no solution. Giving all the 
 information that one could be expected to have, it presents a 
 problem with several different solutions possible. At the end of 
 the story the problem is left unsolved — the reader is "in the dark." 
 but, because his mind has been awakened, he is fascinated. The 
 author has gone further than usual, for he gives the story as if 
 told in a club at the conclusion of a conversation in which several 
 
290 CRITICAL COMMENT 
 
 persons have taken part. The story is followed by further con- 
 versation that suggests a second problem — what did the members 
 of the club think of the person who told the story? The result 
 is that the author has cleverly established a definite setting, has 
 aroused interest in the type of stoi*y to be told, and has emphasized 
 the problem by giving it a new interest in the light of the ques- 
 tion : What part did the members of the club think Peters played 
 in the stoiy that he himself told? 
 
 Owen Johnson was born in New York in 1878. He turned his 
 college life at Yale into literary account in his interesting novel. 
 Stover at Yale. He is the author of numerous short stories and 
 plays. 
 
 Bon mots. Bright sayings. 
 
 De Maupassant. Guy de Maupassant, 1850-1893. A celebrated French 
 
 novelist and poet. In Fort comme la Mort (Strong as Death) he 
 
 tells of the life of fashionable society. 
 The Faust theme. A reference to the great tragedy of Faust by the 
 
 German poet, Goethe, 1749-1832, Faust personifies humanity with 
 
 all its longings. 
 The Three Musketeers, etc. The Three Musketeers, by Alexander Dumas, 
 
 p^re, 1803-1870; Trilby, by George du Maurier, 1834-1896, and *S•o^ 
 
 diers Three, by Rudyard Kipling, 1865-, all tell stories of the close 
 
 comradeship of three men. 
 Vie de Boheme. Scenes de la vie de Boheme by Henri Murger. The 
 
 opera La Boheme is based upon this book. 
 Bluebeard and The Moonstone. In the stories of Blueheard, and The 
 
 Moonstone, a famous mystery story by Wilkie Collins, 1824-1889, 
 
 curiosity plays a leading part. 
 Watteaulike. A reference to the conventional pictures of shepherd- 
 esses by Jean Antoine Watteau, a celebrated French painter, 1684- 
 
 1721. 
 Fines herbes. Vegetable greens. 
 En maitre. As master. 
 
 A RETRIEVED REFORMATION 
 By O. HENRY 
 
 The story of self-sacrifice has appealed to people in all times, 
 whether it appears in history, — as in the partly legendary story of 
 Arnold von Winkelried, who gathered the Austrian spears against 
 his breast in order that his comrades might make a way through the 
 ranks of the enemy, — or in fiction, as in Dickens' A Tale of Two 
 Cities. Such a story is particularly fascinating, when, as in the 
 story of Sidney Carton, it combines the idea of self-sacrifice with 
 that of fundamental change in character. 
 
 In A Retrieved Reformation 0. Henry has told, in a convincingly 
 brilliant way, how a man — always really good at heart, — even when 
 
CRITICAL COMMENT 291 
 
 set in evil ways — ^was led through love to develop his better self. 
 The greatness of Jimmy Valentine's soul is made clear by his instant 
 willingness to sacrifice every hope he had, — to lay everything* on the 
 altar of love and manliness. 
 
 The quick, realistic, kindly-humorous characterizations, the clear, 
 logical arrangement of opposing forces, the dramatic situation at 
 the climax, and the instant solution, — for which every step has 
 inevitably prepared, — point alike to a master hand in story telling. 
 
