THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 AND 
 
 BOLDERO 
 
THE 
 KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 AND 
 
 BOLDERO 
 
 BY 
 HENRY MILNER RIDEOUT 
 
 Author of "White Tiger," "The Far Cry," Etc 
 
 New York 
 
 DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 
 
 1918 
 
> 
 
 ^ 
 
 Copyright, 1918, by 
 DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 
 
To 
 
 FRANCES 
 
 S. V. B. V. 
 
 H. M. R. 
 
 ^72m 
 
CONTENTS 
 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGB 
 
 I. Young Blood and Old Tricks ... 3 
 
 II. Shoeing the Ass 15 
 
 III. Wayfarers \ . . . 27 
 
 IV. The Ligurian Lady 41 
 
 V. Losses by the Way 55 
 
 VI. How Jackdabos Became a Father . . 67 
 
 VII. The Map and the Place 81 
 
 VIII. Goiffon's Garden 92 
 
 IX. Man-Traps 103 
 
 X. Exeunt Omnes 115 
 
 XI. KoiA Stream 126 
 
 XII. Guests of the Poor Devil .... 138 
 
 XIII. The Saracens' Path 150 
 
 XIV. Selling the Ass 161 
 
 XV. Callers 175 
 
 XVI. A Matter of Antiquity 186 
 
 XVIL Failure 197 
 
 BOLDERO 
 
 Chapters I to XTV 
 
THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 YOUNG BLOOD AND OLD TRICKS 
 
 Afternoon drowsiness, early spring warmth, cov- 
 ered the old stone ramparts of Aigues-Mortes. 
 Through heavy embrasures from which long-forgot- 
 ten sentinels had watched Saint Louis and his Cru- 
 saders marching to their fleet, the sunshine now cast 
 broad stripes and wedges of light over a deserted 
 platform. In one of the brightest of these, under a 
 turret, Jackdabos sat cross-legged, refitting a block of 
 stone into the floor. A big brindle cur, his friend 
 Puig's dog, lay snoring beside him. The young man's 
 trowel made the only other sound, as it clinked on the 
 aged stone, or scraped fresh mortar neatly into the 
 surrounding crack. 
 
 ** There!*' sighed Jackdabos, when he had made all 
 smooth round the block. **Now let us put our seal 
 on this work/' 
 
4 . /. TIJE KEr OF THE FIELDS 
 
 What he had been doing, why he should have pried 
 that particular loose stone out of place, looked under 
 it, and put it back, one cannot say. Jackdabos him- 
 self could hardly have told. He was born to pry and 
 to search, without knowing just what his fancies 
 meant. 
 
 ''How shall I write it?'' he mused, taking out from 
 his rusty brown velveteen clothes a carpenter's pen- 
 cil. **Let me think." 
 
 Thinking came lightly to this young man. He 
 smiled, and flourished his carpenter's pencil, compos- 
 ing imaginary words on the sunlight above the smooth 
 edges of the mortar. As he sat there cross-legged, 
 his shining black eyes ready to catch an idea, he 
 seemed the living brother of that Egyptian scribe in 
 the Louvre, who waits forever, so intent and knowing, 
 to write down somebody's next word, foreseen but not 
 yet spoken. Jackdabos had the same clear, elfin 
 shrewdness in his brown face, the same upward quirk 
 of the lips, the same alert, compact body. There, 
 however, the resemblance ended ; for he was no terra- 
 cotta statue, but a youngster of flesh and blood — ^lean 
 flesh and hot blood — who could do anything with his 
 quick little hands except manage a pen. 
 
 "Et zou!'' he muttered, and wrote on the mortar. 
 First he wrote in modern Greek. It proved a rather 
 illiterate performance. Jackdabos knew that much, 
 and frowned. 
 
YOUNG BLOOD AND OLD TRICKS 5 
 
 *'Pass up the Greek!'* said he, and erased it. 
 
 Again he wrote, this time in English. 
 
 **My trowell is the scourage of god, where shee goes, 
 nobody ..." 
 
 Once more he paused, frowned, and erased the 
 words. 
 
 ''Pass up the English!" 
 
 He sat staring down over the bare inner edge of the 
 ramparts, letting his thoughts rove across the sleepy, 
 encircled town, the huddling pattern of Aigues- 
 Mortes, a dull red-and-chestnut mosaic in tiled roofs. 
 Then he gripped his carpenter's pencil afresh, bent 
 down, and carefully printed on the mortar : 
 
 **Ma truelle est le fleau de Dieu; oil elle est passee, 
 rJierhe ne pousse jamais.** 
 
 He pored fondly over this inscription. 
 
 *'Ah, magnificent!" he cried. **They will under- 
 stand that!" 
 
 Throwing down the pencil, he clapped his hands. 
 Puig's brindle dog woke at the noise, yawned, 
 stretched, and gazed with bleary eyes along the 
 ramparts. 
 
 *'It is not without magnificence, my child?" said 
 Jackdabos. 
 
 The dog did not answer, even by a look. 
 
 ** Perhaps you are right," sighed the young man, 
 and fell to studying his work more critically. Gloom 
 settled over his face. It was a face that easily changed 
 
6 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 from brightness to melancholy. ''You are right/' he 
 concluded. ''My grammar's bad somewhere. That 
 is always the trouble, Jackdabos. You can read, you 
 can speak languages, you can understand. But you 
 know nothing. Nothing at all. And you never find 
 what you are looking for.*' 
 
 He rose, went to the battlements, and leaning there, 
 fell gradually into a day-dream. From the southwest 
 blew a warm, vernal wind, bringing to his nostrils a 
 faint smell of Mediterranean sea-water, mingled now 
 and then with sharper whiffs of phosphate from 
 vineyards bordering the Camargue. Creeks of the 
 Little Rhone, canals, inlets of the Gulf, wriggled in 
 silver threads across a pale-green expanse of marsh- 
 land, sparkling as though they were the only things 
 alive. Above this drowsy present, King Louis the 
 Crusader's ramparts, massive and forlorn, reared 
 their long flanks as yellow-gray as wood-ashes. A 
 feeling of desolation, mild like the sunshine, vague 
 like the spring breeze, came over Jackdabos. He 
 leaned, watched, and grew still as any part of the old 
 walls. 
 
 **We dream but a little while," thought the young 
 man. "What is our dream? Building, destroying, 
 building up again — and pouf! we are gone. But 
 Nature dreams forever, and knows the signification 
 of the dream." 
 
 Then he woke, and snapped his fingers. 
 
YOUNG BLOOD AND OLD TRICKS 7 
 
 *'Ah, the devil!" he scoffed. ''Let us sign our 
 work, at least. ' ' 
 
 Returning to where his trowel lay, he squatted once 
 more, took pencil, and began to write : 
 
 "Jackdahos a travaille ci-dessous, le . . ." 
 
 Puig^s dog suddenly growled, and rose by one- 
 half, that is, to the height of his front legs. The hair 
 bristled on his powerful neck and shoulders. 
 
 ''Quiet, my child!" cried Jackdabos, angrily. It 
 seldom happened (and it never pleased him) that an- 
 other pair of ears, on man or beast, should prove 
 quicker of hearing than his own. **He! Arrive! 
 Lie down, thou devil of mustard hue ! ' * 
 
 He turned as he spoke, and saw, at the height of 
 his first glance, two pretty little feet just clearing the 
 topmost stair of the turret. Admirable feet, they 
 wore tidy brown boots with red rubber soles ; and on 
 them stood a girl. The sight of red rubber pleased 
 him, for it showed that his hearing had not been at 
 fault. 
 
 "Ah!" said the girl, taken by surprise. 
 
 Jackdabos refrained from looking up. He did not 
 stare at women, though he observed them well enough. 
 
 "Good doggie," said this one, in a pleasant, low 
 voice. "Good old boy!" 
 
 "Take care!" cried Jackdabos. "Prenez garde, 
 mademoiselle, il n'est pas flatteur!" 
 
 She foolishly reached forward to pat the beast, who 
 
8 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 made ready for a spring. Just in time, Jackdabos 
 let drive a hard little fist, which crashed on the dog's 
 muzzle and sent him sprawling to. the verge of the 
 platform. 
 
 * * Oh, cruel ! ' ' cried the girl. ' ' Sir, that was cruel ! * ' 
 
 Jackdabos rose, and bowed low. He knew the 
 brindle cur much better than she; full well he knew 
 that in one more second, but for his blow, the girl's 
 hand would have learnt how teeth can tear ; neverthe- 
 less he bowed, accepting her rebuke in silence. 
 
 '*Are you always cruel to him?'* 
 
 He bowed again. 
 
 ** Always, mademoiselle, in the service of beauty 
 and innocence.'' A grave smile flickered about his 
 eyes. **It is not often so — ^necessary." 
 
 She looked at him, ill pleased to meet such grace 
 in a shabby figure. He returned her look, quietly, 
 with due respect. Beautiful, he called her; and for 
 the matter of beauty he had a quick eye. Young, 
 slight, proud, dressed in blue-gray homespun, she 
 over-topped him by a head, — a blonde head, confi- 
 dently poised. In one hand, like a wand to indicate 
 her will, she carried a stick of polished yellow rat- 
 tan, bright as her hair. Dark-blue eyes, wide open 
 and set rather wide asunder, sparkled in disapproval. 
 
 "With permission," said Jackdabos; and he sat 
 down to finish the legend on the mortar. "While he 
 collected his wits to recall the date, Puig's dog came 
 
YOUNG BLOOD AND OLD TRICKS 9 
 
 slinking back, nuzzled his ear, and lay down beside 
 him again in the sun. 
 
 *'At least,'' the girl declared, *'your dog bears no 
 grudge.'' 
 
 *'No." Jackdabos thoughtfully sucked his pencil. 
 **He is good at bottom, only a fool on top. *Kind 
 enough, but a huge feeder; and he sleeps by day 
 more than the wild-cat.' " 
 
 Remembering the date, he began to write, mean- 
 while conscious that his visitor stood watching him 
 closely. 
 
 ** That's odd," she said. *'I never heard that of 
 wild cats ; though when you think, it must be true, if 
 they are like tame ones." 
 
 ** Mademoiselle, " returned the writer, carelessly, 
 
 is not then a student of the natural history?" 
 No," she admitted. 
 Of poetry, perhaps? No?" 
 
 **Why, of course I" she replied indignantly, as 
 though shocked. '*I love poetry." 
 
 *'Ah, ah!" Jackdabos mumbled his pencil with- 
 out looking up. **And the drama?" 
 
 She flicked her boot impatiently with the rattan 
 stick. 
 
 *'How siUy," was her answer. '* Everybody, who 
 has any sense at all, adores the stage." 
 
 **Ah, ah!" repeated her questioner. **Yes, yes. 
 Poetry and — the stage." 
 
 It 
 
 n 
 
10 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 He tossed a flying glance in her direction. She 
 caught the barest glint of wickedness in his black 
 Egyptian eyes, and was tempted, for a moment, to 
 fancy that this little velveteen vagabond who squatted 
 there so tranquil and preoccupied, had secretly been 
 laughing at her. It was an odd fancy. Indeed, she 
 must have been mistaken; for there he sat, lost in 
 contemplation, tapping a march with his pencil on the 
 stone floor. 
 
 **Is it your trade," she asked, "to keep ruins in 
 repair ? ' ' 
 
 '*Yes, that is what I do,*' he answered — readily, 
 and with a charming smile, because he did nothing 
 of the sort. **A8 you observe. It is perhaps not 
 interesting work, but '' he sighed — ^*' harmless.'* 
 
 This modest melancholy had begun to please her, 
 when he spoiled it by suddenly adding: 
 
 '*I can do anything.'* 
 
 Her dark blue eyes opened wider than ever, and 
 more scornfully. 
 
 "Can you indeed r' 
 
 "That is to say," he explained, "anything with 
 my hands." 
 
 "For example?" she suggested, mockingly. 
 
 Jackdabos put away both pencil and trowel in one 
 capacious pocket, with his right hand, which he drew 
 forth apparently empty. 
 
 "For example," said he, unperturbed, "the calling 
 
YOUNG BLOOD AND OLD TRICKS 11 
 
 of dead things to life; the laying of a charm, a 
 spell . . .'' He held out his left hand. *'Will you 
 do me the honor to lend your rattan for a moment?*' 
 
 The girl seemed doubtful, as though considering 
 whether her talk, begun by chance, had not gone much 
 too far with this stranger; but in the act of turning 
 away, she paused, and then, curiosity conquering, 
 gave him her walking-stick with the air of one who 
 humors a child. 
 
 ** Thank you,'* said he. **Now kindly watch." 
 
 Placing the stick upright on its brass ferule, he 
 held it between his flat palms — a plain yellow stalk 
 of rattan, with a bulbous root for its head. 
 
 **The jockeys used to buy this kind at Bangalore," 
 he murmured. *'A good stick. It will obey." 
 
 Slowly, with a soothing motion, he began to stroke 
 it gently, his hands parallel, his eyes following them 
 up and down, up and down, his lips moving in a 
 whisper. 
 
 **Obey! Obey!" 
 
 Of a sudden he let go. His hands, rigid and still 
 parallel, sprang half a yard apart. Between them, 
 as if magnetized, the yellow rattan stood by itself 
 on end, all a-quiver. 
 
 **Bow," he ordered, smiling. **Bow to the pret- 
 tiest." 
 
 The stick trembled, reeled slightly, then with a 
 
12 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 queer effect of almost animate dignity, swayed for- 
 ward in her direction, once, twice. 
 
 ''Oh! What " The girl started back in dis- 
 may against the battlements; 
 
 **Have no fear/' he answered; and even while he 
 spoke, the rattan fell clattering on the stone plat- 
 form. 
 
 **What is that?" She stared like a dreamer. 
 
 He laughed quietly, as he brushed his hands. 
 
 **It is nothing, mademoiselle. A kind of charm — 
 magic, if you like — a very old trick. Moses could 
 turn 'em into a serpent; but he had no monopoly 
 of that skill, for the magicians of Egypt did the 
 same likewise, you remember." 
 
 He returned the stick to her casually, and sat 
 thinking. As for the girl, she took back her prop- 
 erty with visible repugnance, handling it in a gin- 
 gerly way, scanning it from root to ferule, ready to 
 drop it at the first sign of misbehavior. It made 
 none. The rattan was only a lifeless rattan. 
 
 * ' How queer ! ' ' She gave a doubtful laugh. * * You 
 are very — clever." 
 
 Jackdabos, musing, shook his head mournfully. 
 Just then he was trying to remember where he had 
 seen another face modelled like hers — Abroad below the 
 temples, tapering down toward the chin, and refined 
 a little too fastidiously, too perfectly, along each deli- 
 cate edge of nose and lips. 
 
YOUNG BLOOD AND OLD TRICKS 13 
 
 **Ah, bah!*' said he, snapping his fingers, impa- 
 tient and baffled. **Bah! Dia! My memory is no 
 good. The sunburn has colored you so wholesome, 
 and then your eyes, mademoiselle, are so lovely dark 
 sea blue. They drive the resemblance out of my head, 
 or I should make you a compliment. Diable, diable, 
 diable ! Ass of a memory ! ' ' 
 
 She looked down, and saw him beating his round 
 pate in despair with both fists. It was not a reas- 
 suring pantomime. Confounded, also, by the frank- 
 ness of his words, she drew silently away and left 
 him there by the snoring dog. Aigues-Mortes lay 
 under her left hand, a picture-puzzle of tiled squares 
 all fitted together, red and russet, in the afternoon 
 sun; round them curved the ramparts of the saintly 
 Crusader, tremendous, forlorn ; and she followed their 
 curve toward the Porte de la Gardette, hurrying to 
 reach the custodian's house, for her way seemed dan- 
 gerous and long. Stillness, desolation of the past, a 
 feeling as of one gone astray, surrounded and fright- 
 ened her. She smiled at these terrors, but did not 
 once look behind. 
 
 **I am awfully silly," she thought. *'I had better 
 come back into my own world." 
 
 Jackdabos remained very still, watching her blue- 
 gray figure dwindle across the gigantic are of bat- 
 tlements. When she had disappeared, he rose. 
 
14 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 "Foul donkey!'' he cried, Ms cheeks flaming with 
 anger. 
 
 He ran to the nearest embrasure, and flung his 
 trowel spinning into the sunlight toward the mel- 
 ancholy marshes veined with glittering creeks. 
 
 **You, the scourge of God! You to make a 
 charm!'* 
 
 He watched the trowel fall and bury itself in the 
 spring grass below. Ramming both hands into the 
 pockets of his velveteen, he shook his head ferociously 
 at the landscape, and ground his teeth. For a mo- 
 ment he remained thus, leaning out, wedged in the 
 parapet, like a gargoyle or a little brown goblin left 
 behind to guard that mediaeval fortress. Then he 
 laughed. 
 
 "Ah, bosh! You are no good!" he informed him- 
 self. "A trickster. A mountebank. Always showing 
 off. Monsieur Jackdabos." 
 
 He turned, to stare along the ramparts toward the 
 Porte de la Gardette. 
 
 "But she was very pretty," he sighed. "Come, 
 dog. Let us go. Come, awake ! Yes, my friend, my 
 dirt-brindle savage, that lady was of another circle 
 from ours; but she was very, very, very pretty!" 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 SHOEING THE ASS 
 
 A SMALL white donkey, wearing a bridle of scarlet 
 leather, stood hitched to an iron ring within the 
 ramparts, pensively flicking her ears in time to Puig^s 
 hammer. The forge and anvil lay just behind her 
 heels. It was a portable smithy — a handful of worn 
 tools, a bag of charcoal, and a bucket of water — set 
 up, or thrown down by chance, under a vaulted arch 
 near the town gate. Puig's hammer went cling-clang, 
 but lazily at long intervals, for he was talking. The 
 little white ass had plenty of time to doze and wake 
 again. 
 
 **Why do you think so?^' asked Puig in his quick, 
 harsh way. A sturdy, grimy, freckled rascal, with a 
 tight little reddish mustache, he stared at the bit of 
 iron cooling between his tongs. A leathern apron 
 covered him like armor from neck to ankles. No cat 
 had paler, greener eyes than Puig's, or half so full 
 of calculation. His face wore a puckered smile, not 
 of good humor, but muscular habit. '*Do you think 
 
 15 
 
16 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 at all, Barjavel, or are you talking in your sleep? 
 Why should we go to Aries? Is it, then, at Aries?" 
 He sat uncomfortably on an old paving-stone, and 
 snapped the questions over his shoulder. Behind 
 him, where sunshine brightened the bluish films of 
 his forge smoke, Barjavel, the giant, lay stretched 
 along the back wall of the vault. 
 
 **Why not?" demanded Barjavel, without stirring 
 his rotund body. He spoke through a black felt hat 
 which covered his face, but the rampart arch echoed 
 barytone music. ''Why not there? I remember a 
 certain text of the emperor Honorius — hm! Yes, 
 roughly about four hundred Anno Domini. Official 
 text." He yawned. ''It says: 'AH that the Orient, 
 all that Araby with her perfumes, all that Assyria 
 boasts of opulence, all that Africa, or fair Spain, or 
 fertile Gallia can produce, all these are found in as 
 great abundance at Aries.' " He yawned again. 
 "Ah, gods of mankind, what a memory I have ! What 
 a brain I bear!" 
 
 With a sigh of admiration, Barjavel stretched, and 
 folded his enormous hands again to sleep. 
 
 "Bah!" sneered Puig. "You always quote some 
 devilish book, and tell a useless fact. If I ask you 
 the time of day, my colossus, you answer me that the 
 Rhone is full of water, Henri Quatre is dead, and the 
 Dutch have taken Holland. How you manage this 
 learning, I don't know. Where do you read, and 
 
SHOEING THE ASS 17 
 
 when ? Never yet have I seen your bulb of a nose 
 stuck into a book, or anything but the neck of a bot- 
 tle. Bah ! Four hundred Anno Domini ? Four hun- 
 dred thousand Bulgarians of turnips!*' 
 
 Barjavel lay breathing peacefully under the black 
 hat 
 
 *'I study,'* came his drawling, muffled voice, **I do 
 my reading in the library of the locusts." 
 
 **Ah, bosh!" Puig, returning to work, thrust iron 
 into fire. * * Where is that library ? Is it open to great 
 fat ones?" 
 
 **It is not open to many," sounded the musical 
 voice under the hat. ''Indeed, it is locked. To enter, 
 one must have the key of the fields, my friend." 
 
 Puig made a wry face, and began pumping the 
 handles of a leaky bellows. The fire glowed faintly 
 in the sunlight, and his iron was slow to heat. The 
 little white ass gazed round, along her dusty flank, 
 wondering at the wheeze and the eddy of ashes. 
 
 *'And I was telling you a thing," complained the 
 blacksmith, ''of importance! A thing which might 
 fetch us all great sums of money." 
 
 "Money?" droned Barjavel, between snores. 
 "Money is not important." 
 
 Puig dropped his bellows, with a snort of irrita- 
 tion. 
 
 "You need not be so god-like! I, for my part, I 
 also do not crave money. But other people do!" 
 
18 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 The giant in the vault uncrossed his legs, re-crossed 
 them, and groaned with comfort. 
 
 *'That is- true/' he murmured. "Unluckily for 
 the world. That is where it pinches, as the scorpion 
 said.'' 
 
 While they spoke, through the deserted square came 
 a sinewy, light-stepping youngster in brown velvet- 
 een, with an ugly dog at his heels. It was Jackdabos, 
 exceedingly wide awake, and fresh from hurrying 
 across the diameter of Aigues-Mortes. Quiet, smiling, 
 he drew near the forge and plumped down on the 
 ground between the two disputants. The brindle dog 
 curled alongside his master's anvil. 
 
 ** Continue, gentlemen," said Jackdabos. '*Your 
 conversation is in the highest degree interesting." 
 
 Neither workman nor sleeper so much as looked at 
 him. The bellows puffed again, the ashes flew, the 
 iron turned a pale red, the ass lowered her long ears 
 and meditated, blinking. 
 
 ''Money or not," said Barjavel's voice, out of aii 
 apparent slumber, *'go on, my dear Puig. Tell me 
 your entire story again. What was it you wish to un- 
 earth?" 
 
 Jackdabos sat up, very attentive. 
 
 ''Unearth?" he repeated. "Ah, ah! Let me hear. 
 Recount, recount. Something to unearth?" 
 
 Puig's cat-green eyes turned a baleful stare on the 
 intruder. 
 
SHOEING THE ASS 19 
 
 **This is my concern, Jackdaw/' he declared, in a 
 jealous tone. **I'm not the clever chap of our party. 
 I can't play the romantic like you, or the poet like 
 our fat friend. But when I do talk, it's clear and to 
 the point. Further, you are not the only man who can 
 discover and unearth anything, remember that. And 
 yet again, I know wliat I'm looking for, me." 
 
 Jackdabos, with a quirk of the lips and a sidelong 
 sparkle of a glance, agreed. Crosslegged, alert, his 
 round black head bare to the sunshine, he resembled 
 more than ever the Egyptian scribe; and like that 
 gentleman, he waited pleasantly, with no hard feeling 
 for a hard word. He was still in the twenties, Puig 
 well over thirty; toward all seniors he was inclined 
 to be respectful ; and then he liked Puig, though noth- 
 ing really bound the two men in friendship, or in 
 common interest, except that each had borne arms and 
 seen fighting. 
 
 **I'm ignorant, I know little," sneered Puig, draw- 
 ing out his red-hot iron, and hammering it to the 
 form of a tiny half-oval round the anvil-point. *'But 
 that little, I can make clear. Iron-working renders 
 a man exact. Hold up, thou brute of atrocious 
 habit!" 
 
 He caught the ass by a hind fetlock, and tried the 
 glowing iron upon her hoof, amid curling smoke and 
 the bitter smell of burnt horn. Then, poking the shoe 
 
20 THE KEY OP THE FIELDS 
 
 among the coals again, he laid down the law with his 
 tongs. 
 
 "Attend/' said he, frowning. ''Here is my story. 
 One day, when I wore the red bags in Algiers, be- 
 hold, of a Sunday afternoon, I was walking a street 
 below the Kasbah, with nothing on my mind. There 
 was no noise in the crowd, all sunny and tranquil as 
 here, when by chance I turned, and lo, there wan- 
 dered past me a sort of Frenchman dressed as an 
 Arab, in long, sea-green gown, with blood bursting 
 through all down his back. I helped him home to a 
 frightful cavern of a room; and there he died, being 
 stabbed right under the left shoulder blade. Bon 
 soir! He died badly. It was not at all diverting. I 
 never knew his name, or why, or how. ' ' 
 
 Puig suddenly remembered his bellows, and fell 
 to blowing again. 
 
 * * Attend ! " he at last continued. * * This dying man 
 was grateful, though he spoke very poorly, and his 
 eyeballs were coated with blue like an old dog 'a 
 He told me how a great gold plate, a chiselled platter 
 of gold, lies buried in the garden of a Monsieur . . . 
 Monsieur Goiffon. Now this garden lies somewhere 
 on the Riviera." 
 
 The somnolent voice of Barjavel sounded from his 
 hat. 
 
 *'A plate of gold? That is trivial, unlikely, and 
 vulgar." 
 
SHOEING THE ASS 21 
 
 Puig sat erect, as though stung. His freckled face 
 grew all of a knot with rage; his tight silken mous- 
 tache bristled. 
 
 *' Vulgar?'' he cried. **"Wait! It was a work be- 
 yond price, done by a fellow — what's his name again? 
 Ah, bah, tell me! The fellow's name sounds like 
 something to eat. Tell me, now." 
 
 Both his hearers told him at once, gladly, chiming 
 in by turns with satire. 
 
 "Langouste a rAmericaine." 
 
 ** Sausages of Coron the Elder." 
 
 '^Ecrevisses." 
 
 *'(Eufs durs." 
 
 "Degustation of oysters." 
 
 Puig met this impudence with a lofty and forcible 
 calm. He began punching nail-holes in the little red- 
 hot shoe. When his hammer had rung many strokes, 
 and he had been sufficiently implored, he bethought 
 himself, and said : 
 
 **No. It was Italian. And nothing to eat, after all. 
 What the devil's that name? Come! How do you 
 call matches in Italian, wax vestas? You don't 
 know." 
 
 **Cerini," said Jackdabos. 
 
 Puig punched another hole, before the shoe became 
 covered again with the gray scales of cooling. 
 
 **you have it," he declared, nodding. ** That's the 
 name, or next door. Cellini. ' ' 
 
22 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 The giant sleeping in the vault rose all of a piece, 
 sat Tip, and whacked both feet on the stone floor. 
 
 " Cellini?'' he bellowed, catching his hat as it fell. 
 "Benvenuto Cellini? Why under the stars couldn't 
 you say so before? Pig of good fortune! This be- 
 comes a practical matter." 
 
 Barjavel, roused from his noonday dream, had the 
 majesty of a lion, but a careless, unkempt, rather 
 merry lion with black hair. His mane and beard, 
 darker than jet, covered with tousled wilderness all 
 his great face, except a pair of ruddy cheekbones, an 
 Olympian forehead, jovial red lips, and big, sleepy 
 gray eyes beginning to glow. When he yawned, as 
 now, his teeth flashed carnivorous. Of commanding 
 size and presence, but clothed in rusty, crumpled 
 black serge, he stretched like an Assyrian king re- 
 covering from a spree. Yet no debauchery hovered 
 about the man ; his eyes were as clear as a champion's, 
 and his huge frame had nothing to do with corpu- 
 lence. 
 
 **Benvenuto Cellini?" he sang again. **Go on. 
 You begin to talk sense." 
 
 Puig looked shifty and doubtful. 
 
 "What's Cellini, anyway?" he said. "Something 
 good? Something fashionable? Money in him? Is 
 Cellini fashionable, or has he been a long time dead?" 
 
 Barjavel frowned mightily. 
 
 "Don't have a petty mind, Puigo," he answered. 
 
SHOEING THE ASS 23 
 
 **Good? Something good? No, the best. Cellini, 
 king of liars, emperor of goldsmiths, god of all splen- 
 did line-workers. Cellini, le hienvenu: 
 
 ** 'Welcome he mounts, as Welcome down he came 
 Into the flower of this good Tuscan land. * 
 
 The dirty old son-of-a-gun ! If you have stumbled on 
 the track of anything Tie made, allow me to accom- 
 pany you!'' 
 
 Jackdabos cracked his fists together. 
 
 **Omen! An omen!*' he cried, and made his two 
 friends stare at him. ** Cellini? Hold hard. That 
 was the very thing I couldn't remember. Just now on 
 the ramparts I met a girl, and her face was like Cel- 
 lini's Ganymfide, that restoration of a statue, fine, 
 but a little too fine, along the edges." 
 
 '^Oho," said Puig unctuously, **you met a girl, did 
 you?" 
 
 He gave Barjavel a wink. The young man flushed 
 indignantly, and remained silent. For a time the 
 flow of their talk was broken. A long, covered cart, 
 drawn by two plump Camargue roans, rattled across 
 the cobbles of the Place, and halted before the Cafe 
 of the Universe, where the driver, a gypsy-looking 
 fellow, descended briskly to get a drink. A few chil- 
 dren — solemn, brown-eyed creatures loitering — came 
 and paused near the forge-fire to watch the shoeing of 
 
24 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 the ass. When they had passed on, disappointed at 
 finding Puig's work so slack, and when the driver, 
 wiping his lips, had remounted his cart and driven 
 rumbling away, Barjavel resumed the discussion. 
 
 *'My dear Jackdaw,'^ said he, with a gleam of pa- 
 ternal benevolence in his eyes, ^'pardon me. I have 
 no doubt the young lady '' He paused, and re- 
 peated the noun with emphasis — ''the young lady 
 was of a rare and beautiful design. But now con- 
 tinue, my Puig, my brave donkey-farrier. Where is 
 this Cellini plate of yours to be seen? Do you know 
 where Monsieur Goilffon's garden is? I might be of 
 help '' 
 
 Puig the surly began punching holes again. He 
 plainly felt himself to be rebuked. 
 
 *'Goiffon's garden,*' he replied, without looking 
 up, *'is somewhere past Monte Carlo, and again, 
 somewhere beyond a place called Kochers Kouges.*' 
 
 *'0h,*' said Barjavel, **I know, then. It's in Italy, 
 that garden." 
 
 Puig burst out swearing, and spat on his hammer- 
 head. 
 
 ''What rotten luck!'' he growled. "Italy! By 
 the four corners of hell, what luck I always break 
 my nose against. No use now. We couldn't get a 
 treasure like that out of Italy, across the frontier. 
 Good-bye, gold plate! I shall stay poor all my life." 
 
 He dropped the shoe hissing into the water bucket, 
 
SHOEING THE ASS 25 
 
 fished it out, and with great energy nailed it home 
 on the ass^s hoof; then, after tweaking the points off 
 the nails, he took a long rasp and finished his job 
 neatly, so that the hoof shone a smooth clay-blue, 
 studded and rimmed as with silver. 
 
 Then, and not till then, Barjavel spoke, combing 
 his wild beard with sturdy fingers. 
 
 '*How wrong, '* he meditated, **how wrong you are 
 to despise reading, which is the antidote to despair, 
 the medicine of hope. For example. Between 1894 
 and 1907, a certain man — one single man — ^took from 
 Italy no less than the Chigi Botticelli and the bronze 
 Bindo d 'Antonio Altoviti. Come, Puig, you did not 
 know that?'' He turned his quizzical gray eyes to- 
 ward the farrier, and smiled. **No? Then see. 
 Reading is not only pleasant, but of great profit. 
 We learn, boys, we learn, and the past informs the 
 future. What one man has done, three men like ns 
 can do, and more. ' ' 
 
 Puig folded his fists in the lap of his leather apron, 
 and stared. 
 
 **What do you mean?" he demanded sceptically. 
 
 '*I mean,'' replied the lazy giant, brushing his hat, 
 **I mean what I said before, it's a practical matter. 
 The thing can be pulled off. Let's have a run for 
 your plate." 
 
 Jackdabos Jumped like a frog. 
 
 * ' Hurray ! " he cried. ' ' Come on ! " 
 
26 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 The smith rose awkwardly, stretched, removed his 
 apron, rolled up his tools inside it, flung the water 
 from his bucket, and with the grim look of a man in 
 a hurry, seemed ready to break camp and start at 
 once on their enterprise. 
 
 * * Wait, though ! ' ' He struck his freckled forehead 
 with impatience. '*Here stands this beastly white 
 ass to be called for. I must wait till the owner 
 comes." 
 
 He glanced angrily roundabout, then toward the 
 Porte de la Gardette. His face brightened. 
 
 *'Ah!" he snorted, with a gesture of relief. "Pat 
 on the hour! Here she comes, now.'' 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 WAYFARERS 
 
 ** A wonder!" jeered Puig. **See! A woman ar- 
 rives on time.'* 
 
 From the stone stairway by the guardian's myste- 
 rious little cavern house, two persons were, as a mat- 
 ter of fact, arriving: a straight young man in very 
 worldly tramping costume, belted and knickerbock- 
 ered, and by his side a girl in blue-gray homespun, 
 who carried a rattan stick. 
 
 **You mean,'' said Barjavel, rising, **a lady. That 
 is nothing wonderful. A lady values her word. There 
 are many words, but few ladies. Am I not right. 
 Jackdaw?" 
 
 The Jackdaw gasped, overcome with surprise and 
 embarrassment. As the two strangers came near, he 
 bowed, and was rewarded with a friendly though 
 timid glance from that pair of sea-blue eyes which he 
 had praised. The belted hero — a blond youth, plainly 
 the girl's brother — gave him an ice-cold stare, before 
 demanding : 
 
 27 
 
28 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 ''Well? Got the animal shod, have youV* 
 
 Puig removed his villainous cap, answered in a flow 
 of polite words, and, stooping, lifted the hoofs of the 
 ass one by one. 
 
 ''You see? We have done a serious piece of work. 
 I hope the lady is content?'' 
 
 "Humph!*' said her brother, purse in hand. 
 "Here's your money.' 
 
 An umpire, had one stood by, might have called 
 the shoer of the ass more courteous than the owners. 
 Perhaps the girl had some such thought, for she 
 smiled at Puig, and, stooping beside him, carefully 
 inspected the little iron rims. 
 
 "Thank you, monsieur. They are beautifully put 
 on." 
 
 Puig, appeased by the word "monsieur," grinned 
 like a lynx. It was to the girl that he bowed, even 
 while her brother dropped a silver coin into his black- 
 ened paw, saying : 
 
 "Come, Ruth, we must be off." 
 
 She turned obediently, but not before the great 
 Barjavel could pay her a compliment. 
 
 ' ' Mademoiselle. ' ' He had the best manners of them 
 all, careless good manners; for both words and ges- 
 ture came direct from the heart. "You make my 
 friend's work a pleasure. It is not child's play to 
 shape and fit such tiny shoes. You have seen this, 
 mademoiselle, and, therefore, you give him the best 
 
WAYFARERS 29 
 
 praise — praise from one who looks, and sees, and 
 understands/' 
 
 Barjavel beamed down at her like a loving but 
 highly critical father. Puig stood bobbing with de- 
 light. As for the poor Jackdaw, he had withdrawn 
 a pace under the vaulted arch, and studied their by- 
 play sadly, alone, aloof, and dejected. 
 
 '*Come along, Ruth,*' repeated the girl's brother 
 sharply, as he unhitched the head-rope of the scar- 
 let bridle from the ring, and led their donkey clatter- 
 ing out upon the cobblestones. **Much obliged to 
 you all, of course." 
 
 This time, however, his sister proved not quite so 
 docile. Holding her ground, she prolonged the talk 
 for kindness* sake. 
 
 '*Our poor beast will be grateful,'' she said. "We 
 came a long way from beyond Montpellier, and have 
 still far to go. Many thanks for your careful re- 
 pairs." She gave a nod and a smile, which suddenly 
 included Jackdabos, toward whom lifting her rattan 
 with a quick, unconscious grace, she added: **I sha'n't 
 forget the magician of Pharaoh, who made my stick 
 do me reverence." 
 