 William Sidney Porter, 1867-1910, — better known by the name, 
 "0. Henry," which he chose humorously because it is so easy to 
 write "0," and because he happened to see "Henry" as a last name 
 in a newspaper account, — achieved as much popularity as any short 
 story writer could desire. He was born in North Carolina, and 
 brought up in Texas, where he gained the little schooling that fell 
 to his lot. He became a sort of rolling stone, working on various 
 periodicals, living in South America, working in Texas as a drug 
 clerk, engaging fully in literary work in New Orleans, and finally 
 coming to New York City where he sold stories as fast as he could 
 write them — and his powers of production were most astonishing. 
 He was only 42 when he died, but, in spite of his wandering life, he 
 had made himself, with almost careless ease, the master of the short 
 story. He wrote quite untrammeled by convention or custom, using 
 slang, coining words, writmg in any way he pleased, but always, in 
 reality, following the best principles of story telling, making his 
 plots clear, convincing, and full of the unexpected humors of life. 
 With it all he wrote with a spirit of gentleness and often touched 
 real pathos. His favorite method was to surprise the reader by 
 bringing him to a most unexpected climax. 
 
 BROTHER LEO 
 By PHYLLIS BOTTOME 
 
 The world is so full of selfishness, and resulting misery, that 
 every one more or less often thinks how different life would be if 
 every individual were to be ideal. Somewhere, somehow, we think, 
 must be a Utopia where everything is as it should be. 
 
 Brother Leo is not a fantastic dream of some unreal place. It is 
 a simply beautiful story of a monk who had known no other life 
 than that in his monastic retreat on an island near Venice. There, 
 in a sort of heaven on earth, in a life of extreme simplicity, the 
 young man, untouched by the world, developed all that should 
 'characterize us in our daily lives. For one day he goes out into the 
 city, comes into touch with its veneer and dishonesty, and goes 
 back joyfully, without the slightest regret, into his calm retreat. 
 
 The story, or character sketch, has no startling event. The young 
 
292 CRITICAL COMMENT 
 
 monk moves in the soft light of kindliness, a beautiful, dream-like 
 figure presented to us with sufficient realism to give verisimilitude. 
 How much better to show this modem, idealistic figure in modern 
 surroundings than to picture some one in the distant past, or in the 
 still more distant future! 
 
 Phyllis Bottome was bom in England. Her father was an Ameri- 
 can clergyman and her mother an English woman. She has spent 
 most of her life in England, although she has lived in America, 
 France and Italy. She has written many short stories, some of 
 wliich have been collected in a volume called The Derelict. 
 
 Torcello. An island six miles northeast of Venice. 
 
 Saint Francis. Francis of Assisi, 1182-1226. The founder of the 
 monastic order of Franciscans. 
 
 Poverelli. Poor people. 
 
 Rembrandt. 1607-1669. A great Dutch painter. Some of his pic- 
 tures, — especially The Night Watch, — show wonderful light effects. 
 
 Poverino. Poor little fellow. 
 
 The sin of Esau. See the Bible story in Genesis 25 : 27-34. Esau sold 
 his birthright in order to satisfy his hunger. 
 
 St. Francis' birds. St. Francis loved all animate and inanimate nature, 
 and once preached to the birds as if they could understand him. 
 
 Per Bacco, Signore. By Bacchus, Sir! 
 
 Signore Die. Lord God. 
 
 Veramente. Truly. 
 
 II Signore Die. The Lord God. 
 
 Piazzetta. An open square near the landing place in Venice. 
 
 The ducal palace. The palace of the Doges of Venice, built in the fif- 
 teenth century. 
 
 Chi lo sa? Who knows? 
 
 The column of the Lion of St. Mark's. A column in the Piazzetta bear- 
 ing a winged lion, the emblem of St. Mark. 
 
 Saint Mark's. One of the most famous and beautiful church buildings 
 in the world, originally founded in 830. Its attractive Byzantine 
 architecture and its wonderful mosaics have always given delight. 
 
 The Piazza. The chief business and pleasure center of Venice. 
 
 The new Campanile. A new tower that takes the place of the fallen 
 Campanile begun in the ninth century. 
 
 Frari. A great Venetian church built for the Franciscan Friars, 1250- 
 1350. 
 