 Then, as though frightened, she was away. Be- 
 tween her and her brother, the white ass ambled across 
 the pavement, slow and submissive, with a rope of tail 
 swinging patiently to the clink of the new shoes. 
 The girl's hair glistened in the sunlight as she went 
 
30 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 talking and laughing. Her brother shook his head, 
 and blurted out reproof. 
 
 ''IVe told you, time and time again! You must 
 not go chumming with such people. They can't un- 
 derstand it. . . ." 
 
 **Why, Ralph,'' she rejoined. *'What else did we 
 come to see but ..." 
 
 Her voice died away in the distance. The belted 
 youth, turning a handsome, angry, Antinoiis profile, 
 scolded her over the donkey's ears; and so, arguing 
 in pantomime, brother and sister led their slow-footed 
 beast round the corner, and disappeared. 
 
 After they had gone, the farrier and his two friends 
 remained still watching the comer. Puig was first 
 man to speak. He provoked the Jackdaw with a jeer- 
 ing glance and a chuckle. 
 
 **Did a little magic for her, did you? Clever boy. 
 What kind?" 
 
 Jackdabos turned red as leather. 
 
 *'Say one word more like that " he began, 
 
 stammering with wrath. 
 
 Barjavel laid his broad hand on the boy's shoul- 
 der, as if by chance. 
 
 ''Well," he sighed, in deep soliloquy, gazing at the 
 corner, "well, we really lost something, you know, 
 when she took the light of her eyes away. Ah, me, 
 the world! Come," he cried, catching each man by 
 
WAYFARERS 31 
 
 an arm, ''let's not repine. Come, leave our tools with 
 daddy/' 
 
 And laughing, he pushed them away from the vault. 
 
 **Look here, though," objected Puig, while he lifted 
 his apronful of tools, and the Jackdaw caught up 
 anvil and bucket — ^**look here. Why does a beauty 
 like that girl, and a gilded snob who's nothing but 
 rhomme chic, go mucking round amongst our kind, 
 on foot, with a hairy old she-ass? It ain't natural. 
 What 's their game ? Tell me. ' ' 
 
 Barjavel the giant laughed again, and swept his 
 arm generously along the picture of their surround- 
 ings — the ancient yellow-gray walls, the Tower of 
 Constance looming against the sunlight, the garish- 
 colored fronts of house and shop across the way. 
 
 ''Romance!" he chanted. "How can I explain? 
 Nobody can. Nobody knows." He played thought- 
 fully with a broad piece of silver. "I suppose this 
 pair, though, this Ralph and his sister, are travelling 
 in a vain attempt to see what they have read in books. 
 Yes, probably. A Scotchman whose name I forget 
 once led a donkey round the Cevennes, then wrote 
 about himself and his donkey. It was a dainty, pleas- 
 ant book, which made ass-driving romantic. Hence, 
 our young friends to-day are trudging after — after 
 what? — something which it is not in them to find, 
 poor children," 
 
32 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 Puig started on to cross the road, nodding his head, 
 well satisfied. 
 
 ''You're right," he agreed. ''They'll try to do 
 the same. They'll put us low-lives into print, and 
 make us fashionable. I understand, now. She's a 
 pretty girl, but like all the rest of 'em she has an 
 oblong brain. Ah, bah ! The brain sharp as a brick, 
 entirely oblong." 
 
 This piece of slang gave so great offence to Jack- 
 dabos, that he not only ran after Puig, but seemed 
 ready to drop the anvil and fight him in the middle 
 of the street. The peace-making colossus, however, 
 shoved them both ahead with irresistible good nature, 
 and so into the Cafe of the Universe. 
 
 There sat daddy in his black coat behind the zinc 
 bar. 
 
 "Good day, my sons," he chirped, out of the per- 
 petual dusk surrounding his throne. "What is the 
 row? You are assassinated?" 
 
 Barjavel flung his money on the zinc. 
 
 "Three of the same. Father, for three bad, thirsty 
 boys. "We are off to Aries. Kindly put Puigo's batch 
 of tools in a sterilized place till we return." 
 
 A moment later the three friends were outdoors 
 again, ready for the road. Jackdabos carried over 
 his shoulder an old canvas bag, well stuffed. He 
 marched with a light, rolling swing, foot over foot 
 on a straight line, as a cat walks a fence or a man 
 
WAYFARERS 33 
 
 walks in moccasins. Puig went slouching, baggy and 
 loose-kneed, with toes turned out, and fists crammed 
 into pockets. Great Barjavel, who overtopped them 
 both, strode along jauntily, humming deep in his chest, 
 canting his head from shoulder to shoulder, with lazy, 
 half -shut eyes twinkling on the world. No one tried 
 to keep step ; and the brindle dog slunk behind them, 
 abject and stealthy, as though afraid of being sent 
 home when he had no home on earth. 
 
 " *Vigni-vignons, vignons le vin. 
 La voild, la jolV vigne au vin, 
 La voild, la joW vigne!' " 
 
 The giant ceased his humming, to stick a red clay 
 pipe into his beard, then struck a match on the town 
 gate, and said, puffing lustily : 
 
 *' Great things are before us. I feel my old bones 
 coming to life again. ' ' 
 
 So with a fair start they passed from under the 
 rampart shadow to the open country. Before them a 
 hard gray road stretched monotonous, unpromising, 
 far across flat fields toward the flat Camargue. For 
 several miles they tramped in silence, briskly and 
 doggedly; but when at Silvereal they were ferried 
 across the sad brown flood of the Lesser Rhone, and 
 had hauled on the ferryman's cable to help him, their 
 tongues were loosened again, and with pleasant loiter- 
 
34 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 ing and gossip they stepped ashore on the Camargue 
 itself. Over that plain, that strange **land of the 
 white horse and the black bull/' the afternoon sun- 
 shine wasted its last brightness. Though touched 
 with pale green spring-time, earth remained dismal, 
 tranquil, and vast, unrolled as a mere base for the sky 
 and the long, distant ranges of gleaming clouds. 
 
 '*But that's all right,'' sighed Barjavel, content- 
 edly. *' Weariness underfoot; and overhead, the un- 
 attainable." 
 
 Jackdabos turned, with a startled air. 
 
 **Do you think those things, too?" he cried, as if 
 wonderstruck. *'I never knew anybody else did." 
 
 **Ah, my boy," laughed the other, *'you are very 
 young!" 
 
 Puig, who hated such talk, lounged along in surly 
 meditation. Against the all-pervading odor of vine- 
 yard phosphate he screwed up his nose and mous- 
 tache into a twist, so that he walked perpetually 
 sneering. From a long silence he broke out: 
 
 **That young man in the passion-coat, him and his 
 sister, they're too much for me! What do the fools 
 expect, tramping a desert like this, keeping time to 
 a donkey's hind legs? Fools. That's what I say, 
 a pair of fools." 
 
 **And what," murmured Barjavel, '*do we three 
 fools expect?" 
 
 Puig had a superior grunt and an answer ready. 
 
WAYFARERS 35 
 
 "One jolly gold plate/' said he, with gusto. **A 
 piece of Cellini plate worth all the colored bank- 
 notes you can cram in your pockets, eh? Thirty 
 years it's waited for us in Goiffon's garden, two 
 metres from the cornermost orange tree toward the 
 northwest. Is that clear, or not? Come! Do you 
 often catch me mooning ? Is my name Philibert Puig ? 
 Am I talking vapors?'* 
 
 Barjavel smoked his red clay calmly, humming, 
 and rolling his head. 
 
 ''Nevertheless, we are fools, too, my dear," he re- 
 plied. *'A garden, since Adam, is the spot where one 
 digs. Thirty years of digging will uncover many 
 strange things. Ah, yes. And then sometimes a 
 gardener cuts down his orange tree, if it has failed. 
 Thirty years, my friend. Time, time is our enemy." 
 
 Puig halted, stared gloomily at his companions, 
 then cursed himself and them. 
 
 "Espece de puant!*' he snarled. **You are right. 
 The place will be dug from end to end, so what's the 
 good of travelling farther?" 
 
 The giant only nodded, sagacious as before. 
 
 ''Trust me, Puig," said he, thumbing his pipe. 
 "Trust me and hoof it along to Aries. We are all 
 fools, but all follow some kind of hope. Am I not 
 right, Jackdaw? Time is our enemy, hope is our 
 friend, and the life of an old hat is to cock it. Come ! 
 Follow me on the road to Aries." 
 
36 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 *' Right you are," sang the Jackdaw, shifting his 
 old canvas bag. **No odds to me whe-re I go, now. 
 Forward." 
 
 *'No!" cried the crestfallen blacksmith. **Why 
 make a bad matter worse? Let's go back where my 
 tools are." He pointed toward the declining sun. 
 **Dug up or not, that garden " 
 
 ** Trust me," Barjavel repeated. 
 
 He spoke, and his eyes shone, with good-natured 
 but mysterious authority. 
 
 ** Humph!" snorted Puig, and surrendered. 
 
 They marched on again. Through the sad but 
 marvellous plain their trio of shadows, longer and 
 longer, drew them northeastward on the gray road. 
 Vineyards, acres of bare soil quilted with knotty 
 stumps; broad floors of well-sprouting grain; then 
 empty pastures, whitened in long streaks by sansouiro 
 salt marsh : these and the reddening clouds brought a 
 few slow changes in the journey. Sometimes a troop 
 of horses or cattle beaded the horizon, and gradually 
 hung clear of the earth, suspended by mirage over a 
 glassy line of air. Sometimes a farmhouse appeared 
 among willows or stone pines — ^humble masonry half- 
 buried by golden thatch, and stabbed in its ridgepole 
 with the hilt, all askew, of the holy cross. Sunset 
 blazed, glorified all these things, and slowly faded. 
 
 ''Supper!" cried Jackdabos, halting, and pulling 
 
WAYFARERS 37 
 
 from his bag three loaves of bread, a parcel of cold 
 meat, a wine bottle. **I am hungry/' 
 
 They ate in a shelter of tamarisks by the road, and 
 saw the world become a shadow, above which in the 
 twilight went winging a flight of red flamingoes, like 
 birds on flre from the sunset. Afterward, the moon 
 peered over a rim of undulating blackness. The trav- 
 ellers went northward, threading the gloom by fairy 
 light. 
 
 **What,'' complained Puig at last, **are you going 
 to do for us up here? Does this ramble fetch us 
 nearer to any gold plates?*' 
 
 It was after midnight when he put this question. 
 The moon, riding aloft, showed in the distance a 
 cluster of blanched walls and dark windows, the 
 houses of Trinquetaille. 
 
 **I shall introduce you,'* replied Barjavel, 'Ho a 
 nice old lady. She knows all about such things, and 
 what chance we stand of good fortune.'' 
 
 **Bah!" said Puig in disgust. ** Fortune-telling? 
 Don't be an ass, or think that I'm one." 
 
 Jackdabos also muttered something of disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 Their huge leader smiled, and beckoned them far- 
 ther on the white stillness of the road. They fol- 
 lowed, mute and disheartened. The dog stole after 
 them like a ghostly wolf. So they passed among the 
 sleeping houses in Trinquetaille, came where the Great 
 
 I 
 
38 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 Rhone coursed like liquid snow, and saw beyond it 
 the roofs, the towers and spires, the Roman circus 
 rearing its mound on shadowy arches — ^the city of 
 the sixth legion, Aries, quietly dreaming in strong 
 moonlight. 
 
 ''Don't sneer at my old lady," murmured Barjavel. 
 "If she tells our fortune, it will come true. It will 
 be told for love." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE LIGURIAN LADY 
 
 By Trinquetaille Bridge they crossed the snow- 
 white river, their tired steps lagging with a hollow 
 Bound on the footway. Barjavel, a man with a pur- 
 pose, led them straight through the moon-lighted 
 Place Antonelle, then, turning to the left, threaded 
 a labyrinth of narrow streets and lanes choked with 
 black shadow. They moved like burglars, and seem^ed 
 the only creatures alive in Aries. 
 
 '*Know where you're going?*' growled Puig. 
 
 '*Yes. To bed," answered their guide. ** Unless 
 you prefer sleeping among the tombs in the Alis- 
 camps?" 
 
 Jackdabos gave a chuckle. 
 
 "Not good enough,'' said he. '*Many a time I've 
 slept there with my nose to the moon, but I don't love 
 that crowd. Sarcophagi make devilish hard beds, 
 and cold, with the dust of dead men under you. 
 BrrrI" 
 
 39 
 
40 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 ''Follow me, then/' said Barjavel. *'And please 
 be quiet. ' ' 
 
 He felt his way along another walled alley, stop- 
 ped at the shadowy likeness of a gate, and fumbling 
 and jingling in his pocket brought out keys. A mo- 
 ment later the trio stood inside a small, disorderly 
 courtyard ; then, stumbling over rubbish, they gained 
 the back door of a tall house, dark to the slant shadow 
 of the wall, but its upper storey all out-staring the 
 moon with cold, sparkling windows. 
 
 **In here/' whispered Barjavel, as he unlocked an- 
 other door. *'Take off your boots. No talking. I 
 have my key to go and come, but on condition that 
 I 'm not too uproarious. ' ' 
 
 They slipped into the house. By the smell of in- 
 grained cookery, Jackdabos knew that he stood in a 
 kitchen. Immediately, boots in hand, they mounted 
 a dark staircase, then another, then along corridors 
 where the dog's toe-nails clattered upon tiles. At last 
 Barjavel opened a. door, and let his companions enter 
 a great room glimmering with reflected moonshine. 
 
 * ' Good night, ' ' he whispered. ' * Twin beds for you. 
 I'm next door. See you in the morning." 
 
 So saying, the giant vanished. Puig, his dog, and 
 the Jackdaw stood in the middle of their floor, con- 
 sidering one another. It was a noble room, spacious 
 and lofty, with two windows open on treetops. 
 
THE LIGURIAN LADY 41 
 
 ''Where are we now?'^ said Puig loudly. *'What 
 palace has old Belshazzar brought us to?*' 
 
 * * Shut up ! " hissed the Jackdaw. * * He told us not 
 to talk, and who cares where we are ? Good night, old 
 man.'* 
 
 He shuffled off his clothes, left them coiled on the 
 floor, and slipped with a magnificent yawn into a bed 
 of cool, clean-smelling linen. The last thing he saw 
 was Puig's silhouette leaning cherub-like on a win- 
 dow ledge, considering some moonlight mystery below, 
 and drinking thoughtfully now and then from a bot- 
 tle. The last thing he heard was Puig's dog snoring 
 in a corner. Then he slid into another world — a 
 thrilling world yet forlorn with enchantment, because 
 the happiness was not real — ^where a white donkey 
 plodded beside him, and a dream woman, young, with 
 sea-blue eyes, looked ineffable kindness. He tried to 
 say something vast, on which his welfare and hers 
 hung trembling ; but it would not out, and before he 
 could force it into utterance, the donkey's ears di- 
 vided them forever, flapping, growing monstrous, and 
 at last revolving like windmill arms in a gale. He 
 had lost her. The vision ended bitterly in the dry 
 dust of ages. 
 
 When he woke, the room shone full of morning sun. 
 At his feet on his coverlet sat Puig, waiting, and 
 watching him curiously. 
 
42 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 "Know where you are?*' demanded Puig, as 
 thoiigli they had never been asleep. 
 
 Jackdabos lay blinking and listening. The cool, 
 bright morning touched with glossy reflections a red 
 tiled floor, and fine old furniture of which every con- 
 tour shone polished and colored like a violin. Peace, 
 order, cleanliness reigned in that chamber; and 
 through the windows poured an agreeable sound, 
 never stopping, never changing, but always novel and 
 musical, one yet manifold as the waters of a brook. 
 
 *'Is it Sunday?'' yawned the Jackdaw. ''If it is, 
 I'd bet we were in the Forum." 
 
 Puig let the subject pass, and fired another ques- 
 tion. His cat-green eyes watched close for the an- 
 swer. 
 
 *'How long have you known Barjavel?" 
 
 Jackdabos yawned again. 
 
 ' ' As long as you have, ' ' he replied, stretching. ' * A 
 week, isn't it? Never saw him before we all met down 
 yonder." 
 
 *'No more than that?" Puig stared with infinite 
 suspicion. 
 
 * * No more, no less. ' ' Jackdabos began to stare like- 
 wise. ' * What 's wrong ? ' ' 
 
 The other tossed him a sheet of note-paper. 
 
 * ' Eead this, ' ' he snapped. ' ' Found it on that chest 
 of drawers with the mirror, there." 
 
 The young man rubbed his eyes and read. 
 
THE LIGURIAN LADY 43 
 
 ** Received of Monsieur Barjavel," ran the brief 
 manuscript, **full payment of the rent of his cham- 
 bers for three months ..." 
 
 The sum was princely, acknowledged with fitting 
 thanks, compliments, and the flourished signature of 
 a hotel-keeper. Jackdabos rubbed his eyes again, 
 read again, and sat bolt upright. 
 
 * * Tiny Saviour ! ' ' he exclaimed. * * Bar javel paid all 
 that? What a sum!" 
 
 Puig nodded grimly from the foot of the bed. 
 
 **Just so," he growled. *'But look here. Who is 
 this Barjavel of ours? He never has mjoney, eh? 
 Travels on foot, eh? Couldn't buy a third-class ticket 
 for the train : made us hoof it all night. Eh? What ? 
 How? And still he carries a private key to the best 
 hotel, and hires a set of rooms in the heart of town. 
 Go look." 
 
 Jackdabos bounced from bed and ran to the nearer 
 window. 
 
 ** Heavenly cabbage!" he cried. ''You're right. 
 I was right. It's the Place of the Men." 
 
 Below him lay the Forum, a pleasant square sur- 
 rounded by leafy plane-trees, and crowded from end 
 to end with honest men, good plain men wearing 
 their Sunday clothes. Their talk it was, the lively, 
 ceaseless music of Provence, which rose from half a 
 hundred little groups and went on and on like run- 
 nels of a brook. A few soldiers and police moved 
 
44 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 among them, fraternally. Mistral the poet, in bronze, 
 looked over them with neighborly pride from his 
 sculptured pedestal. Their voices made as it were 
 incense round his statue, in the plane-tree light and 
 shade. 
 
 *'Aha, the beautiful Sunday!'' said Jackdabos. 
 ''Oho, the good fellows!'' 
 
 And he leaned forth naked as a god, sniffing the air, 
 drinking deeply the sound of their talk. 
 
 ''But come here," persisted Puig, hauling him in- 
 doors again. ''That's all very well. We're living 
 in hotel rooms on the Forum. Good ! But Bar javel 
 pays our bill, eh?" He shook the mysterious receipt 
 under the Jackdaw's nose. "Now tell me. Who is 
 Bar javel? How does this happen?" 
 
 Somebody just then knocked at the door. 
 
 *'Come!" called the Jackdaw. 
 
 The door opened, and in walked Bar javel himself. 
 Two waiters followed him, bearing trays with coffee, 
 golden-crusted croissants, and glass pots of honey. 
 
 "Good morning!" sang Bar javel. He came smil- 
 ing, greatly refreshed and rejuvenated, his beard well 
 trimmed, his old black clothes brushed clean of travel- 
 stains. "I heard you talking, and ordered breakfast 
 for you. It's not too early?" 
 
 Puig beat a guilty retreat from the dressing-table, 
 too late. He was caught replacing the tell-tale paper. 
 Jackdabos rushed for his clothes. 
 
THE LIGURIAN LADY 45 
 
 ''There's no hurry/' Barjavel ignored their con- 
 fusion. **IVe already breakfasted; but let me sit 
 down at your table?" He saw that the trays were 
 properly arranged, then dismissed the bowing wait- 
 ers. **Have you slept well, boys?" 
 
 Breakfast was a good meal spoiled by constraint. 
 Puig sat on nettles, waiting to be accused ; Jackdabos 
 became aware for the first time that Puig had vile, 
 sticky manners at table; still, they ate and talked, 
 while Barjavel smoked a cigarette, fed the dog, and 
 entertained them benignly. When the stream of Pro- 
 vengal voices from the Forum was at last running 
 dry, they rose all three and made ready to depart. 
 
 /'I've got no business in a hotel," declared the 
 Jackdaw, smoothing his bedraggled brown velveteen. 
 
 ** Don't be vain," said their host. **Come on. 
 Cheer-oh. Leave your bag here." 
 
 He herded them along red-tiled corridors, down 
 two flights, and through a lobby from which a visored 
 porter set them free, louting low, as if he saw nothing 
 strange about them or their dog. They passed into 
 the Place of the Men, a leafy place now almost vacant 
 at the approach of noonday. 
 
 **Whoo!" Jackdabos vented a sigh of liberty. 
 **It's better outdoors." 
 
 Barjaval nodded, and pulled his black felt hat to 
 an arrogant pitch. 
 
46 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 ''Great deal better/' he agreed. ''How do you 
 like this bronze Mistral up hereT' 
 
 Jackdabos regarded the familiar statue as they 
 passed below it. 
 
 "Well enough," he replied. "Looks too much like 
 Buffalo Bill. I could make as good ones if I had a 
 workshop. ' ' 
 
 "And metal/' added Puig sourly. "Metal costs 
 money." 
 
 Barjavel surprised them by showing emotion. 
 
 "No!" He halted, and stared fixedly down at the 
 irreverent Jackdaw. ' ' No, could you ? ' ' 
 
 It seemed an idle question, but he considered it 
 deeply in silence, beard on bosom, while they 
 wandered through a succession of narrow streets. 
 Contemplation of the Jackdaw's boast, indeed, made 
 him forget nearer matters ; for suddenly halting, he 
 snapped his fingers, muttered a "Pshaw!" at his own 
 absence of mind, turned about face, and led them 
 back to a door which they had already admired in 
 passing. It was a fine old door between a pair of 
 twisted dolphin columns. Aloft in the house-front 
 a niche contained two fragmentary stone saints, gray, 
 weatherworn, and both for their harmless piety be- 
 headed long ago by some revolutionist fool. Curved 
 iron bars guarded the street windows. Puig, nod- 
 ding approval, fingered the graceful lines of this 
 iron-work. Jackdabos patted the stone dolphins. 
 
THE LIGURIAN LADY 47 
 
 Barjavel whipped from his pocket a card on which, 
 holding it against the door, he pencilled a few lines ; 
 and then, to his friends* amazement, he lifted the 
 great iron knocker and rapped loudly twice. 
 
 ''Hold on!*' cried the others. **What are you do- 
 mgV 
 
 The door swung open, and a grave, dark man-ser- 
 vant, looking out, seemed ready to repeat this ques- 
 tion. 
 
 **Good day," said Barjavel. **What a beautiful 
 door it is your pleasure to keep !*' 
 
 The man-servant regarded them all three with dis- 
 favor. 
 
 "No doubt,'' he cooed like an ironical dove, '*no 
 doubt monsieur is an adept of such beauties. ' * 
 
 He began to close this one, when Barjavel laughed 
 and poked his card through the lessening gap. No 
 sooner had the man spied the writing, than his dark 
 face grew convulsed with wonder, and he flung the 
 door wide open. 
 
 *'0h, it is *' he cried, abasing himself and star- 
 ing. **Come in, sir . . . forgive me ... I beg . . . 
 I did not know . . ." 
 
 He bowed them in, fluttering with a kind of joyful 
 submission. They left Puig's brindle dog sitting dis- 
 consolate by the dolphin pillars, and entered the 
 house. A cool, dark vestibule opened on a pleasant 
 room which ran the full depth of the house. Here 
 
48 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 the servant left them standing by the front window, 
 contemplating a vista of mahogany, marble^ and 
 dnsky painted pictures. At one rear window the sun- 
 shine joggled in a large bowl of swimming gold- 
 fish. 
 
 *'Hell,'' muttered Puig, scuffing his feet and look- 
 ing round bashfully, **I never asked you to bring 
 me here.'' 
 
 A trundling noise interrupted his complaint, as into 
 the room at the sunlit end came the man-servant, 
 pushing a wheeled chair in which sat a little, frail,-, 
 dark lady. 
 
 * * Enough. Thank you, ' * she sighed. 
 
 The servant halted her chair near the gold-fish 
 bowl, and left the room. She reclined with patient 
 dignity, like a Roman matron, eyed her visitors pen- 
 sively for a moment ; then, lifting one hand from her 
 lap, made a civil gesture with a card — Barjavers 
 card. 
 
 **My old friend, you are welcome," she declared, 
 in a low, silvery voice. **What you have written 
 prevents me from saying how very welcome, and 
 why. But that is understood. You leave me, there- 
 fore, only the pleasure of asking, in what can I serve 
 your' 
 
 Barjavel strode forward into the light, bowed over 
 her chair-wheels, and briefly named his two com- 
 
THE LIGURIAN LADY 49 
 
 panions. The lady's black eyes sparkled at them. 
 She nodded kindly. 
 
 **I have informed these young men/* explained the 
 giant, *'that you know everything.'' 
 
 They bowed. 
 
 **We are adventurers who need your help. Will 
 you please tell us," he continued, *' whether Mon- 
 sieur Goiffon's garden still has the orange trees which 
 flourished there some years ago?" 
 
 The question puzzled her for a moment. 
 
 **You ask me? You?" she exclaimed, knitting her 
 brows at Barjavel. *'No. Indeed, no. His orange 
 trees were all cut down before the garden — passed 
 to its present owner. I believe new trees were 
 planted." 
 
 '*I feared so," he replied, nodding. '*I could not 
 remember. But was there not a map drawn by Mon- 
 sieur Goiffon — a map or plan of the garden as it 
 stood in his day?" 
 
 The lady raised a frail hand to her forehead, and 
 thought. 
 
 * * There was, my dear, ' ' she answered, after a pause. 
 **You are right. There is now. Framed under glass, 
 a quaint little colored map in the old style . . . just 
 such a plaything as he took delight in. It hangs or 
 should hang to this day, in the Villa Pervinca." 
 
 She looked up, smiling, like one whose memory had 
 triumphed. 
 
50 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 **Ah, Madam/' cried Barjavel, *'yon are as won- 
 derful as ever. Was I wrong in saying that you 
 know all things?'' He beamed on the company, ir- 
 radiating them. ''Last night my friends here, who 
 are young, spoke scornfully of gifts like yours. They 
 must admit you know the past. Now do look them 
 over and tell them their futures." 
 
 ''Oh, no!" laughed the lady. "You are the same 
 foolish boy." 
 
 ' ' Oh, yes, I pray you ! ' ' And he beckoned the Jack- 
 daw and Puig to draw near. 
 
 They came across the room, stood beside him, and 
 awaited further orders, the one sheepish, the other 
 highly expectant, with dancing eyes. At close range 
 they found the lady even smaller and frailer in body 
 than she had first appeared, calm, almost apathetic, 
 but wonderfully alert in her glances. Plain black 
 silk she wore, with a lace collar. Her cheeks were 
 pale brown; her features, at once bold and delicate, 
 of the type called Ligurian; and while she sat there 
 motionless, the gold-fish bowl cast a light quivering 
 over her as though it were the outward shine and play 
 of her intelligence. To so much had the Jackdaw 
 given heed, when he found her smiling at him and 
 saying : 
 
 "You are not the sceptic, my son, for in you I see 
 plenty of faith. You are following beauty with your 
 eyes shut. When you find her you will follow with 
 
THE LIGURIAN LADY 51 
 
 yonr eyes open, as a man ought. She will come to 
 you from the past, from something built in old stone- 
 work. Sorrow, too; yes, you cannot avoid sorrow. 
 But have no fear. ' ' 
 
 She lifted her slender brown hand in sign of en- 
 couragement. Jackdabos made a sudden dart, quick 
 as a humming-bird, and as lightly kissed the hand 
 before it withdrew. 
 
 **Madam!'' he cried. **You can read dreams, even 
 a man's own dream!*' 
 
 When Puig's turn came, the Ligurian lady was 
 not smiling. She looked long at the freckled black- 
 smith, who returned her look humbly enough, but 
 steadily, with a dull patience. 
 
 **You, sir,'' she began in doubt; then sighed, and 
 took courage. '*You must pardon the whims of an 
 invalid, a woman who stays in her house all day. We 
 think strange things; and if I must tell what I be- 
 lieve of you — shall I?" She glanced up and round. 
 Puig nodded consent. His companions did likewise. 
 ''Then," she continued gravely, her coal-black eyes 
 looking clear through them all, through the long 
 room, and, as it were, out of the house; ''then this is 
 what I believe. Sir, you will never be happy till 
 you do day labor, working hard, for a man who beats 
 you — ^beats you with tongue and fist, and conquers 
 you. That is the far future, as I see it. The near 
 future " She paused again; her eyes returned 
 
52 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 from their search to meet Puig^s green orbs bale- 
 fully staring down at her. "My friend, I'm sorry to 
 say, there is death in it. You shall lose the one who 
 loves you most. ' ' 
 
 Silence followed her words, and filled the dusky 
 room as with a spell. Then Puig broke it, moving 
 his awkward boots. 
 
 '*Mostr' He gave a bitter laugh. *' Madam, you 
 flatter me. There's no person who loves my kind at 
 all; nobody would think twice of me. Maybe my 
 dog. He gets his food. No one else.'' 
 
 **I am sorry,'' replied the dark lady. '*What I 
 have said . . . But, perhaps, it was a sick-room 
 fancy, no more." 
 
 So saying, she lifted from a taboret beside her a 
 bronze apostle bell, and set it jingling musically. Her 
 quiet man-servant answered the call, fetching a tray 
 with three glasses of wine. It was the common pale- 
 rose wine of some neighboring vineyard, but the men 
 received it like courtiers honored by a queen. 
 
 "Not to my health," she said quickly, as they raised 
 their glasses. *'I desire no health or prolongation of 
 
 days, as you " Her glance rested on Barjavel, 
 
 with a melancholy smile — ^''as you desire no fortune. 
 Drink, my dears, to your adventure." 
 
 When, after due ceremony, they filed outdoors 
 again and were half-way down the street, they went 
 like people wrapt in a day-dream. The two older 
 
THE LIGUKIAN LADY 53 
 
 men moved slowly, downcast and sombre; Jackdabos 
 walked on air ; and the dog, released from his post of 
 watching by the dolphins, gambolled awkwardly 
 roundabout and was pushed away unregarded. 
 
 **Who was she?*' said Puig at last. '*How can she 
 pretend to know so muchT' 
 
 **Sher' murmured Barjavel, turning into a narrow 
 way which led toward the P. L. M. station. ' ' She is 
 Goiff on 's widow. You didn't know Goiff on. He died 
 young, or he'd have made a great painter. I mean 
 great. One of that crowd, he was, who — gods of 
 mankind, I'm talking ancient history! They're all 
 dead. You can't remember the old inn stairs at 
 Gretz." 
 
 While he spoke, a purring sound behind them 
 grew swiftly into a muffled roar, as like a blast of 
 wind came whirling a low, gray monster that charged 
 and scattered them right and left. They caught an 
 impression of goggling brass lamps, of a leather-clad 
 puppet steering, and of complacent cushioned women 
 lolling, veiled, in a row. A bark and a yell of agony 
 mingled in this vision. Then the motor-car was past, 
 flipping back some refuse from under its wheels — 
 twisted refuse that grew limp and straight. 
 
 The brindle cur would never gambol underfoot 
 again to be shoved aside. He lay flat on the road- 
 way, dead, with a band of dust across his poor, ugly 
 hide. 
 
54 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 *'0h!'' cried all three men in a wail of pity; the 
 beast had been so exuberant with life, and now lay- 
 so clumsy and still. 
 
 Puig stared for only an instant; then his right 
 hand flew behind his hip, and made a peculiar twist- 
 ing motion. 
 
 "Je me venge!'* he cried, ehoMng. Bright steel 
 flashed in the noonday sun. '^OJi, je me venge!" 
 
 He leaped over the dead body, and, gripping a 
 naked knife, ran at full speed after the monster of 
 gray metal that fled purring down the narrow street. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 LOSSES BY THE WAY 
 
 Jackdabos crouched beside the dog, but only for 
 a moment. There was nothing to do. No one, not 
 all the king's horses and all the king's men, could 
 be of any service here. He rose, and shook his head. 
 
 ** Malheur!^* mourned the giant. 
 
 At last'Puig came staggering back round the cor- 
 ner, sheathing his knife as he came. Tears and sweat 
 ran grossly down his freckled cheeks. Panting and 
 sobbing, he shook both arms out rigidly before him, 
 in the gesture of a wild man. 
 
 **The cowards would not stop!" he blubbered. 
 ''They kill and run away, the cowards! They heard 
 me, the women looked back, and they would not 
 stop!" 
 
 Barjavel only nodded. 
 
 '*If it were a child, my dear," he said, ''it would 
 be the same thing — kill and run. We mustn't expect 
 to find a heart inside that kind of people; no, not 
 even a brain; nothing but food." 
 
 55 
 
56 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 The bitterness of Ms tone acted as a comfort. 
 Puig's arms dropped to his sides. 
 
 **Yoii're right/' he answered. Bending down, he 
 raised the poor, limp body from the dusty cobble- 
 stones. ''It's no good talking. Just leave me alone 
 now. Goon.'' 
 
 Jackdabos, overcome by the sight of this tough mis- 
 anthrope in tears, remained staring till Barjavel 
 drew him away. 
 
 ''Meet us at the Arena to-night," was all that Bar- 
 javel said. "We'll wait for you by the Eond Point 
 stairs." 
 
 The other nodded blindly. 
 
 "Your old lady," he called after them as they went, 
 leaving him with his brindle burden in his arms, 
 "your old lady speaks the truth altogether too well." 
 
 The Jackdaw and his leader exchanged a wonder- 
 ing look, and retreated in silence. They had not con- 
 sidered this mishap as a fulfillment of prophecy ; yet 
 here was a thing come to pass without delay, brutal, 
 outdoor fact blundering on the heels of sick-room 
 fancy. 
 
 "I never dreamed he was fond of that dog," said 
 the Jackdaw, when they had rounded a comer out of 
 sight. 
 
 "Men are queer," rejoined Barjavel. "Queer 
 beasts we are. Let's go hurl the missiles a while, eh? 
 "We need some diversion." 
 
LOSSES BY THE WAY 57 
 
 They strolled toward the Avenue of the Aliscamps, 
 accordingly, and spent that Sunday afternoon play- 
 ing at bowls. In a pleasant, sunken grove near the 
 barracks, they found a crowd of soldiers and loung- 
 ers, as usual, rolling metal balls over the bare-beaten 
 ground. Jackdabos, a champion at this sport, quickly 
 became a centre of admiration, for he tossed the balls 
 with that inimitable **back spin" which drops them 
 dead on a given point. *'Aha, the wizard," the holi- 
 day spectators began to murmur; '* behold a player! 
 Oh, marvel, he leaves it down as tidy as a poached 
 egg." Soon two jealous infantrymen came forward 
 and offered a challenge, so that the Jackdaw, with 
 Barjavel as a calm and crafty partner, fought out a 
 glorious foursome which made the tree-tops ring 
 with its fame. The soldiers lost, but so stubbornly, 
 so like a pair of good fellows, that when the game 
 was done Barjavel treated them to an early dinner 
 at the *'True Sausage," where before sunset they 
 quenched a well-earned thirst with white wine of St 
 Gilles. 
 
 *' Magnificent! It is not every day!" cried the 
 glowing warriors, when their bugle called them to 
 rise and run home. **We played the best piece in 
 the bag, didn 't we ? To our revenge ! ' ' 
 
 Bright moonlight transfigured Aries before the 
 winners left their coffee and climbed upstairs toward 
 
58 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 the Roman amphitheatre, there to wait for Puig, as 
 they had appointed. 
 
 **Do you know/' said Barjavel, while they paced 
 back and forth under the curving bulwark of shadow 
 reared by the circus, ''do you know. Jackdaw, what 
 excellent company you are? Crabbed age and youth, 
 and yet we make a spanking team together. I shall be 
 sorry to lose you, little old chap, even during the 
 short time when we — ^when we must separate.'' 
 
 ' ' Lose me ? Separate ? ' ' echoed the youngster, halt- 
 ing in dismay. *'Why should we?" 
 
 His colossal friend linked arms with him. 
 
 ''Come, I'll tell you why." 
 
 As they paced onward together, a lonely form 
 came slouching under the ruined arches, met them, 
 passed, then wheeled abruptly, and joined them with- 
 out more ado. It was Puig. 
 
 "I buried him," croaked a weary voice, "but I 
 still keep looking behind me and making up my mouth 
 to whistle." 
 
 The giant hooked his other arm through Puig's, 
 and bore him along in their thoughtful sentry-go. 
 For a time no more was said. Jackdabos, warm with 
 victory and good St. Gilles, felt pierced to the heart 
 when he saw this dejected shadow walking beside 
 them, still bereaved. 
 
 "Philibert," continued Barjavel at last, "I was 
 telling the Jackdaw why we shall part company. Do 
 
LOSSES BY THE WAY 59 
 
 you care to hear? It is like this. We're now much 
 nearer to your gold plate. ' ' The shadow, arm-in-arm 
 with them, remained passive and silent. **If our luck 
 holds half as well as I expect, we shall discover a 
 great thing; for how we know that Goiffon's map ex- 
 ists, it pictures the garden with the old orange trees, 
 it hangs in a villa near Mentone. We'll take the 
 night train south, to see that map. But, for my part, 
 I can help no further.'* 
 
 He made them swing about and go tramping back 
 along the Bond Point. Arch after arch, as they went, 
 revealed a glimpse of the moonlit arena within, spa- 
 cious, dreamily white, the ghost of Rome. 
 
 **I can help no further," said Barjavel again. 
 **The map is in the Villa Pervinca, downstairs, near 
 the front door. I can't — frankly, boys, I don't dare 
 — show my face round some parts of the Eiviera." 
 
 ''Police? Ah, ah!" chuckled the Jackdaw, wisely. 
 *'Very well, then. You leave it all to me. I'll get 
 the map out of that villa." 
 
 "You!" scoffed Puig. "Oh, you handsome boys 
 can do anything. You say so with your own mouth, 
 always." 
 
 The giant pressed them tighter by the elbows, and 
 laughed in his beard. 
 
 "That villa," he said, "belongs to a Princess." 
 
 He named her, a Princess beyond cavil, by a name 
 so great and lovely that it struck his companions 
 
60 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 dumb. They stood peering up at him; in the moon- 
 light. Even the pert Jackdaw was abashed. 
 
 *' Never mind/' he bragged obstinately. "Princess 
 or chambermaid, if you want your map, 111 get it 
 out of a palace, or a jail, or a nunnery.'* 
 
 Barjavel patted him on the shoulder. 
 
 '*0h, youth!" he sighed. ''How you talk! For- 
 ward, then. Let's see you get it, my young jewel of 
 a thief." 
 
 Jackdabos, whipping his arm free, recoiled from 
 that compliment. 
 
 *'Look here, I'm no thief!" said he. *' Don't go 
 calling people " 
 
 Barjavel quietly gathered him back into their 
 triumvirate. 
 
 **Well, well," he drawled, with slow good humor. 
 ** Follow me, honest man; we'll watch what you can 
 do." 
 
 They took the P. L. M. before midnight, and trav- 
 elled southward in a rich, gray-padded compartment 
 all their own, with a ''Reserved" label gummed on 
 the window. When Jackdaw first beheld this com- 
 plete grandeur of the first-class railway carriage, and 
 spied his own canvas bag, by some miracle, bulging 
 overhead in the luggage net, he knew he never could 
 sleep a wink that night. Long after his friends had 
 curled on their noble cushions under the glow-worm 
 green light of the covered ceiling-lamp, he sat 
 
LOSSES BY THE WAY 61 
 
 watching them — Puig, an old-clothes bundle of knees 
 and elbows, Barjavel outstretched with legs abroad in 
 Olympian comfort. 
 
 ''What a wild project we^re chasing," thought the 
 youngster. Fantastic enough it seemed, as now, 
 wrapped in strange costliness, they whirled through 
 the night. ''Wonder if I can get that mapT' 
 
 Cross-legged, clasping his arms, knitting his brows, 
 the Jackdaw sat like a plotting imp. Plan after plan 
 he formed and rejected. See the map he must, in 
 the Villa of a Princess ; or be shown empty and vain- 
 glorious to his companions. Sometimes he cooled his 
 nose on the window-glass, to stare at the plain and 
 the shadowy cypresses of the Crau revolving back- 
 ward under the moonlight. More often he stared at 
 Barjavel opposite, that calm front of Jove asleep. 
 
 '*He*s fooling us, playing with us. Puig was right. 
 How does he raise money for all this? What^s his 
 little dodge?*' Another question rose, and dwarfed 
 the rest. '*How did he know the map's near the 
 front door? The dark lady never said so." 
 
 Working at this puzzle, and thinking himself won- 
 derfully vigilant, he dropped asleep. It was daylight 
 when he felt a violent shaking, and bounded into con- 
 sciousness again with Puig's hands on his shoulders. 
 
 **Wake up!" Puig's voice commanded wrathfully. 
 *'Look alive, boy ! What do you make of this, now?" 
 
 The train ran thundering along the coast of a bril- 
 
62 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 liant sea. The right-hand windows framed a fljang 
 picture of gray limestone headlands, gray islets, and 
 the Mediterranean glowing darkly in bay upon curved 
 bay. 
 
 ^ ' What ? Are we there ? ' ' stammered Jackdaw. 
 
 '*Are we! Bah!" scoffed the other, with a final 
 shake. *'Are we? Yes, but how many of us?" 
 
 The cat-green eyes looked so brimful with tidings, 
 and threw such a meaning glance round the compart- 
 ment, that they roused Jackdabos to a sense of fact; 
 and the fact was, in this padded box of luxury which 
 roared and rattled along the Cote d'Azur, their com- 
 pany had dwindled. 
 
 Last night they were three; this morning, two. 
 Barjavel had gone. An upholstered corner yawn- 
 ing where his large presence had reclined, showed no 
 trace of Barjavel. 
 
 ''Gone?" 
 
 "Do you think I carry him in my pocket?" howled 
 Puig. **0f course he has gone! The Great Fat 
 Thing, he got up and sneaked in the night. See what 
 he left us." 
 
 From a metal clip for reservation cards, the black- 
 smith snatched two bits of colored pasteboard — ^tick- 
 ets, first class, for Mentone. Eecovering his amaze- 
 ment, the Jackdaw examined them. 
 
 *'T a duhon," he said. ** They 're good, valid tick- 
 ets, and Mentone is where we're going." 
 
LOSSES BY THE WAY 63 
 
 This calm and sensible conclusion drove Puig into 
 a frenzy. 
 
 **You! You made me leave my tools behind at 
 Aigo-Morto!" he raged. **Your old she-cripple put 
 words on my dog that got him killed. Tools lost, dog 
 dead and buried, this sacred Bulgarian ass of a Bar- 
 javel gone. Money, where is it? I am betrayed. 
 And now, foul child, you sit there saying the tickets 
 are good!" 
 
 The Jackdaw's temper rose by a few degrees. 
 
 **But Barjavel told you so beforehand!" he cried 
 loyally. **He warned us that he would leave!" 
 
 '* Infant of sluttishness ! " 
 
 Hotly and loudly they wrangled, so that in the end 
 their train carried them past Mentone. Providence 
 and a sardonic guard ejected them, squabbling tooth 
 and nail, at the station of Garavan. On that respect- 
 able, quiet platform, Jackdabos had the pleasure of 
 putting a small but hard left fist compactly over the 
 blacksmith's eyebrow, and knocking him into the sta- 
 tion-master's favorite potted tree. 
 
 ''Now," he said, during a sullen truce which fol- 
 lowed, "I mean to go see where that Princess keeps 
 her villa. You can come or not, as you like." 
 
 Puig rose gradually, scowling murder. 
 
 ''Princess?" he mocked. "I throw your Princess 
 to the cats!" 
 
 "That is your method of procedure," replied the 
 
64 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 Jackdaw grandly. '*For my part, I wish to find her 
 map, also a gold plate. If I find them alone, so much 
 the better for Barjy and me. I know what you are. 
 You're a doubter.'' 
 
 He snapped his fingers, left the scandalized porters 
 agape, and marched off shouldering his canvas bag, 
 to leave it with a man of his acquaintance who made 
 tourist majolica on the Gorbio road. This workman, 
 a dark nondescript who called himself Italian, re- 
 ceived the Jackdaw with a joyful noise, embraced him 
 in the shop, and forced him to sit down under a back- 
 yard trellis, where they ate and drank among frag- 
 ments of colored statuary. When after much talk the 
 Jackdaw departed, he had given the majolica man a 
 brand new design (done with bread-crumbs at table), 
 had refused a steady job of modelling other designs 
 in clay, and had learned exactly where to find the 
 villa of the Princess. 
 
 As he went, rejoicing in the mild, sunny prospect 
 of the Gulf of Peace beyond rich men's housetops, 
 he began to consider his position. 
 
 **Now you're alone," he thought, '*and you've been 
 boasting fearfully. Jackdabos, there's no more 
 chance of seeing that garden map than of your flying 
 to the moon ; or seeing Her again — ^that girl with the 
 white donkey. Ah, well!" He marched on doggedly, 
 nevertheless, and climbed a road which rose winding 
 among tile-capped villa walls toward a promontory 
 
LOSSES BY THE WAY 65 
 
 of dark pines. Below, at the foot of the Public Gar- 
 den, a band played cheerful music. The sound floated 
 through the golden afternoon air, so that presently 
 he halted, listened, and looked back, afar off, to where 
 on the curved rim of the bay, little white figures and 
 colored parasols dotted the stone-girt promenade like 
 a dribble of confetti. At this sight, a notion darted 
 through his mind — a vague notion, then a hope, then 
 a full-grown strategem that set him grinning at the 
 landscape. **Good!'' said he. His black eyes caught 
 their old energetic fire. ** Good boy! Got it! We'll 
 do the trick. Why, this being alone is pure luck, a 
 God-send. I*d never get inside any Princess's house 
 with Puig tagging along. Lucky we fought when we 
 did. Good riddance." 
 
 With great alacrity he was turning to climb on- 
 ward, when he spied in the walled road below, in the 
 sunny lane of over-hanging greenery, a shabby little 
 man toiling after him. The gait was familiar. A 
 tired, lonely, disreputable wanderer, the man seemed 
 to follow without hope, as the brindle dog used to 
 follow. It was the dog's master. 
 
 '*0h, the devil! There he comes!" thought the 
 Jackdaw. "How can I saddle myself with an ever- 
 lasting . . . Hang it, Puig would spoil the whole 
 blessed show now." 
 
 He started hurrying on ; but conscience made each 
 footfall heavy, and another backward glance undid 
 
66 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 him. The sight of that disconsolate enemy was too 
 much. His heart melted. 
 
 '*Ah, bah!" he cried. **I can't leave him out. 
 But he does have such vile manners!'' 
 
 Next m^oment he went running down hill, light- 
 footed as a rabbit. 
 
 ** Sorry I struck you, Puig-pig," said he, as they 
 met face to face on the hill-road. *'You must allow 
 for my temper, always. I've got a devilish bad dis- 
 position. No hard feeling, old boy?" 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 HOW JACKDABOS BECAME A FATHER 
 
 The smith was none too cordial. 
 
 **Yon almost got me nipped for that fight,*' he 
 complained, glowering. **The chief said I broke his 
 filthy tree, and called the police. I had to climb an 
 iron-spiked fence." 
 
 And he exhibited his trousers, torn with triangu- 
 lar gaps, which disclosed a pair of hairy knees. 
 
 ''Teach you to move faster,*' quoth Jackdabos. 
 ' * Keep up with me, after this. Are you ready ? Go. ' * 
 
 ** Where?*' demanded the unreasonable Puig. 
 
 *'To leave our cards on a Princess.** 
 
 The Jackdaw set off at the word, climbing up hill 
 again. Puig trudged along beside him, with nothing 
 more to say but a bitter word now and then — ^''Open, 
 shut. Penny a peep. Flip-flap. Cuckoo!" — ^when 
 his kneecaps looked out of his trousers. 
 
 So, peace again restored, they left behind the out- 
 lying houses of the town, and entered the pine grove 
 on the headland. Like Cap Martin, though smaller 
 
 67 
 
68 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 and less worldly-wise in its landscape, the grove ad- 
 mitted here and there a vista of sea water, dark blue, 
 shimmering through tangled rosemary and myrtle. 
 Once they spied a keeper or liveried watchman roam- 
 ing the wood, at sight of whom they squatted behind 
 a rock. Once, in a sudden cross- way, they dodged the 
 porter of some Russian noble, a romantic long-beard 
 who wore the Georgian tunic shirred across the breast 
 with blank-cartridge pockets, and who, vaguely hear- 
 ing trespassers, looked roundabout, solemn as an eagle, 
 but failed to see them when they darted past. The 
 Jackdaw wriggled among the pine shadows like an 
 Indian, without faltering or losing the line he seemed 
 to follow. 
 
 ''Here we are,'* he said at last. **Pipe the villa.'' 
 
 They scrambled down a bushy bank, tumbled into a 
 hard, smooth road such as the wealthy love, and halted 
 before a pseudo-rustic gate overhung with trained 
 masses of blue periwinkle. 
 
 ''Take it in," murmured Jackdabos. "Quickly. 
 Here's where the Princess lives. Take it all in. 
 Look? Front door straight ahead." 
 
 The Villa Pervinca modestly confronted them across 
 a pink gravel path, neatly brushed. A trim white 
 house, roofed with pale-red tiles, it stood in a hill 
 garden full of bright flowers that ran deeply down 
 to the Ligurian Sea. Mimosas overhung it and ren- 
 dered it commonplace. The front door was closed; 
 
HOW JACKDABOS BECAME A FATHER 69 
 
 but sidelights flanking the door showed, by a glimmer 
 of afternoon sunshine within, that the hallway or 
 vestibule went clear through to westerly windows 
 overlooking the water. 
 
 * ' Good fortune, ' ' murmured Jackdabos. * * Couldn 't 
 be better. This house was fairly built for us, Puig. ' ' 
 
 He caught the smith's elbow and hauled him away 
 from the gate. 
 
 *' Back to town. Nobody saw us. " 
 
 Puig struggled and hung behind. 
 
 **What you running away for?'' he said. '*We 
 just came.'' 
 
 '*But we know it all." The Jackdaw tugged him 
 along. *'We can go to work now. I understand all 
 the rest." 
 
 Puig still came reluctantly, staring back over the 
 garden hedge. 
 
 '*Know all?" he cried. ** Hanged if we know any- 
 thing, you wild man." 
 
 Jackdabos released him, and, laughing, beckoned 
 with one arm persuasively. 
 
 '*Come, come! We know enough. I know this 
 much: the villa's near the road, the Princess gets 
 home from her drive at four o'clock, she's a childless 
 woman, and I hear she's fond of children. Don't be 
 caught loafing and staring over gates. We know 
 plenty. Have a little faith!" 
 
 Nothing more would he disclose. They walked back 
 
70 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 to town by the road, openly and without haste, paus- 
 ing on a hill-top to watch the sunset flare crimson 
 over Mont Agel, twilight sweep in like a mist from the 
 bays, and the Dog's Head promontory become a bluish 
 vapor, under which gradually twinkled the pale, 
 wicked fireflies of Monte Carlo. That night they slept 
 in a loft over a wheelwright's workshop, where the 
 torrent Gorbio sounded peacefully beneath their win- 
 dows. 
 
 Puig, early next morning, found his trousers 
 mended as well as if the torn cloth had healed. 
 
 *' Fairies have been at work here!" he swore, sit- 
 ting on his cot and admiring both knees. 
 
 *'I did it," confessed the Jackdaw, who came into 
 the loft all aglow. He had been swimming be- 
 fore daylight in the gray-green mountain torrent. 
 *' That's a poor job," he explained, ** because the 
 candle flickered, but I used to work for a stoppeur/' 
 
 ' * Good Lord ! ' ' said the smith. ' ' You can do any- 
 thing!" 
 
 *'I believe you, my boy," replied Jackdabos, towel- 
 ling his head. 
 
 The other stared at him. 
 
 ''You're a puzzle. I can't understand you. Jack- 
 daw. Now see, how can you wash all over in that cold 
 stream?" 
 
 '* Don't know," said Jackdabos frankly. *'Must 
 be the wild side of me." He wriggled into his 
 
HOW JACKDABOS BECAME A FATHER 71 
 
 brown velveteens, then brushed them carefully, 
 like a cat brushing his fur. *'Look here, old Burn- 
 the-Wind, will you help this wheelwright down below 
 sweat a tire on? That will pay our lodging. Eh? 
 Good man. I told him you would. Then meet me 
 about two o'clock by Dr. Bennett's monument — ^you 
 know, that silly English bust in the Partouneaux. 
 Good-bye. I've got to find Hermance. This is my 
 busy day." 
 
 He shot out of the room again, thundered down- 
 stairs, and went off whistling Pedro's Mule in the 
 road. 
 
 **That boy's growing too uppish altogether," 
 thought Puig. * ' Wonder if there 's anything in him ? ' ' 
 
 Something there must have been, an idea, or a hope ; 
 for when the morning idlers were out in force, and 
 strolling along the Midi where low waves gently 
 broke to rattle the beach pebbles under the embank- 
 ment, a limber youth in velveteen edged his way 
 through to the donkey stand. Here, as always, a 
 troop of dejected, philosophic asses waited in the 
 glare, sleepily tilting their gray ears and hoping not 
 to be hired. The chief donkey-woman, spare and 
 merry, keen-eyed, swart as an Arab under her sun- 
 bonnet, was quick to spy an old friend coming. 
 
 "Good day, Sara!" 
 
 **Ah, the little Jack!" she cried, her teeth flashing 
 
72 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 in a grin. ''My dear boy, are you come to break my 
 old heart again? '^ 
 
 "Mother," said Jackdabos, beaming, "your heart 
 is like Monte Carlo bank yonder, too full of gold to be 
 broken. I only want your help." 
 
 "Son, if I were your mother in this body," re- 
 torted the woman, "I should bring you up to have 
 
 better sense and more industry, like " She waved 
 
 her hand at the little concourse of donkeys — "these 
 other children of mine." 
 
 They both laughed. Sara ignored a pompous 
 blond Northerner who came fuming after donkeys to 
 hire. 
 
 "And now," she demanded, when they had talked 
 themselves out, "what help of mine do you want, 
 sweetheart?" 
 
 "This," explained Jackdabos. "You know every- 
 body. Has the little dancing girl on stilts come here 
 this season?" 
 
 "Little Hermance? You 11 find her near the Place 
 d'Armes," answered Sara, without thinking twice. 
 "Her mother sells watercolors at the bath-house all 
 morning. They don't do the streets till afternoon." 
 
 The Jackdaw kissed Sara's leather-brown hand, 
 while her customer fumed louder, and sputtered, and 
 threatened. 
 
 "Mother, you're an institute of learning. Good 
 on your head. Give this fat superman a mount he'll 
 
HOW JACKDABOS BECAME A FATHER 73 
 
 remember, will you? A regular Kicking Dicky V 
 *'God bless you, kind gentleman. I will/' 
 Thus it happened that by mid-aflemoon Jackda- 
 bos and Puig once more were leaning over the pseudo- 
 rustic gate of the Villa Pervinca. They were not sly, 
 as on their former visit, but bold and noisy, the one 
 playing a concertina fit to burst, the other singing 
 *'Au Clair de la Lune." Behind them, round and 
 round the road, a little girl on stilts clattered and 
 skipped and staggered, dancing to the music, now 
 sedately, now with a pirouette that made her white 
 petticoats fly blossoming like a ham-frill about her 
 meagre legs. The song, the concertina, and the patter 
 of her stilts outraged all the neighborhood with rowdy 
 cheer. 
 
 ** Don't forget, Hermance,'' murmured the Jack- 
 daw, playing faster and faster, **when I say 'Flop,' 
 down you go. You're taken very sick. I'm your 
 father. Remember, you'll get marrons glacis and 
 a piece of one hundred sous." 
 
 Hermance bounded on her stilts like a goat upon a 
 house-top. She was a dirty, wiry, sunburnt witch 
 of a girl, with vixen black eyes. 
 
 '*0h. Papa," she answered, whirling again, "I 
 begin to suffer already. I feel that sunstroke coming 
 which you promised." 
 
 ** Heaven reward you, daughter," said Jackdabos. 
 "Anybody come to the windows yet, Puig?" 
 
74 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 The freckled singer, who strained his throat aloft, 
 warbled a false tenor which made the pine-woods 
 ring. 
 
 **No,'' he panted between verses. ''Yes. In the 
 sidelights by the door. One is watching us. An old 
 man with whiskers. '* 
 
 "That is not the Princess,'^ Jackdabos replied. 
 "Look sharp. Continue, Hermance, my little der- 
 vish. '' 
 
 And he pumped his wheezing instrument like a 
 man whose soul flew on the wings of harmony. 
 
 ' * Ready, ' ' said Puig, his eyes fast on the villa door. 
 "Old whiskers gone to report. Yes. Here they 
 come. People moving in the vestibule. I see the 
 skirts of a woman.'* 
 
 "Flop!'' cried the Jackdaw. 
 
 It was well rehearsed and better played. Her- 
 mance let go her stilt-handles, clapped both fists to 
 her frowsy black head, and with a quiet moan tumb- 
 led prostrate on the road. A critic might have 
 thought this fall, so quick and startling, was too 
 nearly perfect; but Puig and Jackdabos, far from 
 being critical, ran to her with loud, compassionate 
 cries. The concertina, left hanging by some inad- 
 vertence on the gate, collapsed and fell into the 
 villa grounds. 
 
 "Oh, my poor child!" wailed Jackdabos. "I am 
 a cruel father to thee! Stop laughing, Puig. Here 
 
HOW JACKDABOS BECAME A FATHER 75 
 
 they come. Remember you^re her uncle, and howl.'* 
 
 Puig, who now first saw the practical drift of 
 things, fell into a maudlin state which outdid acting. 
 He knelt beside the dancer and writhed. Down his 
 freckled face ran tears. 
 
 *'My niece!'' he whooped and hiccoughed. 
 ** Brother, you have murdered her!" 
 
 As they squatted lamenting in the road, with Her- 
 mance and her stilts between them, a face peered 
 over the garden gate. It was a cold, agnostic face, 
 with a Pecksniff collar and a bland throat showing 
 between gray swallowtail whiskers. It took a very 
 conservative view, then opened its lips and said: 
 
 **How did you come past the keeper?" 
 
 Jackdabos knew a major-domo when he saw one. 
 
 **Sir, don't scold us!" he begged, wringing his 
 hands. **We are poor devils at our wits' end. My 
 daughter — see! — ^while dancing, my own Hermance 
 fell down in a sunstroke. Give us half a moment, sir, 
 till we can carry her away." 
 
 **Open the gate," said a quiet voice. 
 
 The major-domo withdrew his head; the gate 
 swung open ; and there, advancing toward them, came 
 the Princess. Tall, slight, straight as a wand, bare- 
 headed and plainly dressed in white, she stepped from 
 her garden and looked down at that gaudy bundle, 
 that sham sufferer lying on the road. Jackdabos met 
 her eyes, dark, sorrowful eyes that looked him 
 
76 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 through calmly and put to shame his knowledge of 
 the world. She was neither young nor old, but a 
 woman of ageless beauty, though the black hair curv- 
 ing from her temples was faintly touched with a sil- 
 ver frost which became her like a diadem. 
 
 ** Bring your child indoors,'' she commanded. 
 
 They obeyed. Jackdabos lifted the little fraud in 
 his arms, and carried her, Puig following, through 
 a fiower-bordered path to the villa. While they went, 
 the major-domo, like a faithful servant, undertoned 
 some remonstrance: **I think they are internation- 
 als. . . ." 
 
 The Jackdaw heard that warning, and flared at 
 once. 
 
 ''Madam, we are not thieves!'' he cried. 
 
 The Princess turned on her threshold, and, smiling, 
 beckoned him to enter. 
 
 **I believe you, sir," she replied, so lightly that he 
 felt rebuked for brawling. 
 
 Next moment they were in a pleasant hall-way, 
 which looked through open windows, a veranda, and 
 tree-tops beyond, down a hill-garden to the bright 
 western sea. Books and vases of flowers filled the 
 room, with here and there a few small pictures. 
 
 **Lay the child down," said the Princess, pausing 
 by a chintz-covered couch. ''We'll find something to 
 restore her." 
 
 With a sign to her major-domo, she passed into 
 
HOW JACKDABOS BECAME A FATHER 77 
 
 an adjoining room. He followed, but looked back 
 more than doubtfully at Puig, the Jackdaw, and their 
 little acrobat lying asprawl on the couch. He dis- 
 appeared, however, and left them alone. 
 
 ''Where is it? Where is it?'* whispered the smith, 
 grinning, elated. * * Where 's the map ? Jump lively ! ' * 
 
 Jackdabos turned his head away. 
 
 **I thought she'd be fat and purse-proud,'* he de- 
 clared. **I'm ashamed. Rather than lie to her, a 
 man would throw his tongue to the cats. I'n| 
 ashamed. Here's the picture of Goiffon's garden." 
 
 He stood looking dolefully at a small, framed water- 
 color, which hung beside the mantelpiece. Delicately 
 tinted, and drawn after the picture-book fashion of 
 some old explorer's chart, it showed in droll perspec- 
 tive a house and a walled garden full of orange trees, 
 a fish-pond, an arbor, a bit of crumbled monument or 
 ruin. Puig darted across the room to join him in 
 studying this long-desired landscape. Beyond any 
 chance of error, they had found it. A scroll drawn 
 at the foot of the picture contained the words: "JJic 
 Tiahitant Goiffones/' 
 
 *'Take it! Take it!" hissed Puig. , 
 
 The Jackdaw remained motionless. 
 
 *'I won't," he said. 
 
 **You don't dare," mocked the other. 
 
 **Dare?" Jackdabos roared and roused like a 
 young lion. "Me? Dare?" 
 
78 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 With what seemed two jerks, quicker than light, he 
 snatched the picture from the wall, stuffed it under 
 his velveteen jacket, then whipped it out and hung 
 it once more, straight and true, upon its hook. The 
 thing vanished and reappeared like a flying shadow, 
 like a miracle. 
 
 * ' Don 't talk dare to me. ' ' 
 
 "Oh," sighed Puig, gaping round-eyed at this per- 
 fect piece of legerdemain. ''Why didn^t you keep 
 it? Too late now. . . ." 
 
 He sidled awkwardly in front of the picture, just 
 as the Princess returned, with a bottle of lavender 
 salts in her hand. The major-domo sullenly followed, 
 bringing a tray filled with various restoratives. Jack- 
 dabos ran to join them by the couch, where little 
 Hermance lay still as death. Puig stayed by his 
 mantelpiece. 
 
 *'Poor girl!" said the Princess, kneeling and going 
 quietly to work. * ' Poor, tired child. ' ' 
 
 The dirty, sunburnt face of Hermance began to 
 wrinkle, and her nose to twitch above the lavender 
 bottle. She worked nobly to earn five francs and a 
 box of sweetmeats, but nature her custom held. Her- 
 mance gave a violent sneeze, and came to life. 
 
 *'0h. Monsieur," she blubbered, winking genuine 
 tears from her black eyes, **I could not help it!" 
 
 After this, the restoration was rapid and complete. 
 
HOW JACKDABOS BECAME A FATHER 79 
 
 ** Don't scold her,'' said the Princess, looking up 
 at Jackdabos. 
 
 **Have no fear. Madam," the young man sadly- 
 promised. ' ' It was all my fault. ' ' 
 
 He gathered the grimy convalescent to his bosom, 
 and carrying her so, bowed, stared at Puig meaningly, 
 and jerked his head toward the door. All the clever 
 story he had prepared, of wandering, poverty, heat, 
 and privation, flew out of his mind like the vulgar 
 chaff it was. 
 
 * 'We're indebted to your great kindness. And I 
 am — ashamed." 
 
 The Princess rose and watched him depart, without 
 seeing the many queer obeisances made by Puig, who 
 followed him. 
 • **Take better care of her," called the Princess. 
 
 **I will," replied Jackdabos, turning in the door- 
 way with a strange smile, the smile of a defeated 
 angel. 
 
 They went out into the sunlight, crossed the gar- 
 den path, picked up the fallen concertina, shouldered 
 the stilts, and tramped away down the road among 
 pines and carob trees. The Jackdaw went oblivious, 
 carrying Hermance in his arms as if she really had 
 been ill. When they had rounded two curves of the 
 road, Puig laughed. 
 
 **Well," he said, grounding the stilts, ''that wasn't 
 so bad, old boy. You're not the only Presto 
 
80 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 Change-oh. While you were talking, I scratched my 
 back on the fireplace, and — got it after all." 
 
 The smith pulled from under his coat-tail a small 
 framed water-color. 
 
 ''What? You stole itr' 
 
 Jackdabos carefully set the little girl down on her 
 feet. He grew pale. 
 
 '*You took that mapT' he cried; then added very 
 mildly: **No doubt you meant well, Puig, but you 
 have destroyed my honor. Give me that!'' 
 
 He snatched the map out of Puig's hand, thrust 
 him staggering back among the roadside myrtles, 
 turned like a man fleeing from disaster, and at full 
 speed ran toward the villa gate. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE MAP AND THE PLACE 
 
 At the villa gate lie ceased running, but only for 
 a moment, while he hid behind a glossy hanging mass 
 of periwinkle and stuffed Goiffon^s picture under his 
 jacket. Then he raced through the garden to the 
 Princess's door. 
 
 Even after he had knocked, Jackdabos could invent 
 no excuse. 
 
 **How,'' he thought, fingering the edges of the 
 picture-frame in his bosom, **how shall I pop this back 
 on the wall ? Heavens, what a mess ! * ' 
 
 He was cursing Puig's perfidy, when the door 
 opened and the major-domo stared blandly out. 
 
 **You again r' said this mild- whiskered Cerberus. 
 **We are to bathe your forehead now, perhaps?*' 
 
 "Sir,** cried the Jackdaw, ''let me in, I beg. One 
 instant. I must see your mistress. * ' 
 
 Unmoved, the honey-tongued old stoic swung his 
 door to. 
 
 **And I,*' he drawled, *'must deprive her of that 
 pleasure." 
 
 81 
 
82 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 Jackdabos, exalted by despair, flung himself edge- 
 wise between door and jamb. A hot struggle fol- 
 lowed. He fought at a disadvantage, being bound 
 not to crack the glass of the picture under his coat. 
 Youth at last prevailed. He burst into the room. 
 
 *'Apaclie!'' panted the old man. **In broad day- 
 light ? We shall see, we shall see ! ' ' 
 
 He staggered back, waving his arms over his ven- 
 erable head, then turned to run for assistance. At 
 that moment, however, through one of the veranda 
 windows the Princess came into the room — a white 
 figure carrying a handful of fresh gladioli. 
 
 **What is here?'' she asked, not even showing sur- 
 prise. Both men regarded her like fools caught in 
 their folly. She waved the major-domo aside with 
 her sword-like flowers. "Go calm yourself,'' she 
 advised; then, when he had gone grumbling out, she 
 turned to Jackdabos: *'You had forgotten some- 
 thing?" 
 
 Jackdabos bowed. The mere sight of this lady, so 
 beautiful, sad, and strong, restored him like magic. 
 He stood upright. His dark face glowed. All would 
 yet come right. Even while he thought so, he per- 
 ceived in a flash his only possible line of conduct, and 
 took it. 
 
 **I came to beg your forgiveness," he declared, 
 smiling. **I'm no good. But I'm sorry." 
 
 He reached down into a deep pocket, from which 
 
THE MAP AND THE PLACE 83 
 
 he brought a dirty buckskin pouch containing his 
 little weight of money. It was not money he pro- 
 duced from this pouch, but something he valued far 
 more. 
 
 *'The only good thing I ever made/' he explained, 
 holding it out to her. ** Please take it. If you for- 
 give me, Madam, you will keep this.'' 
 
 The Princess laid the bright gladioli on a chair, 
 and took in her slender fingers what he offered — a 
 tiny brooch of wrought silver. 
 
 **0h!" she exclaimed with delight. "Our dear 
 cigala?" 
 
 She carried it to the windows, where the sunshine 
 made it glitter in her palm. Jackdabos had spoken 
 truly. His best piece of work, which he could never 
 bear to sell even when hungry, it was a silver cigala, 
 the shrill-chirping minstrel of Provence. 
 
 ** Whether she keeps it or not," he told himself, as 
 he backed quietly toward the fireplace, and gripped 
 the picture-frame under his coat, *'she can't help 
 looking at it. The thing is too fine." 
 
 He was right. It was no common trinket made 
 for catch-penny trade. The Princess bent her lovely 
 head down to a thing worth seeing. As she did so, 
 the Jackdaw made a lightning pass behind him, then 
 moved carelessly away from the mantel. Goiffon's 
 picture hung once more on its accustomed hook. 
 
 **But this is charming," said the Princess. 
 
 i • 
 
84 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 "Then it's worth your keeping T' he begged. 
 
 She glanced at him quickly, and saw that he was 
 not only in earnest, but in a seventh heaven of pride. 
 She raised the little silver insect and pinned it among 
 the white stuff below her throat. Light from the sea 
 gardeii sparkled on it. 
 
 ** *The sun makes me to sing.' '* She quoted in 
 Provengal the motto of the cigala. "I. wear your 
 decoration.*' 
 
 Jackdabos went backward, bowing, till he reached 
 the open door. 
 
 **May the sun never set in your heart!" he cried, 
 with such ardor and faith as would move mountains, 
 not to say a woman. *'You have made one poor devil 
 happy." 
 
 To his great wonder, the Princess followed him 
 swiftly as far as her door. 
 
 ''What?" she said, looking down reproachfully at 
 him in the path. '*You, a poor devil? And you can 
 make things like this?" She tapped the silver cigala 
 at her throat. **For shame! Go work, and work 
 hard. Are you the kind that buries his talent in a 
 napkin?" 
 
 The brown rascal smiled at her, but ruefully. Out- 
 side the house he seemed another creature. 
 
 ''There's the trouble," he said. **I can't stay in- 
 doors long enough to work. *The sun makes rm to 
 sing.' " 
 
THE MAP AND THE PLACE 85 
 
 He ran up the garden path, turned at the gate, 
 bowed again, and vamshed. His clear voice resounded 
 from the road : 
 
 *' 'A poor little chap, it fell to his lot, 
 Et Ion la laire, 
 Et Ion Ian la, 
 
 A poor little chap, it fell to his lot 
 To worship her who loved him not. 
 
 '* *She said to him: *'Lay at my feet," 
 Et Ion la laire, 
 Et Ion Ian la. 
 
 She said to him: ''Lay at my feet 
 Your mother *s heart for my dog to eat." 
 
 ** *Went to his mother and killed her dead, 
 Et Ion la laire. . . .' " 
 
 The song, a corrupt version of Richepin's Marie- 
 des-Anges, dwindled in the distance among the sun- 
 lit greenery. 
 
 *' 'The heart said, weeping, low and mild, 
 Et Ion la laire, 
 Et Ion Ian la. 
 
 The heart said, weeping, low and mild, 
 "Hast thou hurt thyself, my chUd?" ' " 
 
86 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 The Princess leaned in her doorway and listened 
 until song and running feet became inaudible. The 
 sun lay bright among the flowers, and her garden 
 seemed narrower than before. 
 
 As for Jackdabos, he came racing round that curve 
 of the woodland road where Puig and Hermance 
 awaited him. They sat under a myrtle bank, but slid 
 down afoot when the Jackdaw appeared. 
 
 '*Wild man,'' called Puig sternly, holding one stilt 
 ready as a club, *'wild man, answer me. What have 
 you doner* 
 
 Jackdabos laughed, wrested the weapon from his 
 hands, and gave it to the girl. 
 
 ** Little pitchers,'' he observed. *' Hermance, dear, 
 run play by the shore. Well call you when it's time 
 to go buy sweetmeats." 
 