 Titian. 1477-1576. The most famous of all Venetian painters. One 
 of the greatest artists the world has known. 
 
 Bellinis. Pictures by Giovanni Bellini, 1427 (?) -1516, a great Venetian 
 painter, and the instructor of Titian. 
 
 Andiamo. Let us go. 
 
 Palazzo Giovanelli. A Venetian palace containing a small but beauti- 
 ful collection of paintings. 
 
 Giorgiones. Pictures by Giorgione, 1477-1511, a pupil of Bellini, much 
 noted for color effects. 
 
 Florian's. A famous Venetian caf6, some 200 years old. 
 
 Speriamo. We hope. 
 
CRITICAL COMMENT 293 
 
 A FIGHT WITH DEATH 
 By IAN MACLAREN 
 
 Heroism is as great in daily life as iu battle. We live beside 
 heroic figures perhaps not recognizing their greatness. Plain, sim- 
 ple surroundings, daily scenes, everyday people, the accustomed 
 language of daily life, may all take on noble proportions. 
 
 A Fight with Death is a local color stoi-y, for it gives the dialect, 
 the way of life, the character, of certain people in a remote part of 
 Scotland. It is a story of noble type, presenting a character 
 ideal — a country doctor lighting for the life of a humble patient. 
 
 The world will always appreciate any story that finds the ideal 
 in the actual; it will appreciate it all the sooner if it is written, as 
 in this case, with plenty of action, vivid character drawing, natural, 
 everyday language, and touches of pathos and of humor, all so com- 
 bined that the story rises to climax, and wakens s>Tnpathy. 
 
 A Fight with Death is the third of a series of five simple, ex- 
 quisitely pathetic stories of Scotch life, entitled A Doctor of the Old 
 School, printed in the collection of stories called Beside the Bonnie 
 Brier Bush, by Ian Maclaren, — the pseudonym of Rev. John Wat- 
 son. The author was bom in Manningtree, Essex, in 1850. He 
 gained a large part of his education in Edinburgh University, and 
 has spent many years in intimate touch with Scotch life. In addi- 
 tion to Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush Dr. Watson has written a num- 
 ber of books, the most notable being Days of Auld Lang Syne, The 
 Upper Boom, and The Mind of the Master. 
 
 Drumsheugh's grieve. Driimsheugh is tenant of a large farm. The 
 
 "grieve" is his farm manager. • 
 Greet. Cry. 
 
 A certain mighty power. Death. 
 Sough. Breathe. 
 Thraun. Perverse. 
 Shilpit. Weak. 
 Feckless. Spiritless. 
 Pushioned. Poisoned. 
 
 Kirny aitmeal. Oatmeal with full kernels. 
 Buirdly. Strong. 
 Fecht. Fight. 
 
 Haflin. A stripling, — half-grown. 
 Dour chiel. Stubborn fellow. 
 Caller. Fresh. 
 Oxters. Armpits. 
 
 Grampians. Mountains in central Scotland. 
 Byre. Cow-barn. 
 Thole. Endure, — permit. 
 Fraikin'. Disgraceful action. 
 Glen TJrtach. A valley in the highlands. 
 
294 CRITICAL COMMENT 
 
 Jess. The doctor's old horse. 
 
 Goon and bans. Gown and bands, — clerical robes. 
 
 THE DAN-NAN-RON 
 By FIONA MACLEOD 
 
 Are there strange, mystical forces in the world that affect us in 
 spite of ourselves"? Or do our own actions rebound upon us and 
 make life '^heaven or hell" as the case may be? These questions 
 that we ask when we read Macbeth come to us when we read Fiona 
 Macleod's Dan-Nan-Rdn. 
 
 The Dan-Nan-Rdn is not wholly a story of mysticism built on the 
 idea that the weird flute-"song o' the seals" could so thrill one 
 who, perhaps, drew his ancestry from the seals, that he would go out 
 into the wild waters to live or die with his ancestral folk. The story 
 suggests all that. It hints at strange descent, magic melodies, 
 wraiths of the dead, and weird powers beyond man. This, no doubt, 
 combined with unusual setting, frequent use of the little-understood 
 Gaelic, weirdly musical verse, and romantic action, gives the story 
 an unusual atmosphere of gloom and shadow. At heart, in plain 
 fact, the story is psychological. A man on whose soul hangs the 
 memory of a crime, maddened by grief at the death of a fervently 
 loved wife, tormented in his evil hour by a deadly human foe who 
 subtly, with compelling music, plays upon his superstitions, plunges, 
 in the violence of his madness, into the sea. From that point of 
 view the man's own soul scourged him to his death. 
 
 The whole combination of weird atmosphere, tragedy, giief, con- 
 science, and superstition, is brought together in an artistic form that 
 leads to a giimly startling catastrophe — the final mad fight with the 
 seals. This is no common story of sensational event. It is a great 
 human tragedy of grief and conscience, played to the weird music 
 of the north as if by a Gaelic minstrel endowed with mystic powers. 
 
 There is something mystic indeed in Fiona Macleod. William 
 Sharp, 1856-1905, the Scottish poet, editor, novelist, biographer, 
 and critic, lived a successful life as man of letters. He did more, 
 for, beginning in 1894, he used the name, "Fiona Macleod," not as a 
 pseudonym but as that of the actual author of the most unusual, 
 brilliant, and altogether original series of poems and stories ever 
 written. Not until Mr. Sharp's death was it found that Fiona Mac- 
 leod and William Sharp were one and the same person. The whole 
 story is apparently one of dual personality. All this adds to the 
 strange fascination of Fiona Macleod's stories and poems. 
 
 Eilanmore. An island west of Scotland. 
 
 The Outer Isles. The Hebrides, or Western Isles, west of Scotland. 
 
 The Lews and North Uist. Islands of the Hebrides. 
 
CRITICAL COMMENT 295 
 
 Arran. An island west of Ireland. 
 
 Inner Hebrides. Islands of the Hebrides group, not far from the coast 
 
 of Scotland. 
 Runes. Mystical songs. 
 From the Obb of Harris to the Head of Mingulay. From one end of the 
 
 Hebrides to the other. 
 Grain spioradail. Spiritual song. 
 Barra. A southern island of the Hebrides. 
 Galloway. The extreme southwestern coast of Scotland. 
 The Mmch. The strait between the Hebrides and Scotland. 
 Caisean-feusag. Moustache. 
 Mo cailinn. My girl. 
 Kye. Cattle. 
 
 Berneray of Uist. A small island north of North Uist in the Hebrides. 
 The Sound of Harris. The sound between North Uist and Harris in 
 
 the Hebrides. 
 Anna-ban. Fair Anna. 
 Anne-a-ghraidh. Anna, my dear. 
 Gheasan. A charm, magic spell. 
 Geas. Charm. 
 Sinnsear. Ancestors. 
 
 Anna-nic-Gilleasbuig. Anna, daughter of the line of Gilleasbuig. 
 Ru' Tormaid. A place in the Hebrides. 
 Corbies. Ilavens. 
 Bata-beag. Small boat. 
 Corrie. A hollow in the side of a hill. 
 Ann-mochree. Ann, my tantalizer. 
 The black stone of Icolmkill. A famous stone at Icolmkill in the 
 
 Hebrides. 
 Oisin the son of Fionn. A character named in Gaelic legends. 
 Skye. A large island close to the western shore of Scotland. 
 The Clyde. The great estuary of the river Clyde, in the southwestern 
 
 part of Scotland, one of the most important shipping centers of 
 
 Great Britain. 
 Byre. A cow house. 
 
 Loch Boisdale. An inlet of South Uist in the Hebrides. 
 Loch Maddy. A small inlet in the Hebrides. 
 Pictish Towre. An ancient stone construction. 
 Ban Breac. The Spotted Hill. 
 Maigstir. Master. 
 