 The tumbling-girl grinned, and trotted off down 
 the road. 
 
 '*I hung the lady's map where it belongs," con- 
 tinued Jackdabos. * * That 's all. Our honor is patched 
 up." 
 
 *' Honor?" raged Puig. *'Bah, ditched! We're 
 ditched! Lost our map after all this trouble." 
 
 *'Sit down." The Jackdaw pushed him — gently, 
 this time — against the bank. ''We need not turn bar- 
 barian. I have the map." 
 
 ''Eh!" shouted Puig. "Where?" 
 
 Jackdabos maintained a calm superiority. 
 
THE MAP AND THE PLACE 87 
 
 *'In my head/* he replied. **A little study is bet- 
 ter than much thieving. Before you stole that pic- 
 ture, I knew it by heart. Observe. ' * Breaking a myr- 
 tle spray, he scratched with its point a rough oblong 
 on the road. **That*s Goijffon's garden." Inside the 
 oblong he drew noughts and crosses, quickly, accu- 
 rately, with decision. *' Don't you see? There'' — 
 he pointed — *'was the westernmost orange tree to- 
 ward the northwest corner. Two metres from that, 
 somebody buried our gold plate. Well! Your cor- 
 nermost orange grew directly from under a ruin by 
 the wall — ^from the western edge of the ruin. There, 
 I draw it so. And it was a Roman ruin.'' 
 
 Puig snorted. 
 
 ** Roman? What if it was? You're an ass." 
 
 The Jackdaw placidly buttonholed him, and said: 
 
 ** Orange trees may be cut down, old man; but 
 Goiffon, or the successor of Goiffon, does not destroy 
 a Roman ruin in his own garden. No, sir: not to 
 please your grandmother. We have good solid Roman 
 masonry to measure from." 
 
 Puig stared hard and long at the scratches in the 
 dirt. 
 
 ** Damme if I don't begin to think," he said grudg- 
 ingly, '*that you have something inside that little 
 round nut of yours, after all. Let's go find this gar- 
 den." 
 
 They found it, late on the next Saturday after- 
 
88 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 noon. Goiffon's name still lingered in that neighbor- 
 hood, for they followed his memory, asking Ligurian 
 workmen here and there, until it led them out of 
 France, across the torrent Saint Louis, high on a 
 limestone spur into Italy. Gray stone walls, the 
 labor of centuries, terraced a mountain gorge where 
 violets grew thickly under the moonlight-colored leaves 
 of ancient olive boughs, and where on every eminence 
 the air tasted fresh and lively, scented with green 
 heather. A swarthy, bright-eyed hillman, cutting 
 roots for briar pipe-bowls, looked up from his frag- 
 rant work at the Jackdaw's hail, and welcomed the 
 Jackdaw as a brother. 
 
 ** There stands the house you're looking for," he 
 said, pointing. * * Goiffon died. Yes, he was a painter, 
 and a man who went round talking friendly like you 
 and me. One of these rich fly-by-nights owns the 
 poor old building now, they say. You're welcome, 
 dear soul." 
 
 Through an olive grove they approached the house 
 at sunset. It was a pink stucco villa rearing its sec- 
 ond storey above a high gray stucco wall, and looking 
 down over Mortola to the sea. Faded green shutters 
 flung wide, and white curtains fluttering slowly, 
 showed that the upper windows all stood open to the 
 evening air. Puig and the Jackdaw squatted in an 
 old grassy trench, well within the boundary of the 
 grove, where they could spy out the land in safety. 
 
THE MAP AND THE PLACE 89 
 
 So near the object of their search, both men hung 
 back and doubted. 
 
 *'We sha'n*t find anything/' said one. 
 
 **Not likely/' agreed the other. 
 
 Yet, having devoured the sight of this hillside dwell- 
 ing, their eyes danced and glittered when they met 
 again. 
 
 ** Don't lose. time," Jackdabos implored. 
 
 Puig nodded, stood up, hitched his belt closer, and 
 set off walking through the grove. He, by agreement, 
 was the one who should put their plot in motion, and 
 deliver the attack: he was to appear at the house 
 boldly as a gardener seeking work, an honest poor 
 man from Roquebrune whose asparagus had failed, 
 and who wanted any odd job to earn victuals by. 
 Deliberate, burly, determined, with a trowel stuck 
 in his pocket, Puig looked the part as he swaggered 
 off among the gnarled olive trunks and their attenu- 
 ated sunset shadows. He gained the open ground, 
 crossed it, plunging through heather, and disappeared 
 round a corner of the garden wall. 
 
 Jackdabos, chin to the ground, lay prone in a bed 
 of violets, watching their numberless tops quiver be- 
 tween sunlight and dusk. He listened. There came 
 no sound whatever : no knocking at any gate, no clink 
 of any latch, no murmur of voices. Time dragged by. 
 
 ** What's the man doing?" he began to wonder. 
 
 With his nose among the violets, he drew a long 
 
90 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 • 
 
 breath of fragrance. It was pleasant to watch them 
 thus from underneath, to see their little shepherd- 
 crook stems gilded by a shaft of sunset, to think how 
 their trembling tops resembled dark blue winged crea- 
 tures ready to fly. A fancy of his childhood recurred : 
 lying so, his eyes level with the good earth, he had 
 often pretended he was a fairy, no bigger than an 
 ant, wandering valiantly through the tall green for- 
 est of the grass. His mind could still enjoy that game, 
 still run free into Lilliput. 
 
 ''How easy all pleasure is, the real fun!" he 
 chuckled. *'Why do people hurry after it and fret? 
 It comes to you waiting. You can't go catch it.'' 
 
 The sun went down: and with it vanished every 
 glowing color from his violet forest, the ruddiness 
 died off the gray olive trunks, Goiffon's house grew 
 pale and indistinct, the sea below turned vaporous 
 and lost all lines of movement. A smoke-white moon 
 hung above the mist. Jackdabos roused on his el- 
 bows, like a brown Puck listening in the woods. 
 Nightfall and its chill overtook him, the treacherous 
 fond de Vair of the Riviera made him shiver. 
 
 ''Where the dickens has Puig gone?" 
 
 Not a sound came from the house. Had he per- 
 formed his duty, there must have come many sounds. 
 
 "Has he dropped dead, then?" 
 
 The Jackdaw sat up, shivering, and wrapped his 
 old velveteen jacket more snugly about him. The 
 
THE MAP AND THE PLACE 91 
 
 grove had become too cold a floor to lie on. He leaned 
 his back against an olive bole. 
 
 *'Puig*s had time enough to shovel np that plate 
 and run with it from here to Genoa. But, of course, 
 he wouldn't.*' 
 
 Such faith brought its reward. The garden wall 
 showed a mere ghostly blank through the trees, when 
 from beyond it came a thud of galloping feet. The 
 runner, a shadow, burst into the grove. 
 
 The time of day was now, as the saying is, between 
 dog and wolf. Twilight so darkened the grove that 
 Jackdabos could not see the lineaments of this man 
 who darted toward his hiding-place. It was Puig, 
 by the voice, and Puig in a strange fit of excite- 
 ment. 
 
 **Jack, Jackdaw; where are you! Come here! 
 This is too much for me. Something's gone wrong. 
 What's the matter with that house?" 
 
 Jackdabos jumped, caught the speaker by his arm, 
 and stayed him as he went blundering past. The arm 
 held a trowel straight up like a weapon ready for 
 defense. 
 
 '*Man alive!" cried Puig, stopping short. "Jack- 
 dabos, tell me, quick, what's the matter with that 
 house?" 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 goiffon's garden 
 
 Thet stooped forwb,rd, peering under the low- 
 spread blackness of the grove. 
 
 ** Matter?'' returned Jackdabos. **Why, what 
 should be?" 
 
 Puig drew himself together palpably in the dusk. 
 Not fear, but some kindred emotion, some panic of 
 surprise had overcome him. 
 
 **A trap,*' he whispered. **It's a trap. The back 
 gate stood ajar. I went in, walked through the gar- 
 den, looking. Nobody there, Jacko : either that house 
 has got a murder inside, or it's baited to catch us. 
 Doors and windows wide open. Walk in, help your- 
 self." He shook the Jackdaw, hissing vehemently. 
 **Not a soul there!" 
 
 Jackdabos refused to catch his alarm. 
 
 **A11 the better for spade-work, Puig. Y a du hon! 
 Sounds too good to be true ; but keep your eyes peeled, 
 and in we go!" 
 
 92 
 
GOIFFON'S GARDEN 03 
 
 Puig remained bent under the olive boughs, heark- 
 ening and staring. 
 
 **I'm not easy upset," he grumbled. **But wide 
 open — ready to swallow you — house and garden! 
 That ain't luck, don't tell me. Too good? You bet 
 your breeches. Coming dark, and not a soul. That 
 garden's fair set like a rat-trap.*' 
 
 His doubt infected the Jackdaw, but only for a 
 moment. Then the youngster caught him by the hand, 
 and led him, like an unwilling child, forward among 
 the olive trees. Outside the grove they halted under 
 an evening sky of which the brightness puzzled them, 
 until they saw, high above the veiled sea, the moon 
 turning faintly golden. The heather smelled cool and 
 sweet as they breasted its dark tops and broke 
 through. Crossing a donkey-path, they reached the 
 glimmering wall, turned its corner up-hill, and so 
 slipped along its darkest face. Here, suddenly, a 
 band of moonlight fell athwart their way, through 
 the back gate. 
 
 ' * Open, " said Puig. ' ' Wide open. ' ' 
 **So I see," quoth Jackdabos: **Pop in." 
 Next ipoment they stood together in GoifPon's gar- 
 den. So carefully and slowly had they come, that 
 already the moon shone clear and bright. Revealing 
 the blue of the sky where it hung, it flooded this 
 walled enclosure with such radiance as made every 
 flower distinct in the masses of bloom. The trees, 
 
94 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 young lemon-trees formally planted, glistened as 
 though their leaves were glass and their fruit the 
 treasure of the Hesperides. Serene light, long shad- 
 ows, immobility, a trance of quiet, rendered the whole 
 place fabulous. 
 
 *'We stepped into a dream,'' said Jackdabos. 
 
 **Hush!" whispered Puig, listening for a sound 
 which did not come. 
 
 He beckoned. The pair moved on warily, treading a 
 moonlit carpet of fine turf. Wherever the path wound 
 across their course, they skipped it as though skipping 
 a brook. Once the Jackdaw knelt down to scrutinize 
 this path. 
 
 *'The sand,'' he whispered, rising again, ''was 
 brushed to-day. Some one lives here. ' ' 
 
 '*A thing to beat that," promised his companion. 
 ''Come, look." 
 
 Through the shadows of the glistening lemon-trees 
 they stole, past a little circular fish-pond that con- 
 tained a deep, cold likeness of the moon, then up 
 three stone steps to a flowery terrace. The house, 
 bleached with pale light, overgrown with a black 
 arabesque of vine-leaves and tendrils, yawned open 
 before the marauders — a row of doors and high win- 
 dows, all open, dark, and empty. A trellised way like 
 a tunnel, on the right, showed at the end of its vista 
 another gate, the front gate of the garden, wide open 
 on a mountain road. 
 
GOIFFON'S GARDEN 95 
 
 **Look/* said Puig, drawing the Jackdaw with him 
 to the main door of the house. ** Don't seem right. 
 Can't be right/' 
 
 Indoors they saw a long, low chamber, half-lighted 
 by the greenish mist pouring aslant through many 
 windows. Gilt picture-frames, the curves of a piano, 
 corrugated ranks of morocco along bookshelves, caught 
 threads and points of light which rendered them half 
 familiar, half ghostly. Into the brightest window 
 jutted and shone the corner of a mahogany table, on 
 which stood, lonely and brilliant, a huge silver pitcher. 
 
 **You're right," said Jackdabos. ''It's queer." 
 
 After a moment of watching, he added : 
 
 ' * That 's a bell there f Ring it. ' ' 
 
 A brass knob gleamed at the edge of the doorway 
 vines. Puig gave it a vigorous pull, which was loudly 
 answered, somewhere within, by the jangling of a bell. 
 Gradually this clangor died away. It brought no one, 
 roused no movement, produced no change but an ap- 
 parent deepening of the silence. 
 
 "Bah!" cried Jackdabos aloud. '* These Pierrots 
 here, they are very mysterious! Hola! Madam! 
 Sir! If you please ..." 
 
 His voice rang in the deserted room. 
 
 **It's no good," declared Puig. 
 
 Jackdabos put his fancy to work. 
 
 ''Perhaps," he said, **the owner has killed himself, 
 and the servants done a flit." 
 
96 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 *'Yes," mocked the other. '*And left that silver 
 hogshead for tis on the table." 
 
 Jackdabos nodded, aclmowledging the argument. 
 
 **Why not?" propounded the smith suddenly. 
 ** Here's a house full of stuff, admission free. That's 
 better than gold plates which may not exist. Shall 
 we have a go at it? Inside? Come, these people de- 
 serve to lose ..." 
 
 The Jackdaw stared at his tempter. 
 
 **0 Puig," he mourned. *'My dear Puig, if we 
 were only thieves, now ! What a chance ! If we were 
 minions of the moon." 
 
 ** Thieves anyhow," said Puig. ** Indoors or out." 
 
 '*I'm no casuist, I'm only a digger." 
 
 So saying, the Jackdaw snapped his fingers, and 
 broke off a spell. 
 
 *'Back out!" he ordered. ''Back! This is no time 
 to be poets. Along with me, old Burn-the-Wind, 
 and thank the good fortune however it comes. ' ' 
 
 He swept a farcical bow into the room, then turned 
 and ran down the terrace, through the lemon trees, 
 to the rear wall of the garden. Here, busy as a ter- 
 rier, he darted back and forth, his shadow bobbing on 
 the grass; till suddenly he found what he wanted, 
 and motioned the waiting Puig to draw nearer. 
 
 "Roman ruin," he whispered. ** Where's your 
 tape-measure?" 
 
 A row of shrubs and climbing flowers lined this 
 
GOIFFON'S GARDEN 97 
 
 wall, mingled with ivy here and there, now thick, 
 now sparse. Out from the thickest ivy, in the dark- 
 est shadow, protruded the crumbling edges of a 
 vaulted arch, built — as the men saw when they struck 
 a match — of long, thin Roman bricks. Some rich man 
 caused it to be built, before Pliny wrote his letters; 
 and still the Roman mortar held as hard as flint. 
 
 **Here,'' answered Puig, rummaging his pockets 
 for a cheap cloth-measure bought yesterday. 
 
 **Roll off two metres,'' commanded the Jackdaw, 
 squatting in darkness. *'Give me the end. Now 
 draw a circle with your trowel, as far as two metres 
 will stretch.'' 
 
 Puig obeyed, and with his trowel-point scratched 
 a curve along the ground, a goodly arc of a circle, 
 which had for centre the Jackdaw's thumb, tight- 
 pressed against the corner of the ruin. This arc 
 ran from" wall and shrubbery, across the bright gray 
 path, into the midmost gloom of the vault. No sooner 
 was the curve drawn, than up sprang Jackdabos to 
 cut a fantastic caper, dancing, flinging his legs over 
 the moonlit turf. He leaped and spun like a goblin. 
 
 *'Ah, the good luck!" Returning, he clapped Puig 
 on the shoulder. **Your circle, dear old boy, your 
 circle of two metres radius from where the orange tree 
 grew — see ! It cuts the path. Of course ! That man 
 who hid our plate, he was no imbecile. Of course it 
 
98 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 cuts the path; for nobody digs up a path, my child! 
 Eh ? Nobody but us, to-night ! ' ' 
 
 He suppressed the beginning of a war whoop, 
 caught Puig round the waist, spilled him on the grass, 
 rolled him over and over in a wrestling match. Puig 
 fought and gurgled. At last they sat up, stared at 
 each other, and regained their senses. 
 
 '*Wait till I get my* weapon, '' panted the Jack- 
 daw. 
 
 He drew from his hip-pocket another gardener's 
 trowel, Puig seized his own from where it had fallen, 
 and both men, kneeling on the path, began to dig like 
 badgers. 
 
 The top crust of the path, under its powder of 
 neat sand, proved to be sharp rocks tamped hard as 
 frozen ground. Their trowels clinked while they 
 broke it. Once below this obstacle, they scooped out 
 the native hill-side earth with ease, but so fast that 
 they panted and grew hot in the chill evening air. 
 At last the hole grew elbow-deep, wider than a grave 
 and half as long, with a conical mound of loam casting 
 black shadow into it. Now and again the men ceased 
 digging, to lower a lighted match within the pit, but 
 the flame showed only roots and a few angleworms. 
 
 **Heavens!'' cried Puig all at once, and jumped 
 backward over the mound, ready to run. 
 
 The ivy covering the ruin parted, rustling. It was 
 a night bird which passed overhead — a young owl 
 
GOIFFON'S GARDEN 99 
 
 which went fluttering round the garden from tree 
 to tree, squeaking like a deserted puppy. 
 
 Jackdabos uttered some curse, and plied his trowel 
 more furiously than ever. 
 
 * * Boys-oh ! ' ' he muttered, soon afterward. * ' We Ve 
 struck it! I feel the thing. Put your hand down.*' 
 
 Puig launched himself head and shoulders into the 
 pit. His fingers met the Jackdaw's there, and to- 
 gether they explored by sense of touch a hard, knobby 
 thing protruding near the bottom. 
 
 ''Root again," said Puig. ''No. A stone?" 
 
 It was neither, for amid the mould their fingers 
 rasped and tore a bit of rotten cloth. 
 
 "Have got!" grunted Jackdabos. "Dig, brothers, 
 dig!" 
 
 His cheeks, in the moonlight, shone with running 
 sweat. 
 
 "Dig!" he cried aloud. 
 
 They bent into the hole, clawing and cutting each 
 other with their trowels. Presently the bank of the 
 little pit crumbled and caved. The mouldy knob had 
 become a stratum, a curving edge. They caught this 
 edge and hauled. It yielded, stuck, played loose, then 
 came suddenly away with a shower of clods, and 
 landed between them as they rolled on the turf, legs 
 to the moon. 
 
 It was a flat, heavy object like an oval shield, coated 
 and caked with mud. 
 
100 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 They dropped it, and for a moment sat looking sol- 
 emnly back and forth, up and down, from this dirty 
 treasure to the triumph which their eyes proclaimed. 
 
 **01d Philibert,'' stammered Jackdabos, *'I really 
 believe ..." 
 
 The smith nodded, breathless and speechless. 
 
 '* Child,'' he puffed at last, ''you're not such a fool 
 as you look." 
 
 They hitched themselves lamely up from sitting to 
 standing. It was Puig who lifted the muddy shield 
 from the grass. 
 
 "Let's be off," said he. "Somebody may come." 
 
 ' ' No, ' ' Jackdabos replied, shaking his head. ' * Open 
 the bundle first. May not be what we wanted. " 
 
 "Good words," Puig admitted. He held their flat 
 prize toward the moon, and with his trowel scraped 
 off the thickest mould, like a cook trimming a pie. 
 "We can't afford mistakes now." 
 
 He had drawn his pocket-knife to cut the rotten 
 wrappings, when Jackdabos gave a jump and tapped 
 him on the shoulder. 
 
 "I heard feet walking. Look sharp. Out we go — 
 the back gate." 
 
 Puig shut his knife, dropped his trowel quietly on 
 the mound of loam, and tucked the shield-shaped 
 parcel under his arm. Both men stared cautiously 
 round the garden. Nothing moved among the fat 
 shadows of the lemon trees. Even the frightened 
 
GOIFFON'S GARDEN 101 
 
 owlet had taken shelter under those glossy leaves, and 
 squeaked no more complaints to the moon. 
 
 **Your ears are sharper than mine/' Puig whis- 
 pered. 
 
 He stole away, crouching, along the grassy border 
 of the wall. Jackdabos followed, on tiptoe, listen- 
 ing. They strung up their sinews for a dash into the 
 heather. Then, reaching the gate, they paused and re- 
 garded each other blankly. 
 
 The garden gate was shut. Where they had en- 
 tered so free, a heavy iron-studded door now barred 
 the exit. 
 
 **Wind.'' Puig's thick lips formed words of ex- 
 planation in the moonlight. **The wind blew it 
 shut." 
 
 He tried the latch, carefully, with the ease of a 
 good mechanic who knows locks and fastenings. The 
 door held. Puig shoved it, humored it, silently pushed 
 and lifted. 
 
 ** Fastened,'' said his pouting lips. ''Locked from 
 outside." 
 
 ' ' There wasn 't any wind, ' ' mouthed Jackdabos. ' ' I 
 heard somebody there." 
 
 They instantly withdrew, and began studying the 
 wall for an escalade ; but the wall reared everywhere 
 smooth and high, crowned with bright little fangs of 
 bottle-glass thickly planted in cement. To cling there, 
 moreover, was to hoist one's body upon the most con- 
 
102 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 spieuous ledge of all that neighborhood, and into the 
 clearest light. 
 
 Puig darted once more to the back gate, vainly- 
 struggled with the latch, and made a hopeless ges- 
 ture. 
 
 ' * I told you, ' ' he whispered, returning. ' * I told you 
 it was a trap.'' 
 
 The Jackdaw grew hot with anger. 
 
 * ' Baby ! " he retorted, at the top of his voice. * * Cat 
 of discouragement, you drag your tail in the sand al- 
 ways, and now ! Every house has a front gate, I be- 
 lieve ? Pull your feet ! ' ' 
 
 They started with a bound, and ran under the lemon 
 trees, past the cool, golden fish-pond, up the terrace, 
 and along the shadowy tunnel of the grape trellis, 
 which led toward the front wall, the seaward gate of 
 Goijffon's garden. 
 
 But here, even while they ran, they found that 
 running would not avail now. The front gate also 
 had been closed, but something worse was in act to 
 happen. Puig had guessed only too well, and this 
 garden of the Hesperides caught them. The trap 
 was sprung. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 MAN-TRAPS 
 
 They recoiled not a moment too soon, half-way 
 down the leafy tunnel. Before them the front gate 
 silently swung ajar, then opened inward, to show a 
 tall man blocking the way. 
 
 Puig and Jackdabos flattened themselves among 
 vines. 
 
 For a moment this man stood peering as though he 
 saw them eye to eye ; but he could not have done so, 
 for under the trellis lay tangles of black and white 
 obscurity too thick and deceptive. He paused, hold- 
 ing the latch. The gateway framed a magical picture 
 of three distances and depths — a white road, low olive 
 tops fringing the mountain spur, and beyond these a 
 pale moonshine vapor which dissolved both sea and 
 sky. 
 
 The stranger, holding the latch at arm's length, 
 turned his head, raised his free hand, and beckoned 
 somebody without. His bosom flashed white as he 
 moved. Three burly silhouettes filled the road — 
 
 103 
 
104 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 Italian police, with admirals' hats and carbines, like 
 figures conjured from La Tosca. The tall man in the 
 gate consulted them, whispering. 
 
 If the trap had sprung, it was not tamely to catch 
 mice. No sooner did the stranger turn his face away, 
 than Puig and the Jackdaw began sliding back from 
 pillar to vine, from vine to pillar, quiet as a pair of 
 black spirits. 
 
 *' Garden too bright, '* breathed one. *^Into the 
 house. Hide in a cupboard, or else . . /' 
 
 *' Fight 'em,'' whispered the other. 
 
 They slipped under a spiny, low-hanging palm, and 
 thence to the house door where formerly they had 
 rung the bell and shouted. Now they backed slowly 
 into the room, hearing a crunch of heavy boots ap- 
 proach under the trellis. 
 
 ' ' Caught ? ' ' sighed Puig. 
 
 His young companion said nothing, but gave a 
 glance behind, then suddenly pinched his elbow. 
 Puig turned, and saw what the Jackdaw had just 
 seen. The long chamber, this time, was not empty. 
 
 At the table where the silver pitcher gleamed, sat 
 a man. A large man, sprawling at length in a high, 
 mediaeval chair, he sat with his back toward them, 
 and pensively regarded the moonlight through a 
 window. While they watched him, he roused, but 
 without turning, and listened to the footsteps out- 
 doors. Then he reached for his pitcher. There stood 
 
MAN-TRAPS 105 
 
 a glass ready to hand, but he lifted the great silver 
 weight like a trifle and drank from it magnifi- 
 cently. 
 
 *'Lazy beggar!" said Jackdabos under his breath. 
 He laughed silently, despair of their own case ren- 
 dering him light-hearted. **Lazy devil! That's 
 pukka! That's the kind of rich man to be." 
 
 The heavy boots came scuffing the garden stairs, di- 
 rectly up the terrace, to the house. Puig, with his 
 long bundle under his armpit, looked wildly about 
 the room, then slid into a corner of the bookcases. 
 Jackdabos promptly ranged himself alongside. They 
 waited there, among the darkest moonlight glimmer- 
 ings, ready to give battle or run. 
 
 "Hallo, old man," hailed an English voice from 
 the door, cheerful and friendly. ''I did my part. If 
 anyone's prowling round your garden to-night, weVe 
 bottled him." 
 
 A tall shape entered the room — a shape who bore 
 the long, white bosom of evening dress. 
 
 ''Bring your men up, Alfredo," it continued af- 
 fably. **I thought I saw our gentry come sneaking 
 this way." 
 
 The three carbineers crowded the door with their 
 admirals' hats. As they did so, the man at the table 
 plumped down his silver jug, and smacked his lips. 
 
 '*0h, water! Fountain of health!" he exclaimed, 
 in a hearty, familiar barjrtone. *'I do love to come 
 
106 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 home to this Alpine spring of mine. If 'twas only- 
 wicked to drink water, how fine it would be! Good 
 evening, neighbor. Switch the lamp on, wiU you, 
 please r' 
 
 The click of an electric button answered these 
 words. At once the dream-like mist in the room be- 
 came an aching glare, a flood of common light. Jack- 
 dabos and Puig, night-birds penned in a corner, stood 
 blinking. 
 
 ''Here they are. I thought so," declared the tall 
 man in evening clothes. He was a lean Englishman, 
 gray-haired, not young, not old, whose long, delicate, 
 beardless face and smiling gray eyes turned on the 
 wrong-doers with neither malice nor mercy. "Here 
 they are, and a naughty pair, too. Shall we tackle 
 'em? Do you want a row in here?" 
 
 He spoke to the man in the high-backed, mediaeval 
 chair, who lazily began to rise. The three policemen 
 stolidly blocked the door. Puig showed his teeth like 
 a rat, and seemed doubtful whether to draw the knife 
 from his hip, or yield. Jackdabos, crossing his arms, 
 looked on. 
 
 ''No, I hate rows," yawned the water-drinker, 
 standing up and shoving his chair away. **No, Al- 
 fredo, not to-night; it was a mistake. A great mis- 
 take. These two gentlemen are friends of mine whom 
 I expected." 
 
MAN-TRAPS 107 
 
 He faced them while he spoke, — a slow, amiable, 
 black-bearded giant. 
 
 It was Barjavel. 
 
 A moment of stupefaction followed. Then Puig 
 hurled his flat bundle clattering on the floor. 
 
 ** Singed!'' he cried. ** Burnt and betrayed. You 
 played us for fools. Damn the rich, anyhow!'' 
 
 But Jackdabos bent double and laughed himself 
 into a spasm of coughing. 
 
 "You old Assyrian bull!" he whooped. **You 
 simply came here and waited for us! I have seen 
 farces in my day ..." 
 
 He ran, caught Barjavel by the shoulders, and shook 
 him, transported with delight. Barjavel smiled like 
 the father of a prodigal son. 
 
 '*If you," said he, addressing the policemen over 
 the Jackdaw's head, ''will go shout for Ren6 at the 
 back gate, he will furnish you, my friends, with a 
 little supper. Rene is the cook, and a remarkably 
 good one." 
 
 The three carbineers touched their great hats, and 
 filed outdoors. Alfredo, their leader, a roly-poly Ven- 
 timiglian with huge mustaches, winked solemnly at 
 Jackdabos as he went. The wink was returned. 
 
 *'He arrested me once," the Jackdaw explained. 
 
 *'It does him honor," said Barjavel, lightly em- 
 bracing and releasing the Jackdaw. '*And now," he 
 continued, with a gesture of welcome, ''let's be com- 
 
108 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 fortable. Won't you light the fire, my son? The 
 room has grown chilly. ' ' 
 
 He went about closing windows and glass doors, 
 drawing curtains, placing chairs round the table. 
 Jackdabos knelt on the hearth, and skilfully lighted 
 a fire of houlets. The gray-haired Englishman, like 
 one who knew the ways of that house, fetched a tall, 
 many-branched silver candlestick and set it by Bar- 
 j a vers chair. 
 
 '^Switchojffr'saidhe. 
 
 ** Please. I loathe electricity, *' replied Barjavel. 
 
 A moment later they were ready to sit down by 
 pleasant candle-light. Only Puig hung aloof, and 
 glowered, and sulked. 
 
 **What!'' cried the friendly giant. *'Puig, man, 
 you thought me a traitor? Nonsense, never. Join 
 us. The police merely came to see that the wrong 
 persons didn't walk off with this house. They've gone 
 — drinking in the kitchen by now. Come, your chair. 
 What luck?" 
 
 *^We got it," grinned the Jackdaw. 
 
 Puig emitted a grunt, stooped, took from the floor 
 his muddy prize, stalked across with it, flung it on 
 the table and himself into a chair. 
 
 *'We got something," he amended, sceptically. His 
 green eyes surveyed the room with envious contempt, 
 and seemed to find a personal affront in the English- 
 
MAN-TRAPS 109 
 
 man's clean linen. ''Open it if you want to. IVe 
 been made a fool plenty long enough. ' ' 
 
 Jackdabos, radiant, whipped out his pen-knife. 
 
 "Shall I?*' he asked, reaching for the mouldy 
 bundle on the mahogany. 
 
 * * Wait. Hold on, * ' commanded Puig morosely. * ' I 
 thought our secret lay among three. Who's your 
 fourth r' 
 
 The Englishman calmly began shoving his chair 
 away. 
 
 ''I'll trot home if you like," he offered. 
 
 Barjavel stayed him with a glance. 
 
 "Puig's better than his manners," stated the 
 giant. "His question is a fair question. I'll answer 
 it. Boys, this gentleman knows more about bronze, 
 gold, and silver, ancient or modern, than any other 
 person alive. His opinion will be worth having, in 
 case we can show him anything fit for considera- 
 tion." 
 
 The gray-haired stranger leaned forward and 
 lighted a cigarette amid the little forest of candles. 
 
 * ' Handsome of you, ' ' he drawled. ' ' Go on, my son. 
 Cut the cake, you're the youngest." 
 
 Jackdabos slit with his knife the muddy envelope. 
 Heavy tarred canvas it was, well sewn with cobbler's 
 twine, but so rotten that it flew apart like cheese- 
 cloth, and sent crumbs of earth showering the ma- 
 hogany. Then appeared a bluish wrapping of tear' 
 
110 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 lead, which the Jackdaw quickly unfolded. The third 
 cerement was oiled silk, yellow and blotched as if with 
 sweat, but tough. The pen-knife blade ripped this 
 from end to end, with a gritty noise that set the men's 
 teeth on edge. Inside the gap thus made, Jackdabos 
 fumbled for a while. 
 
 ''There!'' he cried, and tore away silk remnants 
 from something which gleamed. He flung the wrap- 
 pings on the floor. *' What '11 you bet?" 
 
 ''Great guns!" murmured the Englishman, forget- 
 ting to smoke. ''Troy town!" 
 
 All four jostled their heads together and stared. 
 
 Before them lay an oval platter of dull gold, as 
 large as an ordinary serving-tray. The edge was a 
 crusted garland of golden leaves, laurel and myrtle 
 interwoven; the rest, a glorious theatre of human 
 forms crowded into action, like the shield of Achilles. 
 Jackdabos and his knife had cut the ancient world 
 open. Troy stood midmost in the gold, its high walls 
 breasting the surge of the Greek army, well-greaved 
 and helmeted Achaians whose waves broke power- 
 fully under the Scsean gate. Above the battlements, 
 outshining Priam and his elders, enthroned, a lost 
 and lovely queen, sat Helen looking for her brothers. 
 She yearned for them and feared them. They would 
 never reproach her. They were dead, and buried in 
 the dear soil of Sparta, their native land. But like 
 her dream and memory of their young splendor, to 
 
MAN-TRAPS 111 
 
 right and left of the siege appeared her brothers as 
 Helen had known them — the great Twin Brethren, 
 Castor taming furious horses, Pollux boxing with a 
 king. A flight of doves crossed the curving sky, Troy- 
 ward bound from Cyprus ; and rimming the bottom of 
 this plate in a script as beautiful as any of the 
 moulded limbs above, ran the lines : 
 
 "Sic te diva pot ens Cypri 
 Sic fratres Helenae, lucida sidera. . . ," 
 
 Barjavel stood up and blew like a dolphin. The 
 Englishman ran his fingers, burning cigarette and all, 
 through his gray hair. Puig lifted the plate greedily, 
 weighed it in each hand, then put it down. Jackda- 
 bos, coolest of the company, was the first to speak. 
 
 ** Helen's legs," he observed, '*are the legs of the 
 Fontainebleau Nymph. And what helmets! Oh, my 
 goUyl- 
 
 Until now the Englishman had shown no curiosity, 
 nothing more than a polite tolerance, toward his 
 captives; but on hearing these words, he sat erect, 
 darted one glance at the sunburnt Jackdaw, met his 
 glowing eyes, nodded, and thenceforward, though 
 studying the golden wonder close and hard, spoke 
 only to the Jackdaw, as friend to friend. 
 
 '*Your view of Helen's legs is very sound and 
 Bcholarly," he rejoined, smiling. ** They 're draped, 
 
112 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 of course, and the Nymph's are not. But all the 
 same . . .'* After more study of the plate, with 
 muttered exclamations, he launched into a rapid tech- 
 nical discourse which ran for a quarter hour, and 
 which two of his hearers admired greatly without 
 understanding a word. ''Yes,'' he concluded, wring- 
 ing his long fingers in satisfaction. ''Not one of the 
 books ever mentioned this, not Cellini himself — 
 there's the puzzle! That chatterbox, never to drop a 
 hint about any such design. Incredible ! — But young- 
 ster, you hit it. Helen's figure is the same, done 
 from the same model, I'll stake my head: from that 
 little wild brunette girl Jeanne — ^what's her name, 
 poor young thing? — ^the Scorzone." 
 
 Again the lecturer sought Jackdabos with his eyes. 
 He leaned back, smiling thoughtfully, as if he had 
 found the young man more problematic than the 
 plate. 
 
 "Do you mean to say," boomed Barjavel, striding 
 up and down the floor, "that it really is Cellini?" 
 
 The Englishman nodded. 
 
 ''Unmistakably," he answered. "Made in France, 
 by Benvenuto, for Francis I. Look, by the way," 
 and he pointed to the golden door of Troy, "there's 
 the king's own salamander. — Oh, it's quite all right. 
 The greatest find of our day, my friends." 
 
 Jackdabos bent down and became absorbed. 
 
 "Salamander's badly done/' he murmured, "The 
 
MAN-TRAPS 113 
 
 only one thing wrong, though, for all the rest is per- 
 fect. But his curves ought to go like this." 
 
 Dipping his hand into the silver pitcher, the young 
 critic sketched with wet finger-tip a design on the 
 mahogany. 
 
 **I'd bend that salamander so.*' 
 
 The Englishman whistled under his breath. 
 
 ** Right again,'* said he, in amazement. ** Where 
 did you learn these things?** 
 
 ** Making graveyard statues,** replied the Jackdaw 
 impatiently, as though everyone made them, **and 
 goldsmithing a bit, and doing pottery. Bah! You 
 know. Odd jobs, that kind of rot.'* 
 
 He was lost again in the world of Troy, Helen's 
 contemporary, sharing her present woe and her mem- 
 ories of the far-off brethren. 
 
 "The Twins always were my favorite gods," he 
 meditated. **If a fellow prayed hard to *em, could 
 he manage one piece half so fine as this before he 
 died?" 
 