 Skua. A large sea bird something like a gull. 
 Liath. A small fish. 
 Smooring. The fireplace. 
 Rosad. A charm. 
 Sgadan. Herrings. 
 Fey. Doomed. 
 Ceann-Cinnidh. Head of the Clan. 
 
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS FOR CLASS USE 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON AND SUSANNA 
 
 1. What is the advantage of having the two characters, — Uncle 
 
 Remus and the little boy? 
 
 2. What makes the introduction effective? 
 
 3. What advantages are gained by the little boy's criticisms? 
 
 4. Show how the story maintains its interest. 
 
 5. What character distinctions ai*e made in the story? 
 
 6. Show how the story is made harmonious in every detail. 
 
 7. Write a story in which you present an ignorant man of some 
 
 familiar type telling to a neighbor an exaggerated story 
 founded on a somewhat ordinary event. 
 
 THE CROW CHILD 
 
 1. Show that the language of The Crow Child is superior to the 
 
 language of The Adventures of Simon and Susanna. 
 
 2. What distinctly literaiy effects does the author produce? 
 
 3. Make a list of the words by which the author prepares the 
 
 reader for Ruky's transformation. 
 
 4. What is the purpose of the story? 
 
 5. Make an outline that will show the principal divisions of the 
 
 story. 
 
 6. Show that every division of the story is necessary. 
 
 7. Write an original story in which you transmute a real experi- 
 
 ence into a wonder story with a moral effect. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE GREAT BELL 
 
 1. How does the story show itself to be a legendary tale? 
 
 2. How is the simple story given movement and force? 
 
 3. Show how the interest is focussed on the bell rather than on 
 
 the girl. 
 
 4. How does the author make the various sounds of the bell 
 
 effective in the story? 
 
 5. Point out the poetic elements in the story. 
 
 6. Write, in poetic form, some legend of America, "The Indian 
 
 Bride of Niagara," for example. 
 
 296 
 
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 297 
 
 THE TEN TRAILS 
 
 1. Show in what way the story is highly condensed. 
 
 2. Expand any part of the stoiy into the lull form it might have 
 
 if not told in the form of a fable. 
 
 3. How might the story have been told differently if it bad not 
 
 aimed at a moral"? 
 
 4. When is it of advantage to wTite fables? 
 
 5. Write an original fable, no longer than The Ten Trails, about 
 high school students. 
 
 *o' 
 
 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 
 
 1. Make an outline that will show the structure of the stoiy. 
 
 2. Why did the author have Avdeitch help more than one person? 
 
 3. Show how the use of realistic detail helps the story. 
 
 4. What characteristics make the story interesting? 
 
 5. Make a list of the epigrammatic expressions that occur in the 
 
 story. How do they add to the effect? 
 
 6. What is the principal lesson taught by the stor>'? 
 
 7. Compare this story with Eliot's Silas Marner, Leigh Hunt's 
 
 Ahou Ben Adhem, Lowell's The Vision of Sir Launfal, 
 Longfellow's The Legend Beautiful, and Henry Van Dyke's 
 The Other Wise Man. 
 
 8. Write an allegorical story of some length, using realistic char- 
 
 acters from daily life, leading to an effective climax, and 
 presenting a high ideal of conduct. 
 
 WOOD LADIES 
 
 1. Point out the different steps in the action. 
 
 2. What different persons take up the search? What is the effect 
 
 of the constant additions to the number of searchers? 
 
 3. Why did the author have little children, five and seven years 
 
 old, play principal parts? 
 
 4. Trace the emotions of the mother from the beginning of the 
 
 story. 
 
 5. How did the mother, at different times, explain the child's 
 
 absence? 
 
 6. Why does the author narrate nothing that is impossible? 
 
 7. Point out passages that suggest the supernatural. 
 
 8. Tell the story of the little girl in the "greeny sort of dress." 
 
 9. What is the effect of the setting? What gives occasional relief 
 
 from the setting and thereby emphasizes it all the more? 
 10. How does the style of the story add to the effect? 
 
298 SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 
 
 11. Show in what ways the story expresses delicate fancy. 
 
 12. What is the truth of the story? 
 
 13. Write an original story of supernatural beings, using sugges- 
 
 tion rather than statement, and avoiding harsh and horrify- 
 ing events. 
 
 ON THE FEVER SHIP 
 
 1. Show the steps by which the author makes us realize the 
 
 soldier's mental condition. His physical condition. 
 
 2. By what means does the author present the setting? The prin- 
 
 cipal plot elements? 
 
 3. What previous events are indicated but not told? Why are they 
 
 merely indicated? 
 
 4. Trace the steps by which we are led into full sympathy with 
 
 the love story. 
 
 5. What means does the author take to increase the interest of the 
 
 story as it nears the end? 
 
 6. Characterize the different subordinate characters introduced in 
 
 the story. Tell why every one is introduced. 
 
 7. Show that the ending of the story is entirely appropriate. 
 
 How is it made emphatic? 
 
 8. Write a story in which you show the moving effect of any 
 
 deep love, such as love for parents, brothers, sisters, or chil- 
 dren; or else write a somewhat restrained story of romantic 
 love. 
 
 A SOURCE OF IRRITATION 
 
 1. What effect is given by the question : "Well, uncle, is there 
 
 any noos?" at the beginning and at the ending of the 
 story? 
 
 2. Show how the character of old Sam Gates is essential in the 
 
 story. 
 
 3. Show how every part of the story is possible and probable. 
 
 4. Why did the aviator take Sam Gates with him? 
 
 5. Point out the characteristics of Sam's captors. 
 
 6. Show that Sam's character and actions are consistent. 
 
 7. Show that realism and local color give important contributions 
 
 to the story. 
 
 8. How is Sam unknowingly made an important person? What 
 
 is the value of this importance as a part of the story? 
 
 9. Why should Sam so quietly resume work on his return home? 
 10. Write a story in which some person of quiet, secluded life is 
 
 suddenly placed in an unusual setting and in unusual circum- 
 stances- 
 
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 299 
 
 MOTI GUJ— MUTINEER 
 
 1. Point out all that contributes to local color. 
 
 2. Point out all that shows intimate knowledge of elephants. 
 
 3. Show how the author has made the work humorous. 
 
 4. Show that the story has a deiiiiite coui'se of action that leads to 
 
 a climax. 
 
 5. Show in what ways the story is highly original. 
 
 6. Write an original story in which you use local color as a back- 
 
 ground for a story of animal life. You may write about a 
 horse, or cat, or dog, but in any case you must make your 
 stoiy have action and lead to climax. 
 
 GULLIVER THE GREAT 
 
 1. "What advantage is gained by having the story told in the 
 
 club? 
 
 2. How is the dog made the central figure? 
 
 3. What is the climax of the story? 
 
 4. Give the steps in the presentation of the dog's character. 
 
 5. Tell how we are made to sympathize with the dog. 
 
 6. What suggestive effect is gained at the end of the stoiy? 
 
 7. Write a story in which you awaken sympathy for some dumb 
 
 animal by suggesting that it has almost human emotions. 
 
 SONNY'S SCHOOLIN' 
 
 1. What is the advantage of the monologue form? 
 
 2. How is conversation indicated? 
 
 3. Point out the separate incidents that make up the story. 
 
 4. What advantage is gained by the use of dialect? 
 
 5. Point out elements of goodness in Sonny. 
 
 6. What is the character of the father? How is it presented? 
 
 7. Tell why Miss Phoebe Kellog's school was superior to all the 
 
 others. 
 