 With the air of a righteous man who had endured 
 enough nonsense, Puig grasped the gold platter and 
 weighed it once more. His mustache bristled with 
 calcidation. 
 
 ** What's it worth?" he demanded. '*Set a fair 
 price for us. We might get cheated." 
 
 The scholar shook his gray head. 
 
114 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 *'No price/' he answered, looking distantly among 
 the candle flames. 
 
 **Whatr' yelled Puig. ''It's real, ain't it? You 
 said so.'* 
 
 ''More real than you or I," said the English- 
 man, coldly. "Its value is what the owner thinks/' 
 
 The blacksmith jeered as he set the gleaming legend 
 down. 
 
 "Well, just so. We're the owners, and we want to 
 kaow what to think." 
 
 ' ' Owners ? ' ' Jaekdabos cried in hot disdain. ' ' You 
 fool, nobody can own a thing like that, any more 
 than a mountain or a star.'' 
 
 The Englishman glanced over to where Barjavel 
 bestrode the fireplace. Barjavel acknowledged his 
 glance. Together, like secret judges, they watched this 
 angry, mud-stained couple brawling over their for- 
 tune. 
 
 "Neighbor," propounded Barjavel, mildly, as if to 
 change the subject, "how do you like the man-trap I 
 set in my garden?" 
 
 His neighbor laughed with a quiet relish. 
 
 "Humph!" said he. "You caught one." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 EXEUNT OMNES 
 
 Once more they had gathered in conclave round 
 the Trojan plate, and sat speechless, intent, in vari- 
 ous eager postures of admiration, when suddenly the 
 Jackdaw wriggled from his chair and left the group. 
 All eyes turned to watch him. Straight from the end 
 of the table, quick and soft-footed, he reached a door 
 at the innermost corner of the room. There he stood, 
 listening, cocking his head against a panel. 
 
 ''Eh?'* said Barjavel. 
 
 Jackdabos, with a flash of his black Egyptian eyes, 
 warned them to go on talking. 
 
 *' A gorgeous evening,'* declared the giant, promptly. 
 *'YouVe no idea what a lark it is to have old cronies 
 drop in. About time, don't you think, for a little 
 supper? As for drinkables ..." 
 
 He rambled through a bountiful inventory of his 
 cellar, while Puig and the Englishman forced a few 
 comments. All at once, Jackdabos twisted the knob 
 and jerked the door open. 
 
 115 
 
116 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 A black corridor, so far as the candle-light would 
 reach, yawned empty. Jackdabos craned his neck, 
 leaned into the darkness, listened again, then softly 
 closed the door. 
 
 Got away-, ' ' he said, returning to lean against the 
 table, his lips quirked in their odd smile, but his 
 brows contracted. * * The man *s gone. Must have been 
 his going that I heard.'' 
 
 Mild reflections from the sculptured gold played 
 on his face while he stood thinking. 
 
 "Puig,'' he demanded suddenly, ''where did you 
 leave your trowel ? ' ' 
 
 ''Chucked her down,'' replied the smith, staring. 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "No reason why not. Stuck mine into that ivy," 
 mused the Jackdaw. "Doesn't matter. The hole's 
 there. And Alfredo's patrol was ordered to call your 
 cook, Barjavel, from the back gate. If they found 
 the hole, now?" 
 
 Barjavel wagged his beard thoughtfully. 
 
 "No harm done," said he. "Gardeners dig holes, 
 even lazy gardeners like mine." 
 
 "We're in Italy," retorted the youngster. "Al- 
 fredo's a jolly round man, but no fool. Gardeners, 
 moreover, don't dig holes in " 
 
 A sound of footsteps coming along the corridor 
 broke short his explanation. Jackdabos leaped back, 
 made a downward swoop, amassed the muddy wrap- 
 
EXEUNT OMNES 117 
 
 pings from the floor, and stuffed them behind a row 
 of red morocco bindings on a bookshelf. Next mo- 
 ment, somebody tapped at the door. Before the tap- 
 ping ceased, Jackdabos lunged halfway across the 
 table, reached with both arms, and recovered like a 
 fencer. A broad gleam passed through the air, over 
 the swaying candle flames. Helen of Troy vanished in 
 a golden mist. 
 
 **Come!'' cried Barjavel. 
 
 The door opened. Alfredo the Ventimiglian showed 
 his plump red face, huge mustachios, and twinkling 
 eyes. He entered with a gesture of apology, and 
 tucking his pompous hat under one arm, closed the 
 door, beside which he placed his roly-poly figure at 
 attention, an easy, fat man 's attention, not even half- 
 military. He excused himself, no one more polite. 
 
 *'I came to thank you, sir/' he said, bowing toward 
 Barjavel. *'My men and I are about to leave. We 
 enjoyed your supper, and wish you a felicitous 
 night.'' 
 
 **Good night, my friend," the giant sleepily 
 drawled. **You found all to your satisfaction?" 
 
 Alfredo smiled a merry snxile which tilted his buf- 
 falo-horn mustache. 
 
 **Ecco! Abundantly, sir," he reported, and turned 
 to go. **By the way," he added, with his hand on the 
 door-jamb, **we discovered someone had been digging 
 
118 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 recently near your ruin. I suppose it^s all right, 
 sirr^ 
 
 Barjavel yawned. 
 
 ** Quite, thanks. My gardener had word to spade 
 up a new flower-bed. Lazy fellow, I dare say he 
 didn't finish his work before night.'* 
 
 Alfredo's merry smile grew broader. 
 
 **I dare say not, sir," he agreed, lingering on the 
 threshold. **The fact is, your gardener may have 
 misunderstood you; for he made his excavation in 
 the path, and not with a spade, but a trowel. I 
 nearly broke my shins. Lucky I 'm fat. ' ' 
 
 He laughed, and cast a look of great friendliness 
 round the company. Barjavel sat unmoved, as 
 though he had finished a trivial conversation; the 
 Englishman started another cigarette, and calmly be- 
 gan reading a book by candle-light; but Puig, wary 
 and sullen, glowered the defiance of a man who ex- 
 pects to be hauled into custody. As for Jackdabos, 
 he stood in the best available shadow, listening 
 quietly, with arms folded. No one could have 
 guessed what golden loveliness he hugged, like a 
 breastplate, under his velveteen jacket. No one could 
 fail, however, to spy the mud clotted on his elbows, 
 or the earthy smears which rendered Puig's face 
 more haggard than its wont. 
 
 **Good night, gentlemen," purred Alfredo, brush- 
 ing the magnificent hat. 
 
EXEUNT OMNES 119 
 
 "^Good night/' the culprits answered, in various 
 tones. 
 
 **Glad to meet you again, old one,'' added the 
 Jackdaw. 
 
 *'It was a pleasant surprise to see yow," Alfredo 
 chuckled. **I hope I may have the honor repeated — 
 soon!" 
 
 He scattered largess of cheerful nods, and took his 
 departure, smiling. 
 
 **Soon, by all means!" called Jackdabos, running 
 to the door. **We must talk over old times. I'm 
 bound south, you know. May I look you up to-mor- 
 row at Ventimiglia?" 
 
 "Ecco!*^ answered the policeman's voice, amiably, 
 from the dark corridor. 
 
 Jackdabos closed the door, and made a wry face. 
 For a time no one spoke. Then Barjavel shrugged 
 his shoulders, and inquired : 
 '*AU serene?" 
 
 Jackdabos, frowning, shook his head. 
 '*Not a bit of it. Alfredo is 0-N, on." 
 The Englishman laid his book down. 
 ** Right," he observed, very dryly. ''If Alfredo 
 overheard my lecture on Benvenuto, you'll never 
 carry that thing out of Italy; not, at any rate, past 
 him. Alfredo speaks half a dozen languages, and 
 he's far from deaf. Italian soil is a ticklish material 
 to scratch. There's a Government after its kind, 
 
120 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 and something like a Commission of Arts/' He 
 stretched out his long shanks, and gripped the arms 
 of his chair, ready to rise, *'Now youVe got it,*' he 
 asked, quizzically, *' aren't you lost?" 
 
 Barjavel soon dismissed that question. 
 
 **I claim no part in it," he boomed. ''I wash my 
 hands of the whole affair." 
 
 The tall Englishman rose. 
 
 '* Pontius Pilate was not altogether an ass," he 
 laughed. *'I do the same. Good night, gentlemen. 
 No, thanks, no supper. The hour 's late. Time elderly 
 devils went to bed." He lounged across the room, 
 parted a brocade curtain which covered the glass 
 door, and became a shadow on the moonlit terrace. 
 '*Let me know how you dispose your booty," he 
 called, from without. ''This happens only once in a 
 dozen generations." 
 
 Barjavel locked the glass door carefully, drew the 
 heavy brocade into place, then came and took his 
 friends one by each hand. They moved toward the 
 fireplace, where for a time they remained, searching 
 one another's face in the glow cast by the ruddy 
 houlets. Jackdabos kept his free arm across his breast, 
 holding the Trojan plate concealed. Puig scratched 
 his head and pouted at the fire. 
 
 *'Good boys, both," said Barjavel, with emotion. 
 ' ' Good boys. ' ' His large gray eyes glittered solemnly. 
 
EXEUNT OMNES 121 
 
 "I'm glad of your success. The thing is all your own. 
 And now, what next?" 
 
 The blacksmith saw lions in the way. 
 
 '*Too much moonlight. We can't get back into 
 France by the way we came; and to-morrow this 
 Italian jackass will have men watching the whole bor- 
 der line. He knows. God bless our luck, he knows I 
 It's your fault, Barjavel, for you called him here. 
 You couldn't trust us." 
 
 '*And thou, Jacko?" asked the giant. 
 
 *'Made in France." Jackdabos rapped his breast, 
 which gave a sound like muffled armor. **Made in 
 France for a French king. It never was meant to stay 
 in Italy. Over the border we go." 
 
 '*How?" the other two demanded. 
 
 **0n our feet," he replied. **It is thus, brothers. 
 Two courses, as you and I and Alfredo know, lie 
 open to us : either we keep the treasure here in this 
 house a while, or we run it out of the country at once. 
 If we keep it here, we're lost: that's only a question 
 of time, of police work, watching. If we run it out 
 to-night, the shortest way, we'll run plump into Al- 
 fredo's arms, anywhere between this fireplace and 
 Torrent Saint Louis. His men are doggo in the 
 heather, or else picketting the olive grove. Now, you 
 heard me tell Alfredo that we were bound south, and 
 would call on him at Ventimiglia. " 
 
 Puig and Barjavel nodded. 
 
122 THE KEY OP THE FIELDS 
 
 "Because whyT' said Puig. 
 
 The Jackdaw smiled. 
 
 "Because Alfredo is very subtle, for a policeman. 
 He knows from Holy Writ that all men are liars, and 
 from experience that I'm a fairly good one. So 
 what's Alfredo thinking, outdoors in the heather?" 
 Jackdabos looked very young and ingenuous while he 
 posed this question. "Why," he continued, "our 
 dear Alfredo thinks we'll do the contrary, we'll go, 
 not south, but back to France. I'm such a rotten 
 liar, don't you see? The last thing he dreams of, is 
 that I told an honest fact, and that we're bound for 
 Ventimiglia direct as fast as boot-leather will carry." 
 
 "But man," objected the smith, "you're only fall- 
 ing in deeper then, — further into the damned Italy." 
 
 "Oh, bosh!" cried the Jackdaw. "Can't you fol- 
 low? It's a jolly old circumbendibus. We spoke the 
 truth to Alfredo. Great is the truth, and doth per- 
 vail; for at Ventimiglia we turn due north for the 
 Alps, shoot up the valley of the Roia, leg it like the 
 devil on stilts, cross the frontier this side o' Breil — 
 swim the river if we must, but I know a better way — 
 then grrimp the mountain rocks up over the Col de 
 Brouis — and so, early to-morrow morning, drop easy 
 as a bird into Sospel, safe and hearty in good old 
 France." 
 
 The beauty of this plan, or the firelight, or both, 
 made his dark face glow like a girl's. Puig and the 
 
EXEUNT OMNES 123 
 
 giant, watching him, caught something of his ardor. 
 
 "Not so bad,*' observed the one. '*Your braina 
 live too near your hat, but theyVe all there." 
 
 ** Excellent!" proclaimed the other. **I foresee a 
 night that has some fun in it. Wait half a jiffy." 
 
 So saying, Barjavel released his friends, and ran to 
 the door of the passage-way. 
 
 **Tie up your bundle, meantime," he called, as he 
 disappeared into the darkness. "Newspapers and 
 twine are in that box-seat under the window. Get 
 ready to jump, while I see Bene." 
 
 He was off to the kitchen. Jackdabos wasted no 
 time, but whipped froln his bosom the gold plate, and 
 laid it on the table. Then, kneeling by the window- 
 box in question, he flung back the lid, pulled out a 
 rustling armful of printed sheets, and rose to work. 
 A moment his quick fingers played, and there lay 
 Cellini's grandeur as a flat, thick, commonplace pack- 
 age, wrapped in several dozen copies of Figaro and 
 Le Petit Marseillais. 
 
 **Barjavers a keen old dog," he mumbled, as he bit 
 the loose twine off the knots. ''Nobody looks twice 
 at a newspaper parcel." 
 
 Puig took it under his arm, jealously. They recov- 
 ered their caps, and stood waiting, while overhead a 
 rumble of voices and footsteps travelled through the 
 upper chambers of the house. Soon afterward, Bar- 
 javel came laughing into the room and joined them. 
 
124 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 He wore the old black rumpled serge clothes in which 
 they had first seen him by the roadside. 
 
 * ' Ready ? ' ' said he. ' ' All 's well. Rene has lighted 
 the whole top storey as if we were going to bed. Our 
 Italian friends will watch those windows till lights 
 out, of course. Hope they won't catch cold in their 
 ambush. Come on. Douse the glim.*' 
 
 He swept his broad felt hat over the candles, and 
 all was dark except the ruddiness from: the coal fire. 
 Then, with a chink of curtain-rings gliding on a rod, 
 one end of the room became a pale chequered 
 lattice. Barjavel's big shadow moved against the 
 moonlight, opening this window — a tall, wide eastern 
 window which looked away from France, sheer down 
 over house and garden wall. 
 
 ''Fourteen foot drop,*' he whispered. ''Are you 
 gameT' 
 
 Jackdabos climbed on the sill. 
 
 ''I'll go first," he murmured. "Puigo, toss your 
 baby down when I give you the word." 
 
 "Jump into that black spot," advised BarjaveL 
 "It's genevrier.** 
 
 The Jackdaw spun out of the window, and landed 
 crashing in the shadow of the house below. 
 
 * ' Gimme the child, ' ' he called, next moment. 
 
 Puig tossed out his white parcel, and followed it. 
 
 "Lord!" he cried, coughing. "My spine's drove 
 amongst my teeth." 
 
EXEUNT OMNES 125 
 
 He and the Jackdaw stumbled upright, unharmed, 
 in a patch of soft, wide-growing savin. 
 
 ** Good-bye, old man.'' They hailed the window 
 above them, guardedly. ''Thanks for all. Where 
 shall we meet again ? ' * 
 
 The householder looked down on them, — a blurred 
 face in a dark square. 
 
 "Get out!*' said Barjavel. ''Don't talk so loud, 
 and stand clear o ' the mat. Think I wasn 't coming ? ' ' 
 
 They leaped from their savin bed just in time, as 
 the black shape came hurtling down. 
 
 '^Achcha!** grunted Barjavel, flat amid evergreen 
 needles. ' ' Missed it for the world ! ' ' — He bounded off 
 the bush, caught his footing, and pointed down a 
 moonlit mountain flank into Italy. "Come along. 
 I'm with you, old as I am. This is better than living 
 in a house!" 
 
 They ran. Behind them, above Goiffon's garden, a 
 row of lights in an upper storey told the world that a 
 quiet household was going tamely, domestically to bed. 
 
CHAPTEE XI 
 
 ROIA STREAM 
 
 While they ran, the three friends chnckled and 
 whispered and joyfully swore. The pleasure of being 
 together again, outdoors, foot-loose under the moon, 
 gave to their flight a relish further enhanced by the 
 likelihood that danger was following them. Barjavel 
 cut capers, pranced, and galloped like a Percheron 
 stallion between two ponies. The bedroom windows, 
 false lights that dwindled and grew higher and higher 
 aloft, soon vanished behind the crest of the hill. 
 
 Presently the Jackdaw halted. 
 
 * ' I '11 join you in the road, ' ' he said. * ' Go on, while 
 I see if anyone's following.'' 
 
 He dropped as if dead, prone in the dust and 
 pebbles. 
 
 ''Keep your gait up!" he ordered. ''They 11 show 
 here against the sky." 
 
 Barjavel, and Puig embracing the white bundle, 
 left him to lie there on a bare hillside, and went 
 scrambling down the nearest dry gully among trees. 
 
 126 
 
ROIA STREAM 127 
 
 Loose rocks rattled after them, overtook, gambolled 
 by them, and at last poured a noisy cascade on which 
 they rolled down through bushes into a bright road, 
 the highway to Ventimiglia. Here they stood and 
 caught breath. The night seemed a miracle of pale 
 blue space, every mountain a vaporous billow, every 
 tree-top a clump of dark mystery, all the steep coun- 
 tryside dreaming, flecked with snowy villas, above 
 that veiled expanse where a twinkle of moonshine be- 
 trayed the Mediterranean. Not a breath of wind 
 moved the stillness anywhere. Then suddenly came 
 plunging footsteps down the gully, another burst of 
 pebbles, and into the road shot a little figure which 
 was Jackdabos. 
 
 He sprang nimbly to his feet, sneezed, and re- 
 ported. 
 
 **A11 right so far. Never a soul stirring. They're 
 on the French side of your house, Barjy, waiting 
 while we go to bed. WeVe got a clear field until 
 morning." 
 
 **Avanti!" commanded Barjavel. "We have longer 
 than that. If any policemen come inquiring to-mor- 
 row, Rene will tell them we all went to bed roaring 
 ripe, as jolly as bricklayers, and can't have break- 
 fast before noon. Rene is a faithful steward." 
 
 *'0 Serpent!" cried Jackdabos, delighted. ''O 
 Father of Lies! We're safe now till afternoon." 
 
 .None the less they began marching at full speed 
 
128 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 along the road, with now. and then a spurt of running. 
 Thus they devoured the way into Italy, talking sel- 
 dom and saving their wind, until the railway lamps 
 of modern Ventimiglia shone before them, and a 
 chureh-bell in old Ventimiglia rang midnight over- 
 head from a hill of darkened houses. Then they 
 turned their backs on moon and sea, to follow the 
 north road that wriggles up a narrowing valley into 
 the Alps. Beside them rushed the Eoia, shining and 
 gurgling among its boulders. Straight ahead the 
 mountains floated, ghostly gray peaks thinner than 
 smoke, but bound together with deep, crinkled 
 shadow-gorges that gave a hint of solid form. 
 
 **How loud the river sounds!'* exclaimed Barjavel, 
 after some two hours of hurried climbing. '^It's 
 noisier than I ever heard it before." 
 
 They were now past Firola, and traversing the 
 blackest of the high gorges, where wooded crags cut 
 off the moonlight. Sometimes a curving grayness 
 underfoot told them where the roadway dodged under 
 the roots of the mountains ; sometimes a blind tunnel 
 set them groping, and echoed each slow footfall se- 
 pulchrally; but for the most part, running water 
 guided them, — ^the hiss and rush of Roia torrent be- 
 side them charging down the twisted glens. 
 
 **But that,'' cried Jackdabos, pausing and giving 
 ear, *' that's not all water. I heard voices." 
 
 t^^ter, he stopped again.. 
 
ROIA STREAM 129 
 
 **Many voices. A great many. At this time of 
 night?'' 
 
 And presently he added, in dismay: 
 
 *'What the devil? Just when we wanted to be 
 alone. Horses and men by the dozen. Is it an army 
 coming?*' 
 
 The next turn of the road answered his question, 
 for it bent sharply round a crag, and opened a scene 
 which brought them up all standing. From lonely 
 darkness they were plunged without transition into 
 flaring light and busy multitude. Lanterns, torches, 
 and scattered bonfires glowed from end to end of a 
 deep gorge, reddened a long forest front of pine 
 branches overhanging the hillside on the right, and 
 splashed with running reflections, below on the left, 
 the gray-green surface of the Roia. Men swarmed 
 everywhere, dumpy silhouettes, talking, laughing, call- 
 ing one another with gestures, hopping over great 
 mounds of earth in the road,, scrambling out from the 
 pine bristles, as if the hills had opened and poured 
 forth a horde of goblins. They all hurried toward 
 the same point — a group which, midway among the 
 lanterns and fires, was rapidly growing to be a crowd. 
 
 **This won't do," growled Puig, hugging his news- 
 paper parcel. *^ We must cut out round this mess. " 
 
 Barjavel, staring at the lights, appeared doubtful. 
 
 * ' Better go roundabout, ' ' he agreed ; then suddenly : 
 * * Qh^ no^ I rememt)er ! " he cried. * ' They 're building 
 
130 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 a railway up here. It's all right. Move ahead. Only 
 workmen. This kind of crew is better than a wilder- 
 ness, to hide in. ' ' 
 
 **Yes. But '' said the Jackdaw, eagerly, 
 
 '* there's going to be a row. Hear 'em? A regular 
 Sabbath of cats!'' 
 
 And he dashed forward gaily to join the tumult and 
 see the fun. His friends, cursing this fickle ardor of 
 his, followed as best they could follow, through 
 heaped and cross-piled confusion — hillocks of sand, 
 logs, chains, tilted dump-carts, derrick-ropes, quadri- 
 lateral beds of broken stone, plank bridges, and tem- 
 porary roads, all mud, where from among the pine 
 boughs gigantic horses, tethered and blanketed, raised 
 here and there a sleepy nose and whinnied or stamped 
 the ground. 
 
 Jackdabos was soon one of the workmen, elbowing 
 his way — ^more subtly than his fellows — ^to the 
 core of the crowd. He had spoken truly. A Sabbath 
 of cats was well begun. Loud, cheerful, excited, scores 
 of Italian voices drowned the lesser turbulence of the 
 Koia, and made the green crags ring with echoes. 
 
 The crowd pushed and swayed, but kept its centre 
 on the road, just before two wine-shops — cabins craz- 
 ily built of raw brown boards — ^that stared down with 
 doors and windows alight, from the forest bank. 
 Each cabin bore a wilting bush above a sign-board 
 ^crawled with chalk. The * ' Trattoria dei Ferrovieri ' ' 
 
EOIA STREAM 131 
 
 still contained men drinking round a lantern. Its 
 neighbor, the ** Hostelry of the Poor Devil/' was a 
 tiny hut which seemed deserted, though a pair of 
 candles flickered within. So much the Jackdaw spied 
 as he wriggled among the thickest of the press. 
 
 Next moment, however, he had no eyes for any 
 such triviality. Among jostling bodies that reeked 
 with garlic, he saw a long white pair of hairy ears 
 flipping back and forth. They were the ears of a 
 little white ass. The creature tossed her head up- 
 ward and backward rebelliously, and made a scarlet 
 bridle flash in the lantern-light. 
 
 **I'm dreaming,'* said Jackdaw, as he squeezed be- 
 tween two men and reached the donkey's nose. 
 
 There stood the girl — the girl of Aigues-Mortes ram- 
 part. Flushed and tearful, her bare head shining 
 above the swart goblins who hemmed her in, she 
 clung with one hand to the bridle, while with the 
 other, holding the same rattan on which Jackdabos 
 had performed his magic, she tried to wave back the 
 worst of the crowd. She was talking, pleading, im- 
 ploring breathlessly in French. A decent-looking 
 foreman, who seemed more or less to understand her, 
 did his utmost to clear the ring about them, but 
 vainly. 
 
 On the donkey's back drooped a figure of anguish — 
 the girl's brother, no longer jaunty, but pale as a 
 
132 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 dead man. His eyes were shut. He sat biting his 
 lips and groaning. 
 
 Just then the girl saw Jackdabos. 
 
 ''Oh!'' Her face lighted, her blue eyes flashed as 
 though encountering an old friend. '*You, monsieur! 
 Thank goodness, you will help !'' 
 
 ''What's the matter?" asked the Jackdaw, in Eng- 
 lish. 
 
 "There was no lantern," she cried. "My brother 
 has broken his leg. There was no lantern to warn 
 us, and a pile of logs or ties, with a deep hole beyond 
 them. Is there a doctor in this camp? Oh, these 
 people! Get back! Please, please keep them off 
 him. The donkey won't stand it, and every move- 
 ment ..." 
 
 The Jackdaw instantly wheeled about, and began 
 patting the nearest heads and shoulders. 
 
 "Come, boys," he said, with lively good-humor. 
 "Fall back a step or two. Of your grace, make room. 
 A gentleman has broken his leg. Pass the word back. 
 Show a little mercy, and give the gentleman room to 
 suffer in. What the devil, it is not the Day of Judg- 
 ment!" 
 
 With that, he put a jest of highly personal, descrip- 
 tive flavor, on an odd-faced man who seemed the most 
 forward and boisterous in the front rank. It was a 
 merry word, low in its origin, but apt. The victim's 
 friends laughed. Jackdabos, with fluent cajolery, at 
 
ROIA STREAM 133 
 
 once pursued this advantage, and aided by the fore- 
 man, shoved and tugged and persuaded until the 
 laborers cheerfully enough gave way and formed a 
 circle, crying shame on those who still pushed from 
 behind. 
 
 Thus in a moment the Jackdaw, who would will- 
 ingly have escaped notice, found himself a chief per- 
 sonage, the interpreter and central hero of the piece. 
 Lanterns on the ground served as footlights, beyond 
 which the audience jammed and struggled, — a cloud 
 of dark faces, of gleaming teeth and eyeballs, of stable 
 odors mingled with garlic. 
 
 **I saw lights,*' continued the girl, beginning to sob 
 with relief. **I thought there must be a doctor here. 
 Oh, there must be!*' 
 
 Jackdabos interpreted. 
 
 **No,'* replied the foreman, shaking his crop-head. 
 * ' I 'm sorry for the lady. We have no doctor. ' ' 
 
 The drooping rider on the ass groaned, and swayed 
 as though to fall. 
 
 ''Never mind, Ruth," he mumbled, between 
 clenched teeth. 
 
 His sister gave him a quick upward glance full of 
 anxiety and pity; then her eyes met the bold, black, 
 friendly eyes of the Jackdaw. Neither girl nor raga?- 
 muffin spoke a word, but intelligence crossed intelli- 
 gence perfectly. 
 
 ''You will help meV 
 
134 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 ''To the world's end.'' 
 
 He was about to act on this dumb promise, when 
 from the lighted door of the ' ' Ferrovieri " drinking- 
 den, and down the bank, came staggering a group of 
 bleary, tousle-headed rascals. They broke through 
 into the charmed circle, and stared owlishly. One 
 drunkard was nursing half a loaf of bread, on which 
 he mechanically smeared a gobbet of cheese with a 
 table-knife. 
 
 ''What's here?" cried these roisterers, thickly; and 
 they whooped, and began to talk nonsense. 
 
 Among them was a young scoundrel with a cun- 
 ning, depraved face who seemed less drunk than his 
 companions. He brushed the hair out of his eyes, 
 bent forward, hands on knees, and leered up at the 
 girl. 
 
 "Ah, bellissima!" he crooned, amorously. "Art 
 thou come at last, — and with all that glorious hair?" 
 
 He sidled closer, thrust his ugly nose within an inch 
 of hers, and said something which luckily she did not 
 understand. 
 
 Jackdabos understood it. So did the workmen, 
 many of whom laughed. But Jackdabos laughed not 
 at all. He caught the creature and threw him against 
 the wall of witnesses. 
 
 "Never dare say that!" he ordered, in a whisper 
 that cut through the crowd and made all still. He 
 himself saw dimly for a moment, as if the ring of 
 
ROIA STREAM 135 
 
 lanterns had turned red. Dimly his enemy's face 
 gathered out of the darkness, and grew clear. It was 
 a pale, wasted, grinning face, with loathsome dank 
 hair flung over its forehead. The fellow was not 
 drunk at all, but cold with fury. 
 
 ** Never say it?'* he rose to a crouching posture, 
 and drew from his bootleg a long blade. 
 
 Then, deliberately, he said it again, and worse. 
 
 The Jackdaw, swifter than though all had been pre- 
 arranged, caught the table-knife from him who ate 
 bread and cheese. He took it lightly in passing. What 
 followed was a rush and a shock, as of a tiger charg- 
 ing a bewildered calf. Somebody fell, a crumpled 
 bag of clothes, rolling among the workmen's boots. 
 Jackdabos pitched away his knife. It was not clean. 
 
 *'You heard him," he declared, haughtily. 
 
 The Roia made its voice prevail in the long hush. 
 
 Jackdabos turned. He saw the white ass blinking,* 
 her rider peering dully as through a mist of pain at 
 the fallen body; and beside these, the girl wringing 
 her hands. At sight of her, he woke to the meaning, 
 the continuity, the fatality of things. 
 
 *'What have I done?" he cried sharply, and ran 
 toward her like a child or a suppliant. * * You counted 
 on me for help. O fool ! Miserable fool ! ' ' 
 
 She stared at him with a horror which he could not 
 fathom. 
 
136 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 ''There'll be trouble. I made it for you, yes, but 
 1 11 get you out of it. Come. ' ' 
 
 He reached forth his right hand to beckon her 
 away, clear of this danger which already growled on 
 every side. **Come!" he besought her. ''Trust me. 
 Trust a poor fool.'* She recoiled from his hand. 
 Blood covered the knuckles, where that pale beast had 
 scratched him, after all. It was his own blood, and 
 shed on her account. She could not be so unjust . . . 
 
 "Oh, well,'' he said after waiting, and turned to 
 face the storm. 
 
 It burst with shouts and confusion and the bran- 
 dishing of many Italian fists. A man dashed head- 
 long and grappled for his throat. Jackdabos tore the 
 man loose, then held him at arm's length. 
 
 ' ' Be quiet, ' ' commanded Jackdabos. ' ' I don 't want 
 to hurt you." 
 
 But his captive, one of the drunken party, began 
 writhing and screeching for help. 
 
 "What! Are strangers to come here and kill us? 
 At them! Save me, boys!" 
 
 A dozen men sprang forward. The Jackdaw freed 
 his fists and made play while he might. The ring 
 closed, the blows were going blindly. 
 
 "It can't last long," thought the Jackdaw, dodg- 
 ing, smiting, and being smitten. This was the worst 
 fight he had ever known, for there was no pleasure in 
 it: the presence of the girl, directly behind him, 
 
ROIA STREAM 137 
 
 clogged his soul with torment, a nightmare of re- 
 proach. **It can't last long." 
 
 Someone whom he had knocked over crept in and 
 tackled him round the knees. He went down gamely, 
 fighting, but none the less down. 
 
 A roar of triumph passed over his body. 
 
CHAPTEB XII 
 
 GUESTS OF THE POOR DEVIL 
 
 The roar of triumph sounded strangely, not because 
 it rang in the ears of defeat, but because it came 
 from the wrong direction. With a rush and a 
 trampling, it swept over Jackdabos from behind, met 
 his adversaries full front, and scattered them like 
 hornets in a gale. 
 
 Panting, aching, stunned with blows, he sat up. 
 
 The roar proceeded from Barjavel, who was 
 charging the enemy alone, sweeping his mighty arms 
 like a swimmer. Every sweep overturned three or 
 four workmen. 
 
 "Back, to the wine-shop!'* cried the giant over his 
 shoulder. *'Into the wine-shop, Jacko, the other one, 
 the little one. Into the Poor Devil !'' 
 
 Shouting, he stooped, caught a burly rioter by the 
 ankles, whirled him aloft like an Indian club, then 
 swung him horizontally through the air A windrow 
 of the mob fell before this human cudgel. 
 
 Jackdabos cast a glance behind. 
 138 
 
GUESTS OF THE POOR DEVIL 139 
 
 At the wine-shop door above stood Puig, hesitating, 
 clinging still to his white bundle. The hesitation was 
 brief. Next moment the smith dropped his treasure 
 on the threshold, leaped up, caught the signboard of 
 the Poor Devil, hoisted himself like an acrobat, 
 wrenched off the faded wine-bush, and fell with it to 
 the ground. 
 
 '*Hoy!'' yelled Puig in a Berserker voice. 
 
 He ran to the nearest bonfire, into which he poked 
 the bush. Eesinous evergreen, dried to the color of 
 iron-rust, it caught at the first touch and flamed. 
 
 * * Hoy ! ' * hooted the smith. Hurtling down the bank 
 into the fray, he laid about him with his burning bush. 
 * ' Get the lady out, Jacko ! Indoors ! The way 's clear. 
 Indoors!" 
 
 The fallen Jackdaw gaped, rubbed his head, and 
 sprang up. Once afoot, he gathered his wits. 
 
 The white ass, frightened by Puig's fire, was back- 
 ing violently, though the girl dragged at the halter. 
 Jackdabos went to the ass and laid a gentle hand on 
 her nose-bone. 
 
 '*We are going into the Poor Devil now," he said. 
 *'Come, little friend of our Saviour." 
 
 All animals were kind to him. The ass forgot to 
 struggle, moved willingly where he led. Upright on 
 her sat Brother Ralph, but like a man in a swoon. 
 The girl, releasing the halter, followed. As they 
 climbed the bank, Jackdabos looked down on the fight, 
 
140 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 and saw the road swept clean of people, the ring of 
 lanterns deserted, the mob retreating, dividing, fall- 
 ing before his friends. Puig's bonfire bough whirled 
 among scared faces, threshed them and showered them 
 with sparks, while the roaring giant caught up men 
 by handfuls, cracked their heads together, and tossed 
 them away like rubbish, laughing and talking while 
 he fought. 
 
 '^This,'' resounded the voice of Barjavel, "is bet- 
 ter than living in a house ! ' ' 
 
 The Hostelry of the Poor Devil contained two flick- 
 ering candles, as before, but apparently nothing else. 
 Through its open door Jackdabos led the ass, who 
 stepped daintily over the sill, over Puig^s newspaper 
 parcel, into the middle of the floor. Their entrance 
 drove a man backward, in surprise, from some peep- 
 hole near the door where evidently he had been watch- 
 ing the combat. He was a wiry, sun-dried little old 
 man, keen of glance, bent, furtive, rapid in move- 
 ment, with scrubby gray hair bristling like a squir- 
 rel's tail. 
 
 '*I don't keep a stable,'' he snapped, while his gold 
 ear-rings trembled fretfully. *'I keep a wine-shop." 
 
 The Jackdraw disregarded him. 
 
 ''Lean over. Let yourself slide. Gently, sir," said 
 Jackdabos to the sufferer. **Now into my arms. 
 There. So." 
 
 He lifted Brother Ralph down from the ass, laid 
 
GUESTS OF THE POOR DEVIL 141 
 
 him on the floor, and placed under his head Puig's 
 bundle for a pillow. The girl, kneeling, tried to give 
 aid and comfort. 
 
 ** They '11 burn the house down over our heads," 
 complained the landlord. 
 
 A voice from the doorway answered. 
 
 **No, they won't.'' It was Barjavel, glowing with 
 exercise. He remained outdoors, his attention divided 
 between room and road. **If they do, — here. I'll 
 buy the shop." 
 
 Barjavel reached in a bottomless gulf of a pocket 
 and dredged up a fistful of gold pieces. 
 
 '*That enough, Pierre?" He tossed them chinking 
 on a barrel-head where the candles burned. **The 
 Hostelry of the Poor Devil is my house now, Bar- 
 javel 's Entire." 
 
 The landlord stared, made a queer sort of ducking 
 salaam, then pounced on the coins. 
 
 *'Any more asses outside?" he chuckled. **If so, 
 bring 'em in, as many as you like." 
 
 Jackdabos had his first good look at the speaker. 
 
 **What, Pierre, is it you?" he cried joyfully. 
 "Peter the Ferret, always near the border! Incor- 
 rigible smuggler, show us your latest run-way. We 
 must be off, old Furet du Bois Joli." 
 
 The landlord of the Poor Devil stared again, then 
 burst out laughing. His dryness, his furtive air, 
 
142 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 seemed to drop from him like a mask, leaving the man 
 all warmth and genuine aifection. 
 
 ''Jacko!'' he exclaimed. ^^Why, Jacko, my dear 
 son, always in trouble ! ' ' 
 
 The girl, kneeling by her brother, gazed from one 
 to another of these noisy outlaws who had forgotten 
 her. 
 
 **You missed your man. Jack,'' said Barjavel, grin- 
 ning. ''The dirty brute's alive and well, though you 
 knocked his wind out and scared him green. He's 
 none the worse. Couldn't be that." 
 
 ''Thank God!" cried the girl. 
 
 Barjavel smiled at her, benignly. 
 
 "You may trust yourself," he declared, "to my 
 young friend, Monsieur Jackdabos. All's well. I 
 must shut the door now. Good-bye." 
 
 As he spoke, Puig dodged under his arm and en- 
 tered — a grimy figure powdered with ashes. The door 
 closed after him. The shutters were already barred 
 across the one pair of windows. Imprisoned, the little 
 company in the wine-shop heard murmuring with- 
 out, and a loud scuffle of many feet approaching. A 
 stone hit the boarded front and made the place boom 
 like a drum. Barjavel's voice was heard, quietly and 
 calmly expostulating. There followed a lull. 
 
 "Show us your back door. Ferret," said Jackda- 
 bos. "Don't tell us you haven't any. We know you 
 better." 
 
GUESTS OF THE POOR DEVIL 143 
 
 The little landlord winked solemnly. 
 
 "I wouldn't do this for everybody/' he replied. 
 *'But for you, son, and your party, here is one gate 
 into France.'' 
 
 The back wall of the wine-shop appeared a solid 
 rank of shelves which contained bottles, wicker flasks, 
 liqueur jugs, a few loaves of bread, and smoked meats 
 hanging in mysterious brown clusters. Peter, the 
 Ferret of the Pretty Wood, went straight to the 
 middle compartment, removed a jug, and fingered 
 something which clinked in the darkness. Toward 
 him, on silent hinges, there swung a four-foot width 
 of shelves, to reveal an irregular opening bordered 
 with rock. This Hostelry of the Poor Devil stood 
 with its back against a crag ; but in that crag yawned 
 a black fissure, tall and narrow. 
 
 ** Behold my catacombs," announced the landlord. 
 ** Climb straight up. Jack boy, then through the trees, 
 then to your left. You'll know the rest of the way 
 when you see it. The old granite path." 
 
 His guests hung back, eyeing one another in per- 
 plexity. Here at their feet was the chief encum- 
 brance, this young man who lay so pale, and still, 
 and handsome, as though asleep or dead. 
 
 "Ill carry him^" growled Puig. **He'll have to 
 chew his misery a while longer. Not the first man 
 that ever suffered. You take my plate, Jacko, and 
 lead the ass," 
 
144 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 *'You," said the girl, looking at Puig askance, 
 **you never can carry my brother. He's so large." 
 
 The sturdy blacksmith scowled up in her face. 
 
 *'Can'tr' he retorted. *'Poor little runt, am I? 
 You waif 
 
 Beaching for a wicker flask on a shelf, Puig skil- 
 fully flicked out the oil from its neck, and took a long 
 swig of wine. Then he smacked his lips, and bending 
 down, raised the girl's brother lightly in his arms. 
 
 "I can lug this,'' he boasted, ''from now till 
 Christmas." 
 
 Jackdabos meanwhile gathered up the Trojan plate 
 — ^which seemed a worthless burden at that moment — 
 and took the ass by her mane. Peter the Ferret 
 lighted them with a candle to the mouth of the fissure, 
 where, smiling and bowing, he wished the young lady 
 good night, a pleasant journey, and a safe recovery 
 to the poor gentleman. The girl faltered somewhat, 
 as well she might do, when she saw before them a 
 crooked slit of a cavern floored with broken rocks. 
 
 * 'You're not afraid?" urged the Jackdaw, impa- 
 tiently. "Our friend Monsieur Barjavel, who is a 
 gentleman, promised I should do my best for you. I 
 sha'n't lose my head again to-night." 
 
 They stepped through rows of bottles into the cleft : 
 Puig and his armful, the girl next, Jackdabos and the 
 white donkey last. No sooner were they well inside 
 the crag, than Pierre closed his smuggler's door, and 
 
GUESTS OF THE POOR DEVIL 145 
 
 left them blinded. They heard — ^the sound came 
 floating over the Poor Devirs roof, — a loud, musical 
 voice lifted in oratory. Barjavel, abandoned, was 
 not only guarding the front door but winning his 
 audience. He had the mob laughing. 
 
 '*No one is much hurt?'' he inquired, persuasively. 
 ''Those who wanted a fight have had one, the rest of 
 us were entertained. It^s either Saturday night or 
 Sunday morning. We don't have to work to-mor- 
 row. As owner of the Poor Devil, I invite you all to 
 come have a drink. Until the house goes dry as a 
 bone . . .*' 
 
 They lost his conclusion in a rumble of sound; 
 rock walls- enfolded them with dungeon thickness and 
 darkness; the donkey's hoofs clattered on pebbles, 
 now and then flashing a long, soft spark, until at last, 
 after many winding ascents among jagged granite and 
 tangled roots, light began dawning overhead. They 
 mounted as through a succession of ruined chimneys. 
 A steep and dusty climb brought them from rocks to 
 matted pine-boughs; another, from boughs to pale 
 moonlight on a mountain ridge. They had forgotten 
 the moon. Here in the cold upper air, she covered 
 a bosom of the hills with mystical pallor. 
 
 Puig laid the injured man on the grass, and busied 
 himself there. 
 
 ** Broken," said he. "Broken right enough, but 
 simple. Better not delay.*' 
 
146 THE KEY OP THE FIELDS 
 
 *'We must go get splints," agreed the Jackdaw. 
 
 '*No, I'U find 'em," said Puig. ^'You stay with 
 the lady." 
 
 He disappeared among the pine-needles whence they 
 had climbed. 
 
 ''Poor old Ealph, are you suffering?" asked the 
 girl. 
 
 Her brother lay and stared at the setting moon. 
 
 *'I'm all right," he answered, in a tone that belied 
 his words. "Quite comfortable, thanks. It's my own 
 fool fault. Sorry we didn't stop where you wanted, 
 Ruth." 
 
 She sat holding his hand for a while. 
 
 **I ought not have let you go on," she said. "The 
 night seemed so beautiful. We were both moon- 
 struck." 
 
 He did not reply, but shivered. Jackdabos, who had 
 remained aloof, standing by the snowy flank of the 
 ass, now came forward, took off his jacket, and spread 
 it over the man's body. He then returned to his 
 place. The girl presently rose and joined him there. 
 
 * * You must be cold, sir. ' ' 
 
 ''Not at all," he answered, though drenched in 
 sweat, and ready to freeze. "Thank you, mademoi- 
 selle." 
 
 She stood regarding him doubtfully. He made no 
 advances. 
 
 ' ' Can 't you bring us to a doctor ? " 
 
GUESTS OF THE tOOR DEVIL 147 
 
 He ojffered a gesture of excuse. 
 
 **Have patience. We shall go on immediately, 
 when we have set your brother's leg.'* 
 
 ''Can you do that?" 
 
 "That?" He shrugged his shoulders. '*We can 
 try. Broken bones, mademoiselle, are nothing novel 
 tons." 
 
 She was on the point of giving him up, for he ap- 
 peared distant, grave, wrapt from her understanding 
 by ages of hard, patient experience. A detail, slight 
 but odd, increased this effect. The late scuffle with 
 the workmen had knocked his old cloth headgear into 
 a curious overhanging fold, so like the Phrygian cap 
 that in the moonlight he seemed the incarnation of 
 some youthful god. What god, she could not remem- 
 ber. 
 
 Piqued, and also very anxious to maintain at least 
 a form of friendliness with her guide, she made an- 
 other attempt. 
 
 "Aren't you glad the man is alive?" 
 
 "What man?" he inquired. 
 
 "The man you stabbed." 
 
 "I didn't stab anyone." Jackdabos leaned on the 
 donkey's shoulder, and warmed his hands in his 
 pockets. "I was awkward. I failed. That's why 
 he's alive." 
 
 "And you don't care!" she exclaimed, growing in- 
 dignant. "You tried to kill, and you're not sorry." 
 
14$ THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 The leaning stoic surprised her with an outburst of 
 passion. 
 
 **I tried to let him have it right through his rasp- 
 berry!" he cried, exulting. **Make the worst of 
 that, mademoiselle, if you like. It doesn't matter. 
 The wish to kill was there, though you hate me for it, 
 and wouldn't touch my hand. Sorry? Yes, I'm 
 sorry because — ^well, what you call a gentleman would 
 have kept his head, thought of you first, and got you 
 out of this botch better than what I'm doing." 
 
 He broke off abruptly, and stared at the grass, 
 frosted with moonlight. 
 
 "My blood's not that kind," he added. 
 
 She waited for his next word. It did not come. 
 Jackdabos patted the donkey's neck, then remained 
 motionless, — a queer little statue of pride and peni- 
 tence, crowned with his Phrygian cap. 
 
 **The man you tried to kill," she resumed, *'what 
 did he say?" 
 
 ''Nothing." 
 
 ''I insist on your telling me." 
 
 ''Girl," replied the Jackdaw sternly, "you are very 
 young. You don't understand men. Be content with 
 that." 
 
 The trees below them rustled. Puig came toiling 
 out of the shadows, up the barren curve of the ridge. 
 On his shoulder he carried a bundle of scantlings that 
 rattled, and in his hand a coil of light rope. 
 
GUESTS OF THE POOR DEVIL 149 
 
 *'I stole the best I could find/' he reported. 
 
 The Jackdaw sprang forward. 
 
 **Well set your brother's leg/' said he, with alac- 
 rity. **Now, my poor friend, have courage.'* 
 
 By moonlight, he and Puig squatted to perform 
 the necessary work. It was not easy. But the girl, 
 watching them and vainly trying to help, found her- 
 self lost in wonder at their quickness, their powerful, 
 unerring movements, their knowledge of what to do. 
 Her brother made never a sound until the process 
 ended, and he lay with one scantling from armpit to 
 ankle, another from ankle to crotch, both bound cun- 
 ningly with rope that nowhere pinched or loosened. 
 
 ** Thanks, you chaps," he moaned. **You did that 
 — aah! — like a charm." 
 
 *'Did well yourself. Good pluck," said Puig. "I 
 like him better than I thought." 
 
 Jackdabos helped the girl to rise. This time their 
 hands met. 
 
 **Now for France and a good doctor," he said. **I 
 know the short way over the hills. ' ' 
 
 Through the troubles of that moment, she felt a 
 curious fear and joy, as if she had become owner of 
 some beautiful wild thing. The moon descended 
 among pines beyond a slant Alpine spur, and through 
 the mountain air passed the change, the stir, the 
 universal sigh of morning. 
 
CHAPTEE XIII 
 
 THE SARACENS' PATH 
 
 Ruth Moultrie was not like Chaucer's heroine, up 
 with the sun. Rarely had she seen the dawn of day 
 except as a spectacle, a **view,'' a custom for which 
 travellers made arrangement over-night. She would 
 have agreed with that writer — ^had she known him — 
 who declared early risers are conceited all morning, 
 and drowsy all afternoon. Dawns were good, she 
 loved to read of them in poetry; but as a healthy, 
 wealthy, and wise girl she always had slept late. 
 
 Now the real dawn crept round her unawares. The 
 moon had set, withdrawn its last glow-worm light be- 
 hind the peaks ; a few stars, lonely white sparks with- 
 out lustre, were one by one being quenched; and 
 there succeeded, not twilight, but a nameless and sor- 
 rowful blue element, a profound blue obscurity, as 
 though all the color of the sky had fallen to bottom, 
 concentrated, and darkened the air. 
 
 It frightened her, this unearthly medium through 
 which they walked forlorn. 
 
 150 
 
THE SARACENS^ PATH 151 
 
 "When shall we reach the pathT' 
 
 She put the question to Jackdabos, whose white 
 shirt guided their steps. 
 
 **We*re in the path/' he answered. 
 
 Nothing but bare ledges appeared underfoot, noth- 
 ing but monstrous gray cliffs and overhanging shad- 
 ows defined the limits of her wandering. 
 
 **Herer' she exclaimed. "Are you sureT' 
 
 The white shirt bobbed along composedly. 
 
 "I know these hills like my thumb/' said Jackda- 
 bos. "It is an old path. Some call it the way of the 
 Saracens. There are different names, although few 
 of those who name it could tell you where it runs. 
 Just now it is the private Corniche of Peter the Fer- 
 ret. Before we met you, to-night, I had thought of 
 climbing into this path, but farther along.'' 
 
 She took his word for the unseen track, and fol- 
 lowed. Behind her the ass ambled faithfully, another 
 white blur among shadows, carrying her brother, who 
 rode silent as a ghost, and obeying the bridle-hand 
 of a dark thing known as Puig. She waited for them, 
 and would have talked, but her brother answered in 
 a dazed way, while Puig, respectful but saturnine, 
 was too busily watching step by step the animal's 
 progress. After a time Ruth wenjb forward again. 
 Their leader moved quietly and steadily on, as though 
 unwilling to be overtaken, or even to be thought will- 
 ing. Ruth hated all manner of surliness; but while 
 
152 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 she continued to walk alone, thinking, it occurred to 
 her that perhaps this little runagate, ahead, this nmn- 
 stabbing conjurer and hill vagabond, was only being 
 polite. It would be curious to know . . . 
 
 She quickened her pace, and came alongside him. 
 
 *'M.y brother still has your coat,*' she began. 
 ''Don't you need it?" 
 
 *'No, thank you," replied Jackdabos. ''I am walk- 
 ing, he must keep still." 
 
 He was not surly, but quiet and self-contained. His 
 readiness to answer and then to let conversation 
 drop, struck her as a form of courtesy. She would 
 persevere. 
 
 **This morning light is very beautiful," she ven- 
 tured. ''I never knew the world could look so old 
 and full of — strangeness." 
 
 He smiled at her, sidelong. His face lighted wist- 
 fully in the gloom. 
 
 *'That is the nature of the world," said Jackdabos. 
 *'It declares itself best before the day." He walked 
 along in silence, then tossing a glance back toward the 
 donkey, added: "Just now you were like the Flight 
 into Egypt. I would paint it so, with this dark blue 
 and strangeness, as you said; and these violet-gray 
 mountains butting their heads together like rams ; and 
 up aloft, the little slow pink fire beginning to make 
 the snows burn at the tip. Like now. Only you 
 would be riding the ass and holding the Child." 
 
THE SARACENS* PATH 153 
 
 Ruth looked at him quickly, and away. His words 
 took her by surprise, like the sudden opening of a 
 window that revealed both the inward man and the 
 outward prospect of his world. Aloft, very high 
 above this colored solemnity, an Alpine crest had 
 caught the sunrise. A little slow pink fire kindled, 
 as he had told her, the highest pointed billow of the 
 snow. 
 
 **I had not seen it,*' she confessed. "Are you a 
 painter?" 
 
 The queer little fellow shook his head, mournfully. 
 
 "No, mademoiselle. I am nothing, — nothing but a 
 bad character. The tricks of painting, yes, I know 
 *em all, the tricks. But not to pass in, deeper, through 
 the face of the canvas. You understand. For me, the 
 door of the foreground is locked. Beyond it are those 
 fields and landscapes. No. I have not the key of 
 the fields." 
 
 Ruth watched him while he spoke. No less than his 
 words, his manner puzzled her, for it seemed full of 
 regret, discouragement, and humility. Often she had 
 recalled that sunny afternoon when they met on 
 Aigues-Mortes rampart. In her memory this young 
 man had remained as a distant enigma, a gay outcast 
 of Provence, clever, mystifying, with a dash of the 
 braggart and the charlatan. Now, at her side, he 
 became another man. 
 
 "When you turned this," Ruth raised her rattan, 
 
154 THE KEY OP THE FIELDS 
 
 ''into the rod of Moses — or was it Pharaoh ^s? Yon 
 remember?" 
 
 His eyes glowed with sombre delight. 
 
 ' ' I shall never forget. ' ' 
 
 The reply startled her. It was no compliment, but 
 a truth wrenched out of the man. She caught up her 
 broken sentence hastily. 
 
 '*You said, at the time, that you could do any- 
 thing. '^ 
 
 The Jackdaw groaned and hung his head as he 
 walked. 
 
 **Once a fool, always a fool, mademoiselle." 
 
 They continued marching together, but for a long 
 time without speaking. Ruth found that her heart 
 began to beat an alarm. *'What have we said?" she 
 asked herself. ''Nothing. Nonsense. But I thought 
 he disliked me, and he doesn't." That momentary 
 sombre glow of the eyes, that promise given against 
 his will, torn from him, declared a certainty which 
 was not at all dislike. She should have been more 
 frightened; she should have been more angry; but 
 fear and anger touched her only with passing wing; 
 for she knew that beside this dark-visaged, fiery-eyed 
 young brawler she walked as safe as ever she had 
 walked with Ralph, her brother. She rejoiced at the 
 knowledge, and marvelled at her own rejoicing. 
 
 When Jackdabos again spoke, he confirmed this 
 wonderful security. He threw off his restraint like a 
 
THE SAEACENS' PATH 155 
 
 bad disguise, and wanning, brightening as he went, 
 became a chatterbox. 
 
 **A man lived in Castellar,*' said he, '*a friend of 
 Peter the Ferret's, who had a wife so sweet-tempered, 
 mademoiselle, you could hardly tell when she hated 
 you. I knew them both. They owned a very intel- 
 ligent goat who slept under the bread-cage. ..." 
 
 It was a merry tale, half-truth, half -fable. He made 
 her laugh, beguiled the journey with laughter. So 
 this Path of the Saracens wound through the moun- 
 tains like the way of an eagle in the air, the way of 
 a serpent upon a rock, and the way of a man with a 
 maid. 
 
 Certainly Ruth never could have retraced it. Once 
 they went plunging down a narrow glen smothered in 
 tall pines; once they crossed an ancient, broken 
 bridge under the arches of which a gray-green river 
 raced and smoked with morning mist; and once her 
 friend the Jackdaw, halting their little column in a 
 defile among jagged boulders greater than houses, 
 commanded silence, because they were climbing a for- 
 bidden mountain where soldiers might catch them for 
 spies. Then, after a long, bewildering ascent, they 
 labored up from the last lingering shadow of earth 
 to a desolate Alpine mound, and stood alone with the 
 sunrise, their own shadows pointing far ahead over 
 white grass that sparkled. 
 
156 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 ''France/' said the Jackdaw. * 'We're well into 
 Prance, and quite safe." 
 
 They gathered round the ass and her rider, drew 
 breath in the golden mountain air, and surveyed this 
 promised land below. Even poor Ralph looked down 
 with hollow eyes, and muttered something of admir- 
 ation. The wild, scarred barriers of gray rock, rolling 
 in gigantic confusion round the sky, were parted 
 asunder. Far down among them, green, smooth, like 
 acres of lawn, lay Bevera valley. A dark, meander- 
 ing river marred this lawn; and bridging the river 
 with brown-tiled roofs, gray walls, and the stump of 
 its church tower, old Sospel sent up from chimneys 
 here and there a few straight filaments, the early sac- 
 rificial smoke of the workmen's breakfast. 
 
 Puig called Miss Moultrie's attention to a long white 
 barracks encumbering the valley floor, apart from 
 Sospel town. 
 
 "There," said he, "is the fools' golf house. I will 
 go find a doctor there. Take this, Jacko." 
 
 And he held out his bundle of printed papers. 
 
 The Jackdaw smiled at him. 
 
 "No, keep it, Philibert. I'm going myself. The 
 road's just below here. "Wait in the road till I come 
 back with a motor car." 
 
 So saying, Jackdabos tightened his belt, and set off 
 running down the bare hillsides like a Marathon 
 man. 
 
THE SARACENS* PATH 157 
 
 * ' Maker of Days ! * * he prayed while he ran. * * Hope 
 I Ve got enough money. Wish old Barjavel had shot 
 his gold pieces our way.'* 
 
 Ruth Moultrie watched him flying downward from 
 undulation to undulation of the col. At last he was 
 only a white speck, dancing and wavering against the 
 rim of green Bevera valley. She stared after that 
 speck, intently, but with the feeling of one lost in a 
 dream. It was time for her to be exhausted : she had 
 climbed up, down, and roundabout all night, while 
 Ralph, her leader and chief adviser, sat helpless wait- 
 ing to be led: but she was not exhausted, or even 
 pale. Her cheeks burned. The Way of the Saracens 
 had put a charm upon her. 
 
 Less than one hour later — for Jackdabos ran well — 
 she heard a whining among the hills, and round a 
 turn of the Col de Brouis road, where she waited with 
 Puig and her brother, leaped a powerful black motor- 
 car, skimming the incline as a bird skims upward. It 
 stopped before the ass could take fright. Out hopped 
 the Jackdaw, a weary little god from such a great 
 machine. 
 
 *'The doctor will be at the hotel," said he, doffing 
 his cap. **I made them telephone to Nice. Now if 
 monsieur your brother will let us place him on 
 board?" 
 
 Monsieur her brother was lifted carefully from the 
 
158 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 roadside and laid on leathern cushions. The driver 
 at the wheel, a stoical young Frenchman, scratched 
 his mustache and wondered what his passengers had 
 been doing, but did not inquire. 
 
 Ruth leaned from the car to say good-bye. She had 
 no leisure then to guess, and never afterward knew, 
 what meagre pockets had hired that vehicle, or what 
 humiliation the Jackdaw, in hiring, had suffered from 
 lackeys of the rich. But she was grateful, and sorry 
 to part company. 
 
 ''How can I ever thank you?'* she cried, as she 
 handed down the Jackdaw's old velveteen coat. 
 ''Ever?" 
 
 ''Pas de quoi," muttered Puig. 
 
 The ass dropped her long white ears forward, and 
 sniffed the taint of petrol in the morning air. 
 
 "What shall we do,'' said Ruth, "with our poor 
 donkey? I can't leave her like this." 
 
 The Jackdaw stood thinking rapidly, his hands deep 
 in the empty pockets. 
 
 "I'll sell the donkey for you," he replied, "if yon 
 like. Sell her at a good price, to a woman who will 
 treat her kindly. ' ' 
 
 Ruth beamed on him. Here, she thought, was a man 
 who could indeed do anything, a worker of opportune 
 wonders. 
 
 "Oh, can you?" she begged. "It will be a great 
 relief to me." 
 
THE SARACENS^ PATH 159 
 
 Jackdabos patted the ass's head. 
 
 **She will have a good home/' he promised, '*and 
 you a good bargain." Removing the saddle and its 
 wallets, he gave them to the charioteer. ''Shall I 
 send the money to your hotel T' 
 
 Ruth looked down at him and hesitated. She could 
 trust him, of course. She had only to consent, and 
 say good-bye. They were leaving the Saracens' path 
 behind once for all. 
 
 "No," she answered, on impulse. "Bring the 
 money." 
 
 He bowed. Again that sombre glow lighted his 
 black eyes. 
 
 "To-morrow, mademoiselle?" 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 The stoical young driver, flirting with the laws of 
 gravity, whisked his car about on a mountain edge. 
 Ruth turned and smiled. The two wanderers, hold- 
 ing the donkey, made an obeisance which lasted until 
 the turn of the road intervened, and they stood alone. 
 
 "Humph! A hard night's work," sighed Puig, 
 with relief, as he wiped from his cheeks the soot of 
 the burnt wine-bush. "We're well out of that!" 
 
 Jackdabos remained listening, cap in hand. His 
 face wore a distant, preoccupied expression. 
 
 "Oh, yes," jeered Puig. "You'll see her again." 
 And he crowed in mimicking falsetto: "To-morrow? 
 To-morrow! I'm to be Queen of the May, mother!" 
 
160 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 The Jackdaw turned on him, over the ass's mane, 
 a grin of humorous dismay. 
 
 ''Don't be foolish, Philibert le Beau.'' 
 
 The freckled smith watched him like a cat. 
 
 "I'm not the fool. Jacko, I warn you. Be care- 
 ful." 
 
 For answer, Jackdabos took hold of the scarlet 
 bridle, and began to lead the ass down-hill. Down 
 and down the road went doubling in long loops round 
 spur after spur. Morning filled the green meadow 
 valley with brightness. 
 
 ''A magnificent day," sighed Jackdabos, quietly re- 
 garding the grim Alpine rocks patched with snow. 
 ''How good to have France under our feet again! I 
 never feel at home in Italy." 
 
 "Changing the subject," quoth Puig. 
 
 The other put on injured innocence. 
 
 "Why," said he, "I'm only going to sell the girl's 
 donkey. At a profit, mind you. She came to the 
 right shop for dealings in horseflesh and assflesh." 
 
 He led on, whistling, and spying round the hillside 
 after good herbs, with which to make something he 
 had just thought of. 
 
 ' ' Bah 1 ' ' said Puig. ' ' I warn you. ' ' 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 SELLINa THE ASS 
 
 S.^A the donkey-woman, on the Pronienade dn 
 Midi, found her business rather slack that afternoon. 
 It was hot, the glare intense, the Gulf of Peace very 
 blue and tranquil, with tiny waves which hardly 
 whispered. Sara, planting herself comfortably on the 
 stone wall above the waves, began to knit. There 
 would be no family parties riding in this heat. Her 
 squadron of asses knew as much, and gratefully 
 slumbered at their hitching-post. Sara rounded the 
 heel of a stocking, and watched* the wealthy North- 
 erners go by so aimless, fat, and bored, while she, a 
 lean, dark woman, thought of so many things. 
 
 ''What a pretty creature!'' exclaimed another 
 woman's voice among the passing parasols. 
 
 Sara glanced from her knitting. 
 
 Out from the greenery of the Carei gardens came 
 pacing a dainty milk-white ass, so trim, so glossy, so 
 meek and yet spirited, that she nyght worthily have 
 borne the Faery Queen. 
 
 161 
 
162 THE KEY OP THE FIELDS 
 
 ''Not bad,'' thought Sara. ''Mine are growing 
 dingy, poor cattle." 
 
 The milk-white ass wore a scarlet bridle. A 
 swarthy little fellow in velveteen was leading her. 
 They came toward Sara on the sea-wall. 
 
 "Mother," said Jackdabos, "what do you think of 
 this?" 
 
 He grinned at Sara, and Sara's- brown face lighted 
 with sudden affection. 
 
 "That boy again!" she cried for welcome, and 
 dropped her knitting in her lap; then, critically: 
 "Pipe-clay. You've pipe-clayed her like a circus 
 horse. Is that your profession now, Jacko? Going 
 to sell me a pup ? ' ' 
 
 The Jackdaw scorned such talk. 
 
 "Not for sale, mother. She belongs to the Great. 
 Her name is Mignonette. She is by Narcissus, her 
 first dam Snow-Drop, second dam La Valliere." 
 
 Sara picked up her knitting and resumed the turn 
 of the heel. 
 
 "You lie," she stated, calmly. "I can tell all that 
 family by their noses. Better try to sell me the croco- 
 dile of Nimes. You are a liar, a young liar; and 
 you've been giving the poor child herbs to drink." 
 
 "I've not!" shouted Jackdabos. It was exactly 
 what he had been doing. For some "hours he had 
 scrubbed and curried the ass, fed her, pipe-clayed 
 her, and refreshed her with a drink of white wine 
 
SELLING THE ASS 163 
 
 mixed with mountain herbs. *'I have not. She's 
 entirely as you see her, wind and limb/' 
 
 He hopped up on the sea-wall and tucked his arm 
 round Sara's waist. 
 
 **I always tell you the truth, mother," he de- 
 clared. * * How awfully well you look ! ' ' 
 
 Sara laughed. She knew the Jackdaw of old. 
 
 **How much are you asking, Jacko?" 
 
 They bargained long and shrewdly, with great re- 
 spect for each other's wit, and with all the joy of mer- 
 chants from Cathay. Jackdabos argued, swinging his 
 legs; Sara knitted, and frowned, and repulsed him 
 with her elbow; while round them passed the unen- 
 joying crowd, back and forth, along the Promenade 
 by the blue sunlit gulf. 
 
 At last they agreed on a price. The Jackdaw 
 jumped down. 
 
 * * You can 't have this ! " He took off the red leather 
 bridle. **But the rest is yours." 
 
 Favoring her old bones, the donkey-woman Sara 
 got down off the wall and examined her purchase 
 again. 
 
 **Who owned her?" she inquired. 
 
 "A lady." 
 
 Sara wagged a brown finger. 
 
 "0 Jackdaw. Fie!" 
 
 ''There's no commission for me," rejoined the Jack- 
 daw stiffly. 
 
164 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 They parted, each with honors of war. Jackdabos 
 carried off a goodly round sum of money, also the 
 scarlet bridle hanging from his hand. A few tour- 
 ists, gazing toward the bright blue water, saw him 
 bend and embrace the donkey's head. He seemed to 
 them an unaccountable young native. Sara herself 
 could not account for him. 
 
 "Why," she demanded, *'do you hug the beast?" 
 
 ''Why not?" said Jackdabos. ''It is a good beast. 
 'Alexamenos worships his god,' maybe. I also am an 
 ass." 
 
 The dark Sara meditated, standing amid her long- 
 eared troop. 
 
 "The owner was a lady?" she rejoined. "Look 
 out, my son. You seem above yourself. I warn you. ' ' 
 
 That evening after dusk, when stars began to peep 
 over Mont Agel, there came a loud knocking at the 
 door of a man who made majolica. The man opened 
 his door, and saw by his lamp-light a very determined, 
 sunburnt face greeting him:. 
 
 "You offered me a job once," said Jackdabos. 
 
 "More than once," retorted the man. "More than 
 twice, young Skip-the-Hedges. " 
 
 "Advance me a month's pay. 1 11 come work it out 
 later." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 * ' When I can, ' ' replied Jackdabos. 
 
 "That's cool," grumbled the man. 
 
SELLING THE ASS 165 
 
 '* Pretty things, kickshaws/' urged his visitor. '*A 
 full month's work, all new designs hot out o' my head : 
 what you and your blessed tourists call charming, 
 dainty, original, exquisite, refined, attractive, charac- 
 teristic, damned breakable poppy-cock and glaze-bosh. 
 To tickle the rich women. I can make it. Pay me 
 now.'' 
 
 ** That's cool," said the potter again. **Come in. 
 Perhaps ... If I had the money . . . Lots of you 
 boys I wouldn't trust, Jacko. Come in." 
 
 Later in the same evening, a wheelwright who lived 
 beside* Gorbio Torrent had let his loft room to a 
 familiar lodger. Till midnight, candles and a bright 
 hearth fire' burned in the wheelwright's loft, while his 
 lodger worked like a noisy brownie, whistling and 
 singing. Jackdabos had on the floor his old canvas 
 bag, from the mouth of which he carefully drew the 
 only good clothes he possessed in the world. Two 
 borrowed flatirons, by the fire, stood heating. 
 
 ''Beast, you are nothing but wrinkles," said the 
 Jackdaw, holding up a dark-gray flannel coat. ' ' Come, 
 submit to the goose. To-morrow you shall do your 
 master credit among the English in their earthly par- 
 adise." 
 
 There were no wrinkles on Jackdabos when to-mor- 
 row came, and at four o'clock of a fine afternoon he 
 walked into the fools' golf house at Sospel. His gray 
 flannel, smooth and modest as a doe's hide, brought 
 
166 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 him such credit that he passed as one of the worldlings 
 crowded there. Among their babbling herd he moved 
 like a quiet little woodland spy, watching, until across 
 the lobby through tall window-frames he saw the shin- 
 ing head that he required. 
 
 Euth was outdoors on the terrace, under one of the 
 many red parasol tents that sheltered the tea-tables. 
 Alone, unconscious of her chattering neighbors, she 
 regarded thoughtfully the green meadow below, where 
 sheep strayed cropping near and far, golf -players fol- 
 lowed their lazy pastime over the turf, and small 
 peasant girls, bare-legged, carrying bags of silly clubs, 
 swung along with the free stride of mountaineers. Her 
 vision included them, but passed beyond, out from 
 the green, sunlit valley to another place, a distant 
 thought, a memory. She sat wondering ; and wonder 
 softened her dark blue eyes. These holiday people, 
 these men in tweeds and women in jaunty costumes, 
 appeared a feeble folk, their talk a vacant drawling, 
 their meadow and terrace a gay and costly picture of 
 dulness. They were good enough people. Why should 
 they be tiresome? Euth looked at their faces, then 
 away once more. B ever a valley was not a valley of 
 contentment. There was a world elsewhere . . . 
 
 Her mood was interrupted. A quietly moving fig- 
 ure paused beside her table. 
 
 Euth glanced upward. It was the sunlight under 
 the red parasol, perhaps, that colored her cheeks 
 
I 
 
 SELLING THE ASS 167 
 
 * * Ah ! * ' She roused. * * You — ^you startled me. " 
 
 It was only Jackdabos, but he arrived as promptly 
 and silently as if her thought had called him, a spirit 
 from that world elsewhere. He bowed, hat under arm, 
 with a formal but inborn grace. Not one tea-drinker 
 on the terrace could have bowed so, or worn so like 
 a garment the breath of life, the air of nature. 
 
 **You sold my poor pet?'' said Kuth. **I am sorry 
 to lose her." 
 
 *'Yes,'' replied Jackdabos. ''But she will live in 
 clover. She will carry nothing heavier than some 
 pretty little English child. I think she brought a fair 
 price.'' 
 
 He named the sum, and learned with disappoint- 
 ment that it signified nothing. Ruth's face, indeed, 
 grew troubled. She thought this child of nature might 
 suddenly pour handfuls of money on the tea-table. 
 Then she felt ashamed of her fears. 
 
 **I left it at the office," continued the Jackdaw. 
 ''Mademoiselle is quite satisfied? I have the honor 
 to wish her good evening, and a happy recovery to 
 monsieur her brother." 
 
 Again he bowed, and turned to go. Ruth made a 
 little gesture that detained him. 
 
 "You have been ever so kind," she said. "How 
 can we show our gratitude? I was thinking only 
 now — ^I wish " 
 
 She broke off, timid and confused. The young man 
 
168 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 smiled, with a brave sadness that comprehended all. 
 
 ^* Good-bye/' said he. 
 
 Before she answered, there befell an unexpected 
 thing. Toward them along the terrace came a woman 
 dressed in white, — a slender woman neither young nor 
 old, but of ageless beauty, though a silver frost 
 touched her black hair curving from the tem- 
 ples. A murmur followed her passage, for all the 
 worldlings knew her and sat staring admiration. The 
 Princess — ^the lady into whose house Jackdabos had 
 once lied his way — advanced directly to Euth, who 
 rose. 
 
 "My dear girl," said the Princess, kissing her, **I'm 
 so glad your brother's accident was no worse. Can 
 he be moved? You must come to me now instead of 
 later. The villa is quite empty." 
 
 Both ladies sat down, in a pretty flutter of talk 
 which left the Jackdaw standing forgotten. He was 
 about to steal away, when the Princess remembered 
 her manners and cast him a glance. 
 
 '*What? My little friend?" she asked, in a sur- 
 prise which turned to welcome. *'My little friend 
 of the cigala? Oh, do sit down. I have another 
 scolding for you. ' ' 
 
 Thus it happened that Jackdabos, who had ironed 
 his clothes at the wheelwright's for the sake of a 
 moment, of a look and a word, found himself drinking 
 tea with two incomparable ladies. Their tilted scar- 
 
SELLING THE ASS 169 
 
 let parasol became the centre of the terrace, the 
 cynosure of envious eyes. Their glory daunted him. 
 at first ; but he took heart, and from answering their 
 questions politely, soon was carried into the history 
 of last night, the tale of the Saracens ' Path, and even 
 some guarded hints of the Trojan Plate. He told it 
 all funnily and well, Buth and the Princess urging 
 him with laughter. When he ended, the sun had 
 crept off the greensward, the evening chill had over- 
 taken them, and time to go indoors. 
 
 "Remember/* said the Princess, when they ex- 
 changed good-night, *'you*re coming to the villa, to- 
 morrow week, to spend the afternoon. Remember. 
 We do not trust you, little wretch.*' 
 
 Sunset lighted his homeward way along the wind- 
 ing road, till he passed by ruined Castillon and gained 
 the crest; then sunset burned above the violet im- 
 mensity of the Guardia rocks, as though all the world 
 behind them were blazing fire. Jackdabos had 
 climbed quickly; now he went lagging down Carei 
 gorges, so thoughtful and with such retarded step 
 that the greenish lamps of Mentone garlanded the 
 shore below, and the large moon rose over the sea, 
 long before he came to his wheelwright's house. All 
 the way he carried an inward joy, a secret exaltation 
 which seemed greater than the mountains, brighter 
 than the evening air. 
 
170 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 "It is not over.'' He hugged that fact in his 
 bosom. ''It is not over yet." 
 
 On the next day, and six days following, his friend 
 the potter had a new man who worked early and late 
 with a concentrated fury of execution. Jackdabos 
 was over-paying his debt. 
 
 *'Stay a full year with me," begged the potter, in 
 tears, "and we shall make our fortune." 
 
 The Jackdaw shook his head. 
 
 "I'm serving one week of my sentence," he 
 laughed. "The rest will have to wait. After to-mor- 
 row ... I don't know what may happen after to- 
 morrow." 
 
 With that, the laughter died from his face, and 
 he walked sombrely out of the potter's trellised gar- 
 den, leaving unfinished, on his bench, a medallion of 
 the Flight into Egypt. 
 
 "If I have to chain him!" raged his master, staring 
 at it. "Why, this would take old Luca himself!" 
 
 Without thought of any such triumph, the Jack- 
 daw went rambling down the road, then through one 
 street after another, aimlessly. It was early dusk, not 
 yet the lamplighter's hour, and many foreigners loit- 
 ered still on their way home from their afternoon 
 idleness. The Jackdaw passed with them, dejected, 
 along an avenue where spotted sycamore pillars up- 
 held a canopy of young leaves and wiry branches 
 and balls against the failing sky. A man came push- 
 
SELLING THE ASS 171 
 
 ing a small water-cart, like a black dust-bin on wheels, 
 which unrolled along the pavement a dark ribbon of 
 moisture, printed with letters where the stone re- 
 mained dry. **Nice. Cafe Lascaris, Nice. . . ."ran 
 the gray legend underfoot, in wearisome repetition. 
 On the top of the water-box lay a flat paper parcely 
 The cart-wheel, in passing, grazed the Jackdaw's leg. 
 
 "Pardon me, sir," grunted the modern Aquarius. 
 Then he looked up, and caught Jackdabos by the 
 sleeve, roughly. * * What ! ' ' said he. ' ' Hold on ! " 
 
 The hand-cart man was Puig — ^but Puig worn to 
 an anxious, freckled shadow of himself. 
 
 **Jacko!'' he exclaimed, miserably. '*IVe been 
 looking all over Tophet for you!" 
 
 The Jackdaw stared. 
 
 '*Why did you run away, then, and desert me?" 
 
 Puig let the accusation go unanswered. It was 
 true. He had basely carried off the Helen of Troy 
 treasure, and vanished, while his friend was busy 
 with greater affairs. 
 
 **See what IVe come to!" He kicked the push- 
 cart, which stood drowning its own print. **To this. 
 I 'm nigh starving ! " He took up from his water-box 
 the paper parcel, and shook it like a dog worrying 
 a bone. His green eyes shone hollow and desperate. 
 **Your filthy species of a plate, it's killing me. I 
 can't sell it. Who'd buy that, from a scarecrow like 
 met I can't sleep at night for fear o' thieves, can't 
 
172 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 leave it anywhere, daytime. What kind of a job 
 could I get, this devil's thing always under my arm? 
 Worse than being chained to a corpse. It's your 
 fault, too. Bah! Have to carry the great lump of 
 a howling fraud on a Push-Cart! A Leak-Box!" 
 
 He bellowed the words, and spat with frenzy. Pas- 
 sers-by looked curiously at him. It was plain that he 
 had spoken one truth, at least, for his cheeks were 
 gaunt and fevered with wakefulness. 
 
 **This is nowhere to talk," replied the Jackdaw, 
 quietly. *'Come see me to-night, at the wheel- 
 wright's." 
 
 Puig thrust out his heavy parcel. 
 
 '*Take it off my hands, anyway," said he. ** You've 
 got good clothes: maybe you can peddle it. I'm 
 done!" 
 
 He slammed the treasure into Jackdaw's arms. 
 
 **I'm done!" he roared, in a passion. 
 
 *'What do you expect me " 
 
 ** Don't care," bawled Puig, fiercer than ever. *'Do 
 what you like. " He seemed beside himself . **If you 
 cheat me, I'll kill you." Then, with a reckless fling 
 of the arm, as though giving empires away — ^'^What 
 do I care about your trumpery?" 
 
 The Jackdaw stood pitying him, though smiling. 
 Thirst of gold was on the man, the cup at his lips, 
 and he could not drink. 
 
 *'Come see me to-night." 
 
SELLING THE ASS 173 
 
 "Good," sighed Puig. "That's a relief.'' He 
 grasped the handles of his water printing-press, and 
 grew visibly calmer. "I'll drop round." 
 
 They were parting, when to a halt at the curb, a 
 few paces off, there softly trundled a long gray 
 motor car, its varnish glimmering in the twilight. 
 The driver, a tall man, climbed out and came forward 
 to bend over his lamps. 
 
 Puig, watching him mechanically, gave a start and 
 let go the handles again. 
 
 "I see the Devil!" he murmured; then, with a 
 kind of joyful snarl — "I see the Devil!" 
 
 He turned on Jackdabos a happy face, the face of 
 a man to whom the gods have blown a windfall. 
 
 'That's the fellow!" he sang, and cracked his hands 
 together. ' ' The fellow that killed my dog ! " 
 
 In two bounds Puig crossed the pavement and had 
 the tall man by the ears. Women screamed. A crowd 
 came running to gather, and push, and question, and 
 foUoAv a fight that rolled along the gutter. Uniforms 
 of the police colored the general grayness of the 
 tumult. 
 
 "I don't care!" whooped a voice, presently, from 
 under a wall of legs. "Go on! I spoilt his looks, I 
 spoilt his collars and things!" It choked, but burst 
 out anew. "He killed my dog, and I . . . Take me, 
 go on, take me! I don't care!" 
 
 The voice was borne away on the stream of the 
 
174 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 crowd. Lost to view, but chanting in praise of des- 
 tiny, Puig vanished toward whatever dungeon might 
 be ordained. 
 
 His water-cart stood flooding the pavement ; and be- 
 side it Jackdabos grew aware that he was left alone in 
 the world with something heavy. 
 
 Under his arm he carried Puig's legacy, the Trojan 
 plate. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 CALLERS 
 
 A BLAMELESS old man, a white-haired major-domo 
 whose only sin it was to wear forked whiskers 
 and a Pecksniff collar, sat in a quiet comer of the 
 Villa Pervinca and read his own pet Journal, He 
 read peacefully. There were guests in the house, and 
 guests were rare nowadays; but these, although they 
 had thrown him into a heat by coming suddenly, gave 
 little or no trouble. A young gentleman with his leg 
 broken ; a charming young lady whose dark-blue eyes 
 did not overlook the merits of a major-domo: it was 
 easy to live under the same roof with them, to main- 
 tain the settled calm of the household. 
 
 A bell rang. 
 
 "Tish!'* The old man lost the point of a lively 
 paragraph. ** That front door again! Ah, yes, there 
 was to be a caller.'* 
 
 He folded his paper, smoothed his black coat, and 
 went with pontifical meekness to open the door. 
 
 175 
 
176 THE KEY OP THE FIELDS 
 
 A very alert young gentleman in gray stood wait- 
 ing on the doorstep. 
 
 *' Ah, monsieur le vicomte/' murmured the old man, 
 vaguely. ''The ladies are in the garden, sir.'' 
 
 His memory had failed of late, and caused him 
 perplexity; but perhaps the young gentleman would 
 take no offence, even though the title were inade- 
 quate and wrong. Fluttering with pleasant agitation, 
 he led the caller through the sunny hallway, to the 
 glass door and the inner garden path. 
 
 ''Ill find them,'' said the viscount, smiling, and 
 went down the slope among winding flower borders 
 and tall pine-tree shade. He carried a green baize 
 bag under one arm. 
 
 "I ought to have known his face," thought the 
 major-domo. "It is a highly distinguished face.'^ 
 
 Thus, altered by fine apparel and an English hat 
 bought with the potter's money, Jackdabos, that 
 Apache who once had burst his way into the villa, 
 wandered freely through a bright, enchanted garden. 
 Green lawns curved under pines and laurels, down 
 toward a limestone parapet which overlooked the 
 sparkling blue of the Ligurian Sea. From somewhere 
 on that sunny verge came a quiet sound of voices. The 
 Jackdaw descended, following the sound, and carry- 
 ing his green baize bag. 
 
 Behind the bayonet clusters and fiery-pointed blos- 
 soms of an aloe screen, on a high-backed stone bench 
 
CALLERS 177 
 
 covered with blue-and-white cushions, sat Ruth and 
 her hostess, bare-headed, in the sun. 
 
 **6ood afternoon, '^ said the Jackdaw. 
 
 Both ladies wore white; both were laughing when 
 he arrived; both greeted him kindly and made room 
 on the curved settle. The Princess had at her throat, 
 like a sign of welcome, the little silver brooch, the 
 cigala that he had made long ago. 
 
 **I have brought you a curious thing to see,*' de- 
 clared the Jackdaw, when for a time they had talked 
 of passing matters. **A most curious thing.*' 
 
 Loosening the puckered mouth of his new baize 
 bag, he drew out an oval shield of gold, which dazzled 
 the eyes. 
 
 *Ah!*' sighed Ruth, as though frightened. Her 
 hand touched his by chance, receiving the Trojan 
 plate. 
 
 * * How lovely ! ' ' said the Princess, turning her dark 
 eyes on his face. *'You made it? Yes, it is more of 
 your work." 
 
 The Jackdaw's cheeks grew red. His heart melted 
 at this heavenly compliment. 
 
 **If it were!" he cried. '*0 ladies ... if it only 
 were, I could give it to you." 
 
 They bent their heads together over the gleaming 
 field of the legend ; and there in the garden sunlight, 
 while the ocean and the dark pine branches breathed 
 unheard mysteries round them, they saw the walls of 
 
178 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 Troy, and dreamed the sorrowful dream of Helen 
 above the gate, yearning for her brothers among the 
 helmeted host. 
 
 '*Not yours r* said the Princess, doubtfully. 
 
 Jackdabos would have died for her. 
 
 ' * It 's Benvenuto 's, ' ' he replied. ' ' I will tell you. ' ' 
 
 They listened to the story like people transported 
 beyond the bounds of the present world. 
 
 **It's not mine,'' he concluded. **Not mine in any 
 sense. "Who could own such a thing? Tell me." He 
 appealed to them as to old friends, infallible judges. 
 *'We dug it up in Goiffon's garden. Should we send 
 it to Goiffon's widow, the lady at Aries who told 
 my fortune?" 
 
 *'No," answered the Princess, thoughtfully. ''That 
 would be useless, for I know Madame Goiffon would 
 never accept it. She was too happy in her little 
 garden, and cannot bear reminders." 
 
 Jackdabos groaned. 
 
 *'Then what the dickens to do with it," he de- 
 clared, *'I do not know." 
 
 They all gazed down again into the golden myth, 
 and again lived through that moment on the ScaBan 
 Gate. The splendor of it, actual no more than spirit- 
 ual, shone upward on Ruth's face and in her eyes. 
 Jackdabos, close beside her, knew that she was con- 
 scious of his thought. 
 
 Footsteps came grating the sanded path. The 
 
CALLERS 179 
 
 major-domo stood before them, bowing his white head. 
 
 "Madam's brother/' said he, *'is at the house.'' 
 
 The Princess rose quickly from their bench under 
 the aloes. 
 
 **I will come back, children," she said; in haste. 
 
 When she was gone behind the green bayonet leaves, 
 Ruth and the Jackdaw sat down together, alone, awk- 
 ward, and constrained. Ruth put the Trojan plate 
 between them, glistening on the blue-and-white cush- 
 ions. For a time they watched the sea below their 
 limestone parapet, — a band of azure light broken, 
 far off, by the dark Dog's Head and the low, wavy 
 shadow of Cap Ferrat. 
 
 **How," said the girl, by and by, ''was your for- 
 tune to come?" 
 
 '*My fortune?" Jackdabos wondered at her. 
 
 "That the woman in Aries told you." 
 
 He remembered then his mention of it, recalled 
 once more a dark lady who lay in a wheeled chair 
 beside a bowl of wavering goldfish, and foretold her 
 fancies. 
 
 "Why," he answered, leaning on his knees, "it was 
 nothing. . . . She said I must follow beauty with 
 eyes open. Beauty would come to me from something 
 old. Yes, from old stones." 
 
 Ruth looked toward him, then down at the sea. 
 
 "Did it?" she asked, and touched the golden plate^ 
 
 Jackdabos gave a start, and sat upright. 
 
180 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 *'You too," said he, *'are a sorceress. We dug it 
 up near a Roman ruin." He remained silent. The 
 pines, or the ocean, filled a long interval with sigh- 
 ing. He spoke at last, hoarsely. '*But the ramparts 
 of Aigues-Mortes are old likewise, and built of stone. 
 — I saw you there." 
 
 Ruth managed to withdraw her eyes from that blue 
 gulf beyond the garden rim. She found the Jack- 
 daw's face grown pale under its sunburn, his lips 
 quivering. 
 
 The Trojan plate lay between them, and flashed 
 like a dividing sword. 
 
 ''I saw you there," he repeated. 
 
 Fear, panic fear of what the next moment might 
 bring to pass, a sense of being hemmed about by 
 mightier spells than any this young conjurer could 
 weave, took hold of her in silence and trembling. Yet 
 these terrors came by no fault of his, nor was the 
 light in his black eyes any false, earthly fire. She 
 waited. "Whatever he said now would be inevitable, 
 not his own words merely but the utterance of that 
 meaning which hovered closer and closer round them, 
 as vast and as clear as the sunshine. 
 
 It was broken, dispersed for the moment. 
 
 A sound of music floated down through the garden, 
 over the scarlet aloe points. In the villa someone 
 with vigorous hand struck a few rollicking chords that 
 rang from the open windows. Then a voice, a lusty 
 
CALLERS 181 
 
 barytone, broke into song. It was the old song of the 
 
 "Rt.triplr SVipnTi prrl • 
 
 Ettrick Shepherd 
 
 '* 'My love, sJie's hut a lassie yet, 
 A lightsome, lovely lassie yet, 
 It scarce would do 
 To sit and woo 
 Down by the stream sae glassy yet,' " 
 
 Jackdabos recoiled in amazement, then sprang up- 
 ward, one knee on the bench. 
 
 **That?" he stammered. *'That voice is Barjavel. 
 What is Barjavel doing here ? * ' 
 
 Ruth listened. They watched each other, these two 
 children whom the Princess had left alone, while the 
 song drifted over them toward the sea. 
 
 " 'But there's a hraw time comin' yet. 
 When we may gang a-roamin' yet; 
 And hint wi* glee . . .' " 
 
 Jackdabos rose from the bench, and stood on foot. 
 
 **True," he said, harshly. ** Whoever it is, that*s 
 not by chance. And it's true." 
 
 Her head was crowned with a brightness greater 
 than Benvenuto's metal. Jackdabos looked down on 
 it as though for a lifetime. 
 
 ''A man should have a name, at least," he said. 
 "Mine's nothing but a poor joke." 
 
182 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 Ruth was up in a flash of indignation. 
 
 ''It's you!" she cried, facing him, at once angry 
 and overjoyed. ''A name? It's what you do! 
 There's nobody like you . . .*' 
 
 He bowed gravely. 
 
 *'Let me be the woman," she hurried on, **to tell 
 your fortune." She pointed down at the shining 
 picture of Troy. *'It is pretty — yes, too pretty, fini- 
 kin, womanish. Your work must be a man's in every 
 line. You said I couldn't understand men, but I can 
 tell. That?" She east another motion of contempt 
 on the golden wonder. *'You shall make me some- 
 thing finer than that, a hundred times!" 
 
 The Jackdaw stared like a man waking. 
 
 ''Finer? For you ?" he whispered. "By the 
 
 Lord, I'll try!" 
 
 As if blinded by this idea, he bent down and 
 groped for his hat among the cushions ; then he stood 
 handling the brim, twisting the plaited straw back 
 and forth mechanically. 
 
 "I'll try," he repeated. 
 
 "The woman at Aries j" continued Ruth, — ^"what 
 did she say?" 
 
 He told her, briefly. 
 
 "Are your eyes open?" said the girl. 
 
 ' ' Yes. ' ' He laughed, proudly. ' ' They are. ' ' 
 
 "Then follow it with your eyes open," she com- 
 manded. "That is what we expect of you." 
 
CALLERS 183 
 
 Jackdabos turned abruptly, walked away down one 
 of the flowering alleys, halted in some hidden part 
 of the garden, and presently came marching back 
 like a soldier. 
 
 **Make my good-bye to the Princess, please,'' he 
 
 begged lightly. **I cannot bear " He waited 
 
 until he could smile. ** Don't expect too much. It 
 will be a long day." 
 
 ' ' Perhaps, ' ' Ruth assented. ' * A long day. ' ' 
 
 Avoiding glances, they stood side by side and 
 looked beyond the tops of rosemary and laurel fring- 
 ing the cliffs, to where the blue gulf moved and 
 shimmered toward them from the tranquil west. 
 
 ** Light of Earth," said the Jackdaw at last. 
 
 No one could have told whom the words were 
 spoken to! 
 
 He turned. 
 
 Ruth lifted the Trojan plate, and thrust it into the 
 green baize bag. 
 
 **Here, then." 
 
 '*Keep it," replied Jackdabos. 
 
 *'No," she said, scornfully. *'Am I not to have 
 something better ? ' ' 
 
 At that they laughed and their eyes met. Neither 
 spoke again. Then the Jackdaw, swinging his bag 
 over his shoulder, wheeled about face and rushed off 
 up the garden hillside. He dared not look behind, 
 but ran across lawns and skipped the flower-beds, 
 
184 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 making directly for the kitchen end of the villa and 
 the servants' gate, where he might slip out unob- 
 served. 
 
 From the open windows above the slant pine 
 branches came, as before, the tinkle of a piano, mer- 
 rily played, and a barytone voice that rolled out the 
 Ettrick Shepherd's song: 
 
 " 'But {here's a hraw time comin' yet, 
 
 When we may gang a-roamin* yet , . ,' '* 
 
 Ruth heard it, on her sunny ocean crag under the 
 aloes. 
 
 '*I wonder," she thought, clasping her hands — 
 weak hands that had no skill in them. *'I wonder. 
 Oh, the poor boy! My poor brave wonder of a boy, 
 going alone!" 
 
 Jackdabos also heard the promise of the song, while 
 he carefully shut the gate and paused, hesitating, 
 under evergreen shadows in the avenue. He did not 
 see much of that environment. His eyes indeed were 
 open, but to another world. 
 
 '* Maybe," he said. ''Maybe." 
 
 Something wet had touched his hard brown cheek. 
 
 *'Damn, it's not raining!" he grumbled. **And 
 now we know Her, by the great horns of Moses, but 
 we can sing like any of them." 
 
 Down the road he went, lifting his voice as best he 
 
CALLERS 185 
 
 could contrive. It was poor singing, and a hackneyed 
 old air: 
 
 " 'Faitesy reine immortelle, 
 Lui dit'U en partant, 
 Que yaime la plus helle 
 Et sois le plus vaUlant,' " 
 
 Ruth did not hear that challenge to the world. She 
 sat pondering over the feebleness of womankind. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A MATTER OF ANTIQUITY 
 
 The world, being old and deaf to challenges, went 
 on its way. Cold weather fell during the night; so 
 that when Jaekdabos looked from the wheelwright's 
 upper window next morning, he saw, beyond young 
 sycamore leaves, all the mountains white with snow, 
 like enormous tents pitched aloft in a sharp, blue, 
 wintry heaven. He needed courage to go down and 
 bathe among the rocks of Gorbio stream. After bath- 
 ing, he was glad to stand by the forge-fire, and pump 
 a groaning bellows, while his landlord hammered out 
 a pair of trace-chain hooks. 
 
 ''Many a blow," grunted the wheelwright, who was 
 a sturdy, bent old man with a face like that of some 
 humorous gray bear, "many blows to make a man's 
 fortune.*' 
 
 Sparks — ^long, white-hot, fuzzy stars — spattered 
 from- anvil to doorway; the double chiming of iron 
 rang in the darkness. 
 
 186 
 
A MATTER OF ANTIQUITY 187 
 
 *'I was thinking that very same thing/' said the 
 Jackdaw, mournfully, at his pump-handle. 
 
 **You? You're too young," rejoined the leather- 
 clad veteran, laughing and smiting. * * But remember, 
 son, the blows are better than the fortune. Always. ' ' 
 
 Fortified with this doctrine and warmed by the 
 work, Jackdabos set forth early to begin his own 
 campaign. It was a brilliant morning, the sunshine 
 that of spring, but the air keen as autumn; for the 
 mistral, blowing high overhead, made its passage 
 known by a tingling in the nostrils and a dry clear- 
 ness of vision. Above glittering palms, bright gar- 
 dens, and mild orangeries, the mountains impended 
 solemnly with pinnacles of snow and torn bare preci- 
 pices cinder-black against a chill sky, desolately blue. 
 Jackdabos walked briskly on a high road behind the 
 town, making for the rocky defiles of Pont Saint 
 Louis and the Italian border. 
 
 **Only Barjavel remains," he thought. ''I must 
 tell Barjavel my woes." 
 
 But when he had crossed the frontier and arrived 
 at that wall among mountain heather over which 
 peeped the rose-colored front and the lemon-tree tops 
 of Goiffon's house, he knew his journey was in vain. 
 Shuttered windows, a smokeless chimney, and pro- 
 found silence declared the place empty. Jackdabos 
 pulled a bell-handle in the wall beside the gate. After 
 long waiting, he pulled again, and yet again. At last 
 
188 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 came a sound of footsteps inside the garden, a wicket 
 suddenly opened in the gate, and through the round 
 hole peered a little, shrewd, red face like the face of 
 a very old English Punch. 
 
 This, thought Jackdabos, must be Rene the faithful. 
 
 * * Monsieur Bar javel ? ' ' 
 
 The eyes of Punch twinkled. 
 
 **No," said Rene. *'You have come to the wrong 
 house, my friend.'' 
 
 He was about to slide the wicket shut. Jackdabos 
 hooked one finger over the edge of the hole. 
 
 * ' Your master, then ? ' ' 
 
 ''Not at home.'' 
 
 *'0h!" cried the Jackdaw in despair, and drew bow 
 at a venture. ''I'm a friend of his. Tell me. Is 
 he not visiting his sister?" 
 
 The little, sharp, watery eyes blinked — once, and no 
 more, but enough to show that the question had hit 
 fairly. 
 
 "I cannot say, sir." 
 
 Jackdabos withdrew his finger, let the wicket close, 
 for a moment stared at the blank timber of the gate, 
 then turned and went back, despondently, by the path 
 he had come. 
 
 "No use," he told himself, wandering with chin on 
 bosom. " I 'm alone. Bar javel 's gone. I did know his 
 voice in the garden yesterday. Gone? There never 
 was any Bar javel. He's the Princess's brother; one 
 
A MATTER OP ANTIQUITY 189 
 
 of the great, merely joking with us for a pastime." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, miserably, as he walked. 
 
 '^Barjavel gone. Puig in jail. And we were like 
 three brothers going to accomplish fine things. Bah ! 
 I make you a present of the lot ! ' ' 
 
 He marched on heavily, across the high bridge into 
 France, down the rocky hills to the sea, and then 
 among the wearisome ** trippers'' promenading the 
 Midi shore. Suddenly he left this crowded embank- 
 ment, and plunged into the streets of Mentone ; for he 
 did not care to pass the donkey-stand, or meet Sara, 
 or see a little white ass. Indifferent to all the rest, he 
 wandered across town, through the Dragonni^re, up 
 over a wooded shjoulder of Cap Martin, and so round- 
 about with lonely thoughts. 
 
 The wheelwright's maxim, after all, seemed to 
 point the one way out of his distress. Many blows, 
 nothing but hard blows well struck, would bring a 
 man through to fortune; though here was this Cel- 
 lini platter, of course, which if cunningly sold would 
 fetch at once more than a lifetime of poor man's earn- 
 ing. Even the gold, melted down . . . 
 
 Jackdabo* halted, overborne by disgust. 
 
 * ' Temptation ? " he said to himself. * ' Temptation ? 
 Bah, if I sold it, then, would that be fortune? No, 
 my Jacko, the trouble is inside us. Eiches do not 
 improve the inside." 
 
190 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 Eiches would not serve. He frowned, and scratched 
 the top of his ear. 
 
 ^*I left that green bag/' he remembered, '*on the 
 table upstairs. Beelzebub and Hobbididence know 
 who may have stolen it by now ! One cannot go prop- 
 erly to work with that damned treasure always lying 
 undigested on the mind. I shall come, like Puig, 
 to a Leak-Box ! ' ' 
 
 He raised his head and looked about, to see where 
 the consideration of this quandary had led him. 
 
 *'Must be somewhere near Cabbe Roquebrune.^' 
 
 As a matter of fact, he had strayed into a little 
 depression among the hills, an oval amphitheatre of 
 lawn surrounded by olive groves. The clear sunshine 
 of a mistral day poured through the trees, flooded the 
 level green turf, and brightened a host of gay ban- 
 ners, the tricolor, which waved from mast to mast in a 
 woodland circuit. Jackdabos knew the place, even 
 before spying the many white- washed bars and hurdles 
 encumbering the lawn. It was the place of the Con- 
 cours Hippique. A few stable-boys were leading 
 blanketed horses back and forth under the edge of the 
 trees; and out in the central sunlight a young army 
 officer rode a glossy bay mare who winced over the 
 green like a vain dancer. 
 
 *' Straighten the jump there, will you?'' called the 
 officer. 
 
 Jackdabos found that he stood near a hurdle which 
 
A MATTER OF ANTIQUITY 191 
 
 leaned askew. He ran obediently to lift one end and 
 set it right. With a drumming sound the dainty hoofs 
 charged toward him; and up over the barrier in a 
 greyhound leap flew mare and rider. 
 
 ** Magnificent !*' cried the Jackdaw, forgetting his 
 private griefs in the love of horseflesh. *'I give you 
 the prize, monsieur ! " 
 
 The bay mare returned frivolling at a walk. Her 
 rider, an alert soldier whose fine, serious countenance 
 was tinged with a clear pallor, nodded his thanks in 
 passing. 
 
 **Ah, the pretty filly,'' chanted Jackdabos, with 
 vicarious pride. *'You have there, sir, a very flip- 
 pant jumper." 
 
 The officer smiled at the young man's eager up- 
 turned face. It was a face that knew horses. 
 
 ''Not bad?" he said. ''Here, hold this for me, 
 please." 
 
 He unfastened his black cape, and whirled it down 
 into the Jackdaw's arms*. Then with a hint of the 
 bridle-hand, he sent the bay mare, galloping down the 
 course, skylarking over the bars. When he returned, 
 he pulled up for a moment to let Jackdabos and the 
 mare nozzle each other, which they did with great 
 interest and satisfaction. The boy spoke a few words 
 to her in some crooning dialect. She whinnied, and 
 laid her short little racer's head on the brown velvet- 
 eexi shpuldejp. 
 
192 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 "You have bewitched the lady,*' laughed her rider. 
 *'She is no sycophant." 
 
 He caught the youngster watching him secretly 
 with an odd, shy glance. 
 
 '*But IVe seen you before,'' said he. 
 
 ''Yes, my captain," replied Jackdabos. ''In the 
 army." 
 
 "Eh?" cried the horseman. "When? Where was 
 it?" 
 
 He named an obscure and far-off battlefield. 
 
 "Yes, sir," agreed the Jackdaw, and named two 
 others, grinning proudly. 
 
 The captain smiled, but with a trace of sadness in 
 his dark eyes, as though this young wanderer's face 
 recalled memories — ^many things lost and forgotten. 
 
 "I know you now," said he. "A very annoying 
 young devil who never stayed in the background." 
 
 The Jackdaw modestly touched his cap, for this as 
 it happened was praise. 
 
 ' ' Eh, well ? How goes it, my boy ? " 
 
 The boy replied that his affairs went in excellent 
 order. But as he made this reply, there came an 
 inspiration. 
 
 "May I talk with you, sir," he begged, "for ten 
 minutes ? ' ' 
 
 "Fire away," said his captain. 
 
 "Pardon, sir. Later. First I must go and come. 
 
i MATTER OF ANTIQUITY 193 
 
 There's a very important thing I should like to show 
 yon. Highly important/' 
 
 ' * Concerning what ? ' ' 
 
 ' * Concerning France. ' ' 
 
 The captain consulted his watch. 
 
 **I shall be exercising horses here/' he declared, 
 *Hill lunchtime. If you run both ways, you'll find 
 me here." 
 
 The Jackdaw thanked him warmly, returned the 
 black cape neatly folded, and set off across country 
 like a paper-chaser, vaulting one of the hurdles for 
 pure light-heartedness. All the way to the wheel- 
 wright's* and upstairs he ran; then all the way back 
 uphill, with a heavy green bag thumping his ribs. 
 In the pleasant glade of the Concours Hippique, he 
 found bis captain still riding the bay mare, though 
 now at an amble, her practice done for the day. 
 
 They met in the centre of the oval. 
 
 "Are your lungs made of leather?" asked the 
 horseman, smiling. 
 
 **It is nothing," replied Jackdabos, flushed, but 
 breathing easily. **I was afraid of missing you, sir." 
 
 As a peddler opens his pack, he untied the bag- 
 strings, fumbled within, and quickly extracted the 
 broad golden plate, dazzling in the sun. 
 
 ** There," said he, handing it up. 
 
 The captain balanced the glorious object on his 
 
194 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 saddle-bow, and stared like one amazed by legerde- 
 main. 
 
 ''What's all this?'' 
 
 Leaning against the mare's shoulder, Jackdabos told 
 him. He sat listening, immobile, an equestrian 
 statue ; only his fine dark eyes moved, but they pene- 
 trated the young man through and through. 
 
 *'It sounds very droll, but I'm not lying, sir." 
 
 *'I know you're not, my child. Continue to avoid 
 that mistake." 
 
 Jackdabos continued, with spirit and humor. 
 
 **It is genuine," he concluded. **A great English 
 scholar told me so. It is no counterfeit. Benvenuto 
 Cellini made it; indeed, who else could dream and 
 execute such a piece? Perfect, barring the salaman- 
 der on Troy gate, which is bad. But perfect!" 
 
 The captain, his first moment of surprise past, 
 nodded gravely, like a man who had seen many mat- 
 ters far less credible. 
 
 ' ' Odd, ' ' he murmured. * ' A very odd story. ' ' 
 
 ''Sir, you can't imagine," said Jackdabos fer- 
 vently, "how I have lain awake nights, puzzling. To 
 think of such a prodigy ever being lost — or ever 
 found again. Enigma ! The things we lose, the things 
 we keep — enigma of the past! It crushes me, sir." 
 
 His captain did not laugh or mock, but eyed him 
 curiously, and then said: 
 
 "I know. Charlemagne was a great emperoj;:. 
 
A MATTER OF ANTIQUITY 195 
 
 Somewhere in Paris, the Biblioth^que, I fancy, there's 
 one poor little old time-eaten ivory chessman which 
 belonged to Charlemagne/' 
 
 He waited, but not long; for this bright-eyed 
 youngster caught the point almost at once. 
 
 ''You think like* me, sir!" exclaimed the Jackdaw, 
 as if marvelously honored. **Yes. If Charlemagne 
 came back, and saw his one chessman standing there, 
 he would cry: 'What the Devil! They kept that 
 little old thing, when I owned such a lot of stuff, me, 
 Charlemagne?' " 
 
 The two men smiled, agreeing well. Jackdabos pat- 
 ted the mare's neck, and became lost in a day-dream, 
 his gaze fixed on the tricolor banners fluttering 
 brightly round the olive-girdled circus. 
 
 "You had some question to ask?" 
 
 "Oh, pardon me, sir." The dreamer woke. "I 
 forgot. Your time is not like mine, worthless. May 
 I see our plate once more?" 
 
 The captain reached it down. Jackdabos took it in 
 both hands, held it out at arm's length, and with 
 a gleam* of primrose light quivering over his 
 tanned cheeks, feU to such a study of the golden 
 work as though he were storing away the sight of 
 Helen, her brothers, and beleaguered Troy in his mind 
 forever. 
 
 "It was made for a French king." He thought 
 
196 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 aloud. *'The kings are gone, but there is always 
 France/' 
 
 He returned the plate to his captain. 
 
 "You know the great and the powerful, sir. Please 
 make them keep this where we others, we short-legged 
 fellows, can see it now and then on a Sunday. ' ' 
 
 He stepped backward, smartly, two paces from the 
 mare^s shoulder, touched his cap, turned, and walked 
 off with a little contented swagger across the green 
 turf. He had reached the boundary of the oval 
 before the astonished captain came riding alongside. 
 
 *'Here, you young madman," fumed the officer, 
 laughing. * ' Here ! ' ^ 
 
 Eespectful but stubborn, the Jackdaw turned his 
 head without halting. 
 
 *'No use, my captain," he retorted. ''The pretty 
 filly can do anything, God bless her, but she hasn't 
 learned to climb these rocks where I'm going. — Oh, 
 and here's the bag for it." 
 
 Like a brown velveteen goat, he scrambled up the 
 nearest rounding ledge, and stood inaccessible on the 
 crest, akimbo and agrin, ready to vanish into the 
 olive branches. 
 
 ''Forgive me, sir," he called. "I had no other 
 method. My friends are all gone. I needed a man 
 of honor. It belongs with the toy of Charlemagne." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 FAILURE 
 
 Avignon, a year later, was enjoying the clearest of 
 spring days. In mild April sunlight the city of the 
 Popes lifted her pale buff towers and crenellated walls 
 along the river, as though rising to see how the pol- 
 lard fruit-trees blossomed on the Island. 
 
 Against the lofty balustrade of the popes' garden a 
 large black-bearded man leaned his elbows, and 
 watched, far below, the tawny Rhone swirling past in 
 freshet. He wore plain black clothes and a generous 
 black felt hat. 
 
 *'I wonder,'' said this man, ''what the young mon- 
 key thinks he's doing?" 
 
 He meditated, his big gray eyes fixed on Rhone 
 stream and the low mist of orchard blossoms beyond. 
 One year ago he had lost a friend. This morning he 
 hoped to discover the friend again, if it were possible 
 after so much time and intervening difference. 
 
 ''Young monkey!" said Blackbeard. "Whatever 
 197 
 
198 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 he is doing, lie^s proud as Lucifer and twice as inde- 
 pendent." 
 
 A brooding light in the gray eyes declared that the 
 lost friend, for all his pride and silence, was not a 
 displeasing object of thought. Blackbeard hummed 
 an air, and beat accompanying tattoo on the balus- 
 trade. Avignon had waked and breakfasted, but re- 
 mained very still. The skiff of the ferryman glid- 
 ing slantwise across the yellow river creaked and 
 rattled its pulley along the sagging wire cable, with a 
 complaint as of a melancholy bird. When it had 
 landed beneath Blackboard's rocky eminence, and set 
 ashore its freight of slow-moving peasant women, 
 there was no sound but Rhone's voice. Fierce eddies 
 boiled and gurgled under the arches of the broken 
 bridge, and surged about the last pier in midstream, 
 reflecting bits of glassy brightness, whirling like that 
 round of the vanished dancers whose memory is but 
 an old song. The watcher on the garden rock ceased 
 humming, and listened for a while. 
 
 **I'll go now," he thought, rousing, **and catph him 
 at work. If he ts working. " 
 
 So down from the garden cypresses, under the 
 Palace battlements, under the Pope's Mule tower, 
 downstairs, past valiant Crillon's statue, and into 
 the lower streets of Avignon, walked a lazy giant with 
 an air of preoccupied benevolence. He smiled to him- 
 self as he went 
 
FAILURE 199 
 
 "Will it be like old times?'* he wondered. 
 Through narrow ways and a crowded market- 
 place, he came at last into the Street of the Dyers. 
 Where once the scarlet cloth of army trousers used 
 to flaunt was now a sad-colored lane of workshops 
 overhung with budding trees. On his right, in a 
 masonry channel, the olive-gray water of the Sorgue 
 came suddenly and mysteriously flowing from under 
 houses, to turn the cumbrous, clanking undershot 
 water-wheels, their paddles coated with green slime. 
 Like laboring monsters, wheel after wheel revolved 
 patiently, dripping. Across the street their motion 
 was continued, multiplied, accelerated in the row of 
 workshops where through dark doorways came the 
 hum and the fugitive glimmer of belts and pulleys 
 rapidly spinning. 
 
 **He must be hereabout, '* thought Blackbeard, peer- 
 ing through each door as he passed. Men quarrelled 
 somewhere, with loud and terrible language. 
 
 Not far beyond the mournful chapel of the Gray 
 Penitents, he spied a yet gloomier portal, from which 
 smoke languidly drifted. 
 
 **There!'' said the wanderer, quickening his steps. 
 '* There, of course; that's the boy's sign!'' 
 
 Above the smoking lintel projected a small pent- 
 house box, like a wooden lantern, in which hung a 
 bridle of scarlet leather. 
 
 **Poor child, I hope it brought him luck!" 
 
200 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 To judge by the senses, it had not done so. Here 
 the quarrel raged. The shop, blacker than an oven, 
 was filled with stale, acrid foundry smoke, and re- 
 echoed yells of rage. As Blackbeard gained the thres- 
 hold, he was thrown violently backward by two inter- 
 locked and reeling figures who were belched out as 
 from an inferno. In a zig-zag stumble they crossed 
 the road, struck headfirst the wall of the brook, fell 
 in a hissing, cat-fighting mass, then disentangled, 
 bounded up, and sprang at each other with fists and 
 feet. 
 
 They were short men, evenly matched ; but the good- 
 natured giant, lumbering into the fray, tore them 
 apart. 
 
 *^No, no!'' cried one. ''Let be! This must come 
 to an end." 
 
 ''Stand clear!" howled the other. "Let me kill 
 him!" 
 
 "Doit! Doit!" 
 
 "He stole my great treasure — gave it away . . . 
 for nothing. Promised to make my fortune, and he 
 can't make the snout-ring of a sow!" 
 
 The two ruffians bobbed round their peace-maker, 
 trying frantically to close again. Pale, sweaty, grimed 
 like stokers, with blouses tattered and burnt, they 
 seemed a pair of last night's phantoms enacting by 
 sunshine the fag-end of a dream. 
 
 Along the Street of the Dyers, neighboring work- 
 
FAILURE 201 
 
 men leaned in their doorways to watch and disap- 
 prove, or popped out, shrugged their shoulders, and 
 popped in again. 
 
 '^Letmekillhim!'' 
 
 '*Out o' my way!" 
 
 The giant recognized both ragamuffins, despite their 
 blackened faces. 
 
 *'Why, Jacko!'' he cried. '^Philibert! Stop this 
 at once ! Calm yourselves. ' ^ 
 
 The blacker and worse burnt of the two flashed on 
 him a beseeching look. 
 
 **One moment, Barjavel," came the reply, in the 
 Jackdaw's voice. *'No time for you now. This has 
 been coming. He blames me for the failure of my 
 statue. A year's work. This is the Fight. Stand 
 dear. We must finish on the spot. " 
 
 So saying, he dodged under the giant's arm and 
 flew at his enemy like a gamecock. This time Bar- 
 javel contented himself with seeing fair play. It was 
 a combat great and grim, fought in silence. They 
 hammered each other with savage good will, clenched, 
 toppled exhausted, rolled on the cobblestones, got up, 
 and haminered afresh. When they fell for the last 
 time, it was the wild, smeared likeness of Jackdabos 
 who wriggled on top and sat there. 
 
 '*Had enough?'' he panted. **0r shall I drop you 
 into the Sorgue?" 
 
 **Lemme up/* croaked a dismal bass. 
 
202 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 The dirty victor leaped on foot. 
 
 *' Sorry, old man,'' he muttered, '*but we had to 
 maul it out.'' 
 
 The vanquished rose tottering, and wiped a pug 
 nose that bled. 
 
 ''I quit work,'' said Puig. *'Hope to God I never 
 see your face again. ' ' 
 
 And he went limping back into the cavern of smoke. 
 
 Jackdabos, or the torn and cindery devil in his 
 likeness, drew himself erect and wearily filled his 
 chest with air. 
 
 **You are welcome," he said, smiling. *' Welcome, 
 monsieur le prince " 
 
 ''Bah!" protested the giant, and wrung his hand. 
 ' ' Call me the old name ! ' ' 
 
 The youngster sighed with content. 
 
 ''My dear Barjavel, it's very good to see you 
 again. What can we do for you?" 
 
 Barjavel's big gray eyes twinkled with satisfac- 
 tion. Here he had found the same old Jackdaw, no- 
 body's darling, no man's protege, poor, simple, yet 
 ready to talk like a ruler of grand affairs. 
 
 ''I came to renew our friendship a little," replied 
 Barjavel, "if you care to try. I wanted to ask you 
 both to come picnic with me on the Island." 
 
 Jackdabos gave a snort of delight. 
 
 "If we care? What do you take us for, Barjy? 
 Half a mo'." 
 
^ 
 
 FAILURE 203 
 
 He plunged into the shop, and disappeared among 
 greenish clouds of evil-smelling smoke. Barjavel, 
 peering in, could see only an obscure wilderness of 
 tools, boxes, heaps of sand, disorderly work-benches, 
 dominated by the dome of a brick furnace and a huge, 
 misshapen mass like a badly built ant-hill propped 
 with scaffolding. The place was a fit grotto for Mel- 
 ancholia surrounded by her rubbish. 
 
 Jackdabos ran out, buttoning his jacket, — ^the same 
 old brown velveteen, threadbare now, though neatly 
 patched and brushed. Except that one eyelid was 
 turning green and puffy, he bore no marks of con- 
 flict ; and certainly no grudge, for his face was jubil- 
 ant. 
 
 *' Ready for picnics, *' he declared. '*We haven't 
 eaten or slept, no, not these forty-eight hours. Wow, 
 Barjy, but we have worked!'' 
 
 Blackbeard pointed at the uncouth anthill amid the 
 reek. 
   **What on earth is that?" 
 
 The Jackdaw flung his hands apart in a gesture of 
 defeat. 
 
 * * That ? My statue, ' ' said he, lightly. * ' My bronze 
 statue in its mould. A year's work for nothing. We 
 cast it as well as we could. Puigo says the alloy didn't 
 fuse properly. All we could get for furnace was a 
 worn-out second-hand bell-founder's dome. Mafeesh- 
 fineesh ! We have failed and are bankrupt : no more 
 
204 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 metal, no more money. Come on, let us eat and pic- 
 nic. We shall not make you sad." 
 
 Barjavel took the failure as a matter of course. 
 
 **YouVe grown thin,'' he said. ** Where's Puig?" 
 
 "Old fool says he won't come," was the reply. 
 
 Barjavel turned and bellowed into the foundry. 
 
 **Philibert! Attend! We're going by the hac to 
 the Island, then up the tow-path to a good sunny 
 bank. Follow us when ready. We'll have succulents 
 foods and the best of wine." 
 
 The grotto of Melancholy returned no answer. 
 
 ** Leave him to sulk it through," advised the Jack- 
 daw. **I feel this is a day of destiny. If the lady at 
 Aries foretold us the truth, Puig will be happy and 
 content, working for a man who has beaten him with 
 hand and tongue. Or not. Let be. He must follow, 
 now or never." 
 
 Barjavel accepted this philosophy, but in parting 
 bellowed once more : 
 
 * * Shut up shop and find us. L 'ile de la Barthelasse ! 
 Plenty of wine, old Philibert le Beau ! ' ' 
 
 A sibylline croak bade them go to the devil. 
 
 They so far obeyed as to leave, and wind their way 
 happily talking through Avignon to the old walls and 
 the river. There at the hac landing below the Pope's 
 Eock, they embarked with a polite, sunburnt ferry- 
 man, who cast loose and let them drive aslant the 
 flood. His pulley-wheel chattered and strained its 
 
FAILURE 205 
 
 wire overhead; the clay-colored Rhone swept round 
 them; while over the pink-tufted orchards on the 
 island which they drew near, Saint Andrew's fort 
 and Philip's tower rushed down-stream by illusion 
 like castled mountains moving. 
 
 When the boat nosed into a mud-bank, Barjavel 
 and his friend climbed out on the island shore. By 
 the ferry cabin stood a man in rusty black — a waiter 
 from some tavern hidden among the poplar trees — 
 who bowed to Barjavel, and silently, by appoint- 
 ment, handed them a basket covered with a tidy cloth. 
 Jackdabos carried it, as they set forth up-river by the 
 old tow-path, now an intermittent sandy lane among 
 bushes, with clearings and tiny sloughs where the 
 crumbling riverbank had melted. 
 
 They walked slowly, but their tongues galloped ; and 
 as of yore, the talk flew roundabout and criss-cross, 
 quartering large fields of human life. 
 
 **0f course," Barjavel was saying, "bachelors 
 aren't the most unhappy in this world. I remember 
 two sentences . . .*' 
 
 Jackdabos laughed. 
 
 *'Ah, that's like the old time!" he exclaimed. 
 **How good it is to see and hear you, my friend! 
 What text from what ancient father are you masti- 
 cating now?" 
 
 The giant viewed him slyly, askance. 
 One is of Juvenal, ' ' he replied. ' * It says : ' Noth- 
 
 ttt 
 
206 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 ing is more intolerable than a rich woman. ' And for 
 the other, how wrote the son of Sirach? *As the 
 going up a sandy way is to the feet of the aged, so is 
 a wife full of words to a quiet man.' '' 
 
 Jackdabos chuckled. 
 
 **You're always the same," he declared, with quiet 
 affection. ''But there are — cases — to which even your 
 collected wisdom cannot apply." 
 
 They halted in a pleasant circular grass-plot, open 
 to the river, but screened elsewhere with young thicket 
 and the dry, golden stalks of last year's rushes. April 
 sunshine warmed the new grass, and being reflected 
 from the saffron flood, played with changeable, oozy 
 lights among the green switches and furry tassels of 
 the willows. Jackdabos, laying his basket on the 
 bank, sat there cross-legged. 
 
 ''By the way," said his friend abruptly, rolling 
 down beside him and stretching at full length, "you 
 remember Miss Moultrie? Nice girl, that. You'll be 
 glad to hear she was well, and asked about you in a 
 letter to my sister." 
 
 Jackdabos fixed his eyes on Avignon, whose towers 
 dreamed above the hurrying water. 
 
 ' ' Yes, I am glad. ' ' His lips moved with difficulty ; 
 the sources of talk froze within him ; on this, the day 
 of his failure, no news could have pierced him more 
 cruelly. "She — she is kind. I think, perhaps — I'd 
 better lay our tablecloth." 
 
FAILURE 207 
 
 Dragging the basket toward him, he unfolded the 
 white cloth on the grass, then busily set out in order 
 the banquet which Barjavel had provided: a roast 
 chicken, two bottles of wine, salad, golden-crusted 
 bread, and various dainties. He was aware that his 
 host lay watching him sharply. 
 
 **You*re not ruined yet, for you can buy more 
 metal.*' The giant was reading his thoughts. *'Buy 
 more metal, and have another go. I '11 lend you plenty 
 for that.'' 
 
 Jackdabos looked up smiling. 
 
 **You are a friend," he answered, in a glow of 
 admiration. **You follow a man clear into the little 
 rooms of his heart, don't you? My dear Barjy, I'm 
 grateful, but . . . But. ' ' He nodded, as if the word 
 were final ; then with strained, mathematical precision, 
 arranged three heavy glass tumblers round the cloth. 
 *'I can't explain. I can't borrow. Every tub must 
 stand on its own bottom. Very slow work. But you 
 know, some things, like djdng, and this — ^this other — 
 a chap has to do all alone ? ' ' 
 
 Barjavel nodded with tremendous energy, and sat 
 upright like one whose watching had ceased forever. 
 
 *' Anyhow, can smoke with an old man, can't you?" 
 he growled, and tossed over a box of sinfully bediz- 
 ened cigarettes. * ' Humble yourself that f ar ?' ' 
 
 So, in their warm retreat among the willows, they 
 lounged together, relishing equally the savor of deli- 
 
208 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 cate tobacco and the smell of a spring bonfire that 
 drifted, like rank earthy incense, from where some 
 island farmer was burning brush. They mused, and 
 let the flow of the river carry past their thoughts in a 
 trance, till conscious only of that yellow surface, here 
 rippling into a line of shark-fin waves, there uncoiling 
 strings of loud whirlpools, or suddenly returning calm 
 and smooth, as an eddy that bore tiny matted rafts 
 and jack-straw patterns of broken reeds, mingled with 
 the numberless old wine-corks that bob in the Rhone. 
 
 **I'm sorry for Puigo," confessed the young man, 
 out of this long contemplation. '^I treated him shab- 
 bily about his gold platter. He took all that like a 
 brick. And I did promise to make his fortune. AM! 
 Our promises!'' 
 
 A distant, mellow chinxing floated through sun- 
 light to their island. Behind towered hill and long 
 ramparts, the Jacquemart of Avignon rang noon. 
 Another sweet bell answered. When the music had 
 passed overhead, there was only the fleeting gurgle of 
 the whirlpools, and the whisper of an April breeze 
 passing through the sere lances of the rushes. 
 
 A loud hail, from down the island, startled them. 
 
 Through a gap in the willows, they caught glimpses 
 of the tow-path, a leafy tunnel chequered with pale- 
 green vernal brightness. Under this a man ap- 
 peared, running like a messenger. He stopped, hailed 
 once more, then seemed to spy the two holiday-mak- 
 
FAILURE 209 
 
 ers ; for in a clearing against the southerly glitter of 
 the flood, his black silhouette hopped off the ground, 
 cutting a strange antic. The creature yelled some 
 greeting, either of triumph or derision. Then he came 
 jogging on sedately. 
 
 '^t'sPuigo. Good.'' 
 
 The sturdy little smith walked over their grass- 
 plot with a determined air, till he stood between 
 them. All mud and smut, he had done nothing to 
 remove the stains of combat except wash his face ; one 
 eye was nearly lost in a puffy swelling, and his nose 
 gleamed large and red as a carrot. In both arms he 
 dandled what might have been a small baby wrapped 
 in brown paper. 
 
 **It breaks every law of metals!" he declared, 
 angrily. **That old she-dog of a furnace, hey, what, 
 she did the trick after all! I smashed the mould to 
 spite you, Jacko, — and ooh, your bronze, your 
 bronze ..." 
 
 The Jackdaw scrambled up, and stood waiting, 
 deadly pale. 
 
 **A11 gone," he stammered. "All wasted, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 The smith pitched his brown paper nursling into 
 BarjavePs lap. 
 
 **No-o-o!" he blubbered, and fell on the Jackdaw's 
 neck. *' She's cooling. She's perfect! Perfect! 
 
210 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 Jacko, we're both — o-o-oh, hoo, hoo — ^we're both made 
 men for life!'' 
 
 He hung there limp in his partner's arms, crying 
 like a naughty child. 
 
 **Look at the model, Barjy," said Jackdabos, over 
 his shoulder. ** 'Twill give you some idea. You're 
 the third person to see our model. The thing itself, of 
 course, is made heroic." 
 
 He was too busy comforting Puig, they were both 
 too shaken with work, hunger, and lack of sleep, to 
 watch what Barjavel might do; but they heard the 
 crackle of stiff paper being unfolded, and became 
 aware of a mighty silence. He must be looking at that 
 model, in black wax, which they already knew by 
 heart. 
 
 Then suddenly they were crushed in a bear's hug, 
 swept off their feet, and tossed aloft like playthings. 
 
 * * Oh, my boys ! ' ' wailed the good giant. ^ * This will 
 live long after we are dead and gone! *Le huste sur- 
 vit a la cite!* Oh, my boys!" 
 
 Jackdabos was stuttering in the air, as he went up 
 and down. 
 
 ''Does it . . . does it b-b-beat Cellini?" 
 
 ** Cocked hat!" cried Barjavel. 
 
 He set them down, dizzily; ran to the tablecloth, 
 opened a bottle, tossed the cork to join its fellows in 
 the brimming River of the Bull, and filled two tum- 
 blers with pale-red wine. 
 
FAILURE 211 
 
 ** Drink,'' he commanded, giving one gleiss to Puig, 
 and keeping one, * ' to our Master. ' * 
 
 They drank, solemnly. The Jackdaw hung his head, 
 trembling lika a tired horse. But next nloment they 
 had him at arms' length. Whirling in a round upon 
 the grass. Barjavel was singing for their dance, and 
 the words of his song were : 
 
 ** *My love, site's hut a lassie yet, 
 A ligJitsome, lovely lassie yet. 
 It scarce would do 
 To sit and woo 
 Down hy the stream sae glassy yet.*' 
 
 It was not on St. Benezet's broken bridge, yet no 
 livelier dance was ever footed in Avignon. 
 
 " *But there's a hraw time comin' yet, 
 When we may gang Orvoamin' yet, 
 And hint wi' glee 
 0' joys tohe . , ,' " 
 
 The singer choked and failed, the round ran into 
 a tangle, the three friends stood apart as it were ad- 
 miring their own folly. 
 
 "Come," ordered Barjavel at last, quietly. "We 
 should eat." 
 
 With a kingly ceremony, more than half -serious, he 
 
212 THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 
 
 led the shabby little brown-clad youth to the feast by 
 the river's brim. 
 
 * ' Sit down before us, Jacko, ' ' said he. ' ' Where the 
 Master sits, is the head of the table. '* 
 
BOLDERO 
 
BOLDERO 
 I 
 
 On a summer afternoon a young man drove his ' ' de- 
 livery wagon" down, a street of modern homes in the 
 greatest of all Western cities. What city, research 
 would fail to discover, for the epithet seems common 
 in a land of clashing superlatives; all we shall ever 
 know, therefore, is that the street was* a broad gray 
 blaze of asphalt; the most argumentative climate in 
 the world, a heat smelling of tarweed ; and the wagon 
 a green-painted vehicle drawn by a skinny horse and 
 blazoned with the name of 0. Gumbinger, Grocer and 
 Liquor. 
 
 The youth who drove the skinny horse was Indian 
 brown, had large blue eyes, and sat erect under a team- 
 ster 's gaudy parasol. He wore a drab army sweater, 
 bought at secondhand, faded trousers-, no hat, and 
 somebody's cast-off tennis shoes. Yet he was not 
 dingy. To look up at him while he rumbled lazily 
 down the wide and vacant street, any foot passenger 
 would have marked him as a cheerful, audacious 
 
 215 
 
216 BOLDERO 
 
 young man, whose clothes called attention to his body 
 — a lithe, loose, capable body, good for boxing or foot- 
 ball. .   
 
 He took care of his horse ; for at a street-watering 
 pipe he drew up, and sluiced the poor animal with 
 water from a dangling cylinder of canvas. 
 
 ''It's hot, Ribso,'' he grumbled. ''Don't want you 
 to catch the staggers. 'Tain't my fault you got no 
 pith in your bones. That 's the old man. He fills your 
 manger with shingle shavin's, claps green spectacles 
 on you, and says : ' Dear hossy, eat the fragrant new- 
 mown hay!' Devil with him, Ribso. Fat sop! He 
 don't even pay his men regular. Come on, mon 
 beau!" 
 
 They went on down a broad street called El Dorado, 
 or Argonaut, or Camino Golden Sunshine — ^the real 
 name of which was Dull. The houses lining it all 
 struggled to be unlike one another without success. 
 Each was what the Western world miscalls a bunga- 
 low, and, in spite of architectural agony, could not 
 shake off the fact. 
 
 The wagon driver pulled up before a stucco and 
 cross-timbered marvel, two storeys high. As he leaned 
 backward to reach a basket under the seat, he found 
 a plump little gray-haired man watching him from 
 the pavement. 
 
 "What?'' said this gray-haired man in a very good 
 
BOLDERO 217 
 
 and humorous voice. **You're a Grocer and Liquor, 
 are you?'* 
 
 The youngster regarded him coldly, a serious open 
 mind looking through great blue eyes. 
 
 **I can understand your groceing,'* said the 
 passer-by, **but what do you liq?*' 
 
 He was a mere shrimp of an old gentleman, very 
 refined and whimsical, who carried a library book 
 under his arms. 
 
 ** Don't know,'* replied the driver mildly. **I can 
 lick anything in this street. ' ' 
 
 As they two were the only visible men alive, the 
 little plump one laughed. 
 
 **True,'' said he. *'I sha'n't dispute it. What's 
 your name, my boy*?'* 
 
 *'Boldero,'' replied the driver. 
 
 **Eh? No! Say it again.'' 
 
 **Jack Boldero is my name; America is my na- 
 tion." 
 
 The old gentleman stared. 
 
 ''No!" said he. ''Certainly not. Is it, really?" 
 And he dropped into verse : 
 
 '* 'To make your candles last for aye, 
 Ye maids and wives give ear-oJi, 
 To put tJiem out's tJie only way,' 
 QuotTi honest John Boldero." 
 
218 BOLDEEO 
 
 The youth listened politely. 
 
 * * I do love my Mother Goose, ' * he commented. * ' Al- 
 ways made me quit crying. Haven't got a rattle or 
 a sugar teat in your pocket, have you? My name's 
 far from Gumbinger, anyhow.'' 
 
 The other chuckled, and for a moment stood lost in 
 contemplation; then, waving his book toward poor 
 Ribso the Beau : 
 
 "Are you," he inquired, ''a veterinary dietitian?" 
 
 *'N.o," came the prompt reply. **It's a case of 
 malnutriment. All his calories just go to fodder up 
 his osteoblasts; so it ain't no use feeding that horse. 
 He's an osteoblastopath. " 
 
 ** Heavens!" cried the little old gentleman in de- 
 light. ''Where do you find such words?" 
 
 ''Public library is free to all," declared Eibso's 
 driver, "unless you're on your way to close her 
 against us now." 
 
 ' ' So young ; yet so saucy ! ' ' murmured his examiner, 
 feigning grief. "My boy, I fear you're the kind that 
 rises too early in the morning." 
 
 Boldero had found his basket and was busy telling 
 its contents. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not the milkman," he grunted, "nor yet 
 the milkman's son. Artichokes and a dozen of eggs. 
 Pardon me. Senator, but I have an appointment, and 
 the audience is at an end." 
 
 So saying he hooked the basket over his arm, stepped 
 
BOLDERO 219 
 
 on the wheel, leaped down, and made off, whistling. 
 The old man, hugging the library book, watched him 
 as he mounted a flight of concrete stairs and followed 
 the tradesmen's path to the rear of the stucco-and- 
 timber house. 
 
 * * This new generation is extraordinary, ' * sighed the 
 little gentleman; then shook his head doubtfully at 
 the osteoblastic horse and passed on. 
 
 Boldero, skirting a parched lawn impaled with 
 palms like feather dusters, had already forgotten their 
 conversation. He was thinking how hot the day was 
 and how dull his present life, in which nothing ever 
 happened. He had spoken one truth among the 
 late nonsense. The Mother Goose name was hon- 
 estly his own ; for he descended from those strangely 
 named pioneers — Sharpnecks, Leatherheads, Love- 
 locks, and Muchmores — ^who have wandered the West- 
 em continent so far and so obscurely, leaving less 
 written history than Henry Pimpernell or Peter 
 Turph or old John Naps of Greece, or ** twenty more 
 such names and men as these. Which never were, nor 
 no man ever saw." He, too, was a wanderer, and 
 though young, had taken more than his share in ac- 
 tive matters. This running with parcels to back doors 
 — an interlude necessary for the sake of money — ^be- 
 gan to pall on him. Nothing ever happened in such 
 a trade. 
 
 *' About time to get fired," he thought as he climbed 
 
220 BOLDERO 
 
 the back stairway. ** Artichokes and a dozen of eggs. 
 That don't give bottom to the soul. A man needs 
 more thrillin* events, kind of.'* 
 
 He rapped at the kitchen door, and something like 
 an event began to ta,ke place; not immediately. His 
 knuckles beat a loud tattoo that echoed as through 
 an empty interior and failed to summon anyone. 
 Boldero poised his basket and waited. The back stairs, 
 a brown-painted Jacob's Ladder much more humble 
 and rickety than anything in front, went zigzagging 
 upward to the second storey. No one appeared, above 
 or below; but somewhere within doors a light shuffle 
 of footsteps crossed a floor and ceased. 
 
 Jack rapped again, louder, and gave his profes- 
 sional whistle, a piercing version of the cockney slo- 
 gan: *' 'Alf a pint of mild and bitter!" 
 
 It roused only echoes once more. He was about to 
 empty his basket and leave, when a voice, floating like 
 a ventriloquist's from no point especially, called out: 
 
 ** Bring it upstairs, here. "Walk right in." 
 
 He could have aworn that neither voice nor foot- 
 steps came from overhead; but the words being clear 
 enough, he went up, carrying his basket. It was an 
 untidy staircase, marked with grease; the dark side 
 of the moon as compared with that effulgent face look- 
 ing upon the street. A sack of coal lay slumped in a 
 comer, petroleum tins waited on the next turn, and 
 
BOLDERO 221 
 
 the nasty gray head of a mop leaned ont to sun itself 
 from the upper landing. 
 
 '* Double house after all/' said Boldero, **and kept 
 awful sluttish.'* 
 
 He tapped on the door at the upper landing, obeyed 
 orders, walked in, and left his artichokes with the car- 
 ton of eggs upon a kitchen table. The smudged copy 
 of his master's bill he laid beside them. As he did so 
 another door opened, and a plump young wench in 
 splendid garments burst upon his view. She had the 
 face of a late Roman empress, and wore tall sky-blue 
 boots. 
 
 ' ' Well ! ' ' complained this lady. ' ' Wha' d 'you want, 
 walking into people's houses?" 
 
 * * Delivery, ma 'am. You told me to come right in. ' ' 
 
 * * Me ? I never seen you before ! ' ' said the empress. 
 *'You can leave it. But you'd ought to have more 
 manners." 
 
 She disappeared — ^with a bang and an odor of per- 
 fume, as spirits are said to do — while Boldero was 
 replying: *'Yes'm." 
 
 More manners were what everybody ought to have, 
 he considered as he went down to the tradesmen's 
 path. Women didn't have them all, either. No- 
 sure! Why, she was nothing but clothes to attract 
 the eye of man, all sort of gaudy and rude, if you 
 came to that. Yet she was right. He ought to have 
 more. Just now he had answered a good deal too 
 
222 BOLDERO 
 
 smart and flip, and maybe offhand, when that little 
 fellow with the public-library book stood asking' him 
 questions that, anyhow, were pretty civil. 
 
 *' There ^8 something in being a lady,'' thought 
 Boldero. **And a man don't need to show off all he 
 can think of to say, neither." 
 
 He drove down the empty street, consulting his list, 
 and meditating humbly enough how much there was 
 about this world to be learned just in the way of be- 
 havior. 
 
 ''An awful lot!" he sighed. 
 
 It occurred to him that the voice which had bidden 
 him go upstairs was not the empress's rather brazen 
 music, but an easy, quiet voice — a man's. He did not 
 puzzle over it; the thing seemed immaterial. As 
 afternoon wore on, and he talked with other strange 
 women in other strange and soiled back doorways, 
 he found many such queer fragments of life occupy- 
 ing his mind. 
 
 After sunset, having tossed his final basket into the 
 wagon, Boldero reined the lean horse homeward. They 
 went ambling along the shadowy border of a small 
 park where more feather-duster palms, driven home 
 to the head, with a few exceedingly young maples and 
 peppers, were clustered thickly on a lawn blighted 
 with dying grass. Here, of a sudden, two men dodged 
 out, spread their arms abroad, and caught Ribso by 
 his bridle. 
 
BOLDERO 223 
 
 * * Brown sweater and white shoes ! ' ^ said one of these 
 highwaymen. 
 
 "You'll do/' growled the other. 
 
 And, before Boldero recovered from his amazement, 
 both men hopped over the wheels, landed upon the 
 seat of the wagon, and pinned him there tightly. 
 They were both heavy, red-featured men, both sweat- 
 ing as to body, but preternaturally cool as to manner 
 and speech. 
 
 ' ' What ' ' began Jack. 
 
 "Oh, drive along!" replied the first gayly. "Next 
 turn to your left. The station's round the corner." 
 
 Boldero stared at them. They grinned like old 
 friends. Their clothes were nondescript, but by a 
 certain hard lack of speculation in their eyes he knew 
 them for police. They did not lay hands on him; 
 there was no need ; they merely sat close and wedged 
 the captive in. 
 
 "Look here," cried Boldero indignantly; **I 
 haven't done a thing!" 
 
 The gruff one of the two hauled out a plug of to- 
 bacco and bit it comerwise. 
 
 "Pleasure along with business," he mumbled. 
 "That's all you was doing. Artichokes above, and 
 down on the ground floor a little odd silver and clothes 
 and jewlry, and so forth." 
 
 One disadvantage that honest John Boldero in- 
 t herited from his rude forefathers was too quick a per- 
 
224 BOLDERO 
 
 ception of the truth, combined with inability to keep 
 the truth hidden. A great light pervaded his mind. 
 The man's voice hailing him so gently in the House 
 of the Empress had been the voice of a man not 
 wishing to be disturbed, and for good reason. Some- 
 body ransacking the lower storey of that house had 
 calmly told him to go upstairs. 
 
 * * My golly ! " he exclaimed. * ' But that was clever ! 
 Boys, I never could have thought to do it '' 
 
 His florid and sweaty companions nodded from right 
 and left like a pair of cynical twins. 
 
 ''Drive along!'' they said. ''You 11 get plenty of 
 chance to explain. The lady seen you." 
 
 Another failing must be imputed to John's family. 
 He had, when disbelieved, a very hot temper. Now 
 he called aloud upon some of the deities of mankind. 
 
 "You don't jug me for that!" 
 
 The seat of the wagon was a plain board with no 
 rail behind. Therefore, when he rose up with a shout, 
 and swept both arms in a backward blow, nothing 
 prevented the two cynics from falling among empty 
 baskets and bottle cases. They went over like men 
 on hinges. As for Boldero, he leaped out upon the 
 horse's hollow rump, thence to the pavement, thence 
 under the curving palm-tree spines and across the 
 lawn of the park. One gift his unhistoric tribe had 
 begotten in his limbs — ^the gift of running faster and 
 farther than Harold Harefoot, or a Zulu, or Tom 
 
BOLDERO 225 
 
 Longboat at his best. Under the young trees he flew 
 from patch to patch of withered grass, round a 
 muddy pond from the surface of which, as he passed, 
 two white lines of froth sprang upward and spattered 
 fanwise. A double report, the crack of firearms, 
 mingled with this phenomenon. 
 
 *'Shootin' at me!'' thought Boldero. ''They're a 
 nice pair ! ' ' 
 
 He ran all the better, and was able now to collect 
 his wits as he ran. No sooner had he reached the 
 dangling palms at the far side of the park and ducked 
 beneath their branches, than he became another per- 
 son — cool, dignified, without a trace of hurry in his 
 deportment. Along this new street men and women 
 were going decently home, while children flew back 
 and forth on roller skates, rattling over the asphalt. 
 Here and there a man stood at gaze, hearkening doubt- 
 fully after the sound of pistol fire behind the trees. 
 But no man, woman or child so much as glanced at 
 Boldero, who, with a loose- jointed gait, like the tired 
 workman he was, deliberately crossed the street and 
 turned a comer. There, finding the coast clear, he 
 flew again; then lounged into another street and 
 walked soberly among the people he met till he came 
 to a shop bearing the sign, "Victor le Retit, French 
 Bakery." 
 
 Boldero opened the door and entered. It was his 
 home. He slept in the basement there, with all his 
 
226 BOLDERO 
 
 worldly goods. The little shop exhaled a heavenly 
 smell of good fresh bread, for M. le Retit was just 
 placing a trayful of loaves on the counter. 
 
 * ' Ah, Jack, ' ' said he. * * You are airly to-night. * ' 
 
 He was a round short man, with flaming cheeks and 
 very sensible black eyes. 
 
 '* Yes, Vie,'' replied the fugitive. '*I'm early. Po- 
 lice after me.'' 
 
 The baker looked, and saw it was spoken in earnest. 
 
 ''Police? After you? Then they will not catch 
 you. In this town they have no abi-litty. ' ' 
 
 So saying, he waddled from behind the counter, 
 locked the door, and carefully hauled down the win- 
 dow curtains. 
 
 "We are closed," announced Victor le Retit. 
 ' ' Come now ; tell me. I am sorry. ' ' 
 
 Boldero's blue eyes were very friendly. 
 
 ' ' I knew you 'd take it that way. You 're a brick ! ' ' 
 he said. ' ' But the trouble is, I never did it. ' ' 
 
 He told in few words exactly what had happened. 
 
 *'0h, but," exclaimed the baker, "if you are the 
 wrong man then the police are sairtain to catch you." 
 
 This opinion, placidly delivered, was quite serious. 
 Boldero nodded. 
 
 "I lost 'em by the wayside; but, then, they've still 
 got the horse and wagon," he resumed. "My boss 
 will tell them I live with you. 'Tain 't far. They '11 be 
 here soon." 
 
BOLDERO 227 
 
 Le Retit thrust back his white cap till it formed a 
 halo round his flaming countenance. 
 
 "I will bail you," offered this cheerful saint. 
 
 His lodger grinned at him. 
 
 **No. The case looks too bad. That's enough. It's 
 all they want, and they'll never catch the real man. 
 He's too clever. I saw the whole thing before startin' 
 to run. Thank you all the same, Vic. " 
 
 For a moment they stared reflectively at each other. 
 As they remained thus, footsteps approached without ; 
 somebody tried the latch and shook the baker's door. 
 They stood rigid, motionless, listening in the darkened 
 shop. Behind the glass and the curtains a voice 
 grumbled ; then the footsteps went away. 
 
 '*I'm off," said Boldero promptly. *' Can't have 
 you losing customers like that. Half a 3 if, until I get 
 my duffle ready." 
 
 He dove behind the counter, through the hot baking 
 room behind, and down a steep little flight of dun- 
 geon' stairs to the basement. His friend Victor fol- 
 lowed closely, whispering to him to stay, to wait, not 
 to be rash. So they reached Boldero 's bedroom, a cell 
 below the street, all dark but for two square portholes 
 glinmiering overhead at the level of the back yard. 
 
 Boldero lighted a candle on the floor and fell at 
 once to work with brown paper and twine, making a 
 bundle of his only good clothes. His long-legged 
 shadow, Victor's broad and dumpy one, fluttered 
 
228 BOLDEKO 
 
 back and forth on the bare white walls and ceiling. A 
 cot bed neatly made, a battered alarm clock on a chair, 
 and a very old set of bagpipes leaning in a corner were 
 all the furnishings of the room, and all Jack's earthly 
 possessions. 
 
 '* There's the lot,'' said he, tying his bundle of 
 clothes. ' ' Oh, look! An old lady paid me her bill this 
 afternoon." He emptied from his pocket