 8. Show in what way the author has produced humorous effects. 
 
 9. Write an original story in which you tell what happened to 
 
 Sonny when he came to your school. 
 
 HER FIRST HORSE SHOW 
 
 1. Why does the author introduce us to his characters in the midst 
 
 of the horse show? 
 
 2. How does the author, in the beginning of the story, make the 
 
 situation entirely clear? 
 
300 SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 
 
 3. What speeches and actions in the early part of the story serxe 
 
 to make the action in the latter part of the storj' seem 
 natural? 
 
 4. How is the girl's daring act emphasized? 
 
 5. In what ways does the author make it seem probable that the 
 
 girl could gain opportunity to ride the high-spirited horse at 
 the horse show? 
 
 6. Show in what ways the conclusion is particularly effective. 
 
 7. Write an original story concerning a school athletic meet or 
 
 contest in which one of the students, by unexpected skill and 
 courage, wins the day. 
 
 MY HUSBAXD'S BOOK 
 
 1. What is the character of the husband (a) as seen by himself? 
 
 (b) as seen by the wife? (c) as seen by the reader? 
 
 2. What is the character of the wife? 
 
 3. What produces the humor of the storv? 
 
 4. What is the advantage of having the wife so slow to see her 
 
 husband's real weakness? 
 
 5. What is the effect of the last sentence? 
 
 6. At what is the satire directed? 
 
 7. Write an original story in which you satirize, in a kindly 
 
 manner, some common failing in high school boys or girls. 
 
 WAR 
 
 1. How are we made to s^Tupathize with the young man? 
 
 2. What is the effect of the detailed description? 
 
 3. How is the emotion of the storj' presented? 
 
 4. How does the author make the storv' increase in emphasis? 
 
 5. Why is the incident of the apples introduced? 
 
 6. Why is "the man with the ginger beard" brought into the 
 
 storj' ? 
 
 7. What impression does the stor\' leave upon the reader? 
 
 8. Write a story in which you arouse indignation at some great 
 
 world evil by making the reader realize its effect on one in- 
 dividual. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE MONSTERS 
 
 1. What is the pui'pose of the phj'sician's notes at the beginning 
 
 and at the ending of the storv? 
 
 2. Show how the author has given story--interest to scientific ma- 
 
 terial. 
 
 3. Point out the characteristics of the different characters. 
 
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 301 
 
 4. Trace the development of the story to its climax. 
 
 5. By what means does the author make his scientific material 
 
 clear 1 
 
 6. How does the author arouse our sympathy? 
 
 7. Point out the ways in which this story differs from most others. 
 
 8. Write an original story in which you turn some scientihc in- 
 
 formation into storj' form by making definite characters per- 
 form a series of actions that lead to a climax. You may 
 choose something as simple as the pumping of water from a 
 well, the action of electricity in lighting a lamp, or the burn- 
 ing of a piece of coal. 
 
 A DILEMMA 
 
 1. Point out all the ways in which the author prepares for the 
 
 puzzle at the end of the stoiy. 
 
 2. Show in what way the author makes the story seem reasonable. 
 
 3. Show in what way character description adds to the interest 
 
 of the story. 
 
 4. How does the author emphasize the puzzle? 
 
 5. Write a sequel to the story, giving a solution for opening the 
 
 box, but leading to a new problem as difficult as the first. 
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAUGE 
 
 1. How does the opening lead one to think the storj' has unusual 
 
 interest ? 
 
 2. Show how the author manages to keep the mystery to the end. 
 
 3. Outline the parts of the story. 
 
 4. Point out touches of unusual originality. 
 
 5. What are the characteristics of Sherlock Holmes? 
 
 6. What is the author's method in telling the story? 
 
 7. Show how the author uses conversation. 
 
 8. Write an original story involving mystery, leading, with 
 
 sufficient action, to a climax, and depending upon the use of 
 deductive reasoning. 
 
 ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK 
 
 1. Point out the advantages derived from the setting. 
 
 2. How much of the story depends upon character? 
 
 3. What is your opinion of the literarv theories presented? 
 
 4. How does this story differ from A Dilemma? 
 
 5. How many separate stories are contained in One Hundred in 
 
 the Dark? 
 
 6. Give the several possible solutions of the principal story. 
 
302 SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 
 
 7. What part did Peters play in the principal story? 
 
 8. Of what value are the hearers' comments on the story? 
 
 9. How does the story differ from most other stories? 
 
 10. Write a story of school life, presenting a problem capable of 
 several solutions, but leaving the reader to make the final 
 solution. 
 
 A RETRIEVED REFORMATION 
 
 1. Show in what w^ay the first few paragraphs give an unusual 
 
 amount of information in small space. 
 
 2. What is our first impression of Jimmy Valentine? 
 
 3. What are Jimmy Valentine's good characteristics as seen in the 
 
 early part of the story? 
 
 4. What are the characteristics of Ben Price? 
 
 5. By what method does the author give the characteristics of the 
 
 minor characters? 
 
 6. How do you account for Jimmy Valentine's reformation? 
 
 7. How did Ben Price find where Jimmy Valentine lived? 
 
 8. How does the author give the impression of a contest? 
 
 9. Why did Jimmy Valentine ask for Annabel's rose? 
 
 10. What forces are brought into full play at the end of the story? 
 
 11. Why do we admire both Ben Price and Jimmy Valentine? 
 
 12. Write an original story in which you show the full establish- 
 
 ment of naturally good characteristics, and the development 
 of a spirit of sacrifice. Make your story rise to a surprising 
 conclusion. 
 
 BROTHER LEO 
 
 1. In what way is the style appropriate to the theme? 
 
 2. Show how the author has gained unity. 
 
 3. What makes the story seem true to life? 
 
 4. How does Brother Leo differ from other men? 
 
 5. What ideals does the story present? 
 
 6. Why did the author make the events of the story so simple? 
 
 7. Write a character study of some person who has unworldly 
 
 ideals, — an old lady, a sister of charity, a member of the 
 Salvation Army, a missionary, or a devoted scientist. 
 
 A FIGHT WITH DEATH 
 
 1. What advantage is gained by the use of dialect? 
 
 2. How is the story made to appeal to our sympathies? 
 
 3. How is the country doctor made heroic? 
 
 4. Point out all the ways in which the doctor's character is empha- 
 
 sized. 
 
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 303 
 
 5. How much of the worth of the story is due to local color? 
 
 6. Point out examples of pathos; of humor. Why have both been 
 
 used? 
 
 7. Write a story of heroism in ordinary life. Use the slang, or 
 
 the dialect of daily life as you have actually heard it, as a 
 means of increasing the effect. Be sure to make your story 
 tell of action as well as of character. Make it rise to a 
 climax. 
 
 THE DAN-NAN-RON 
 
 1. Why is pei*sonal appearance emphasized in the beginning of the 
 
 story? 
 
 2. Point out examples of poetic fancy. 
 
 3. Show how the author's style of writing contributes to the effect 
 
 the story produces. 
 
 4. Show how great a part belief in the supernatural is made to 
 
 play. 
 
 5. How much of the story depends upon character? 
 
 6. What is the effect of the verse? 
 
 7. What keeps the story from being merely sensational? 
 
 8. What part does madness play in the story? 
 
 9. What is the author's purpose in using so much Gaelic? 
 
 10. Show in what ways the story is true to ordinary mental action. 
 
 11. How do you account for all the events that take place? 
 
 12. How does the author give the strong atmospheric effects? 
 
 13. In what ways is the story unusual? 
 
 14. What gives the story its great power? 
 
 15. How does the story affect you? 
 
 16. Write an original story in which you make conscience play a 
 
 great part, especially when spurred on by superstitious feare. 
 
 THE END 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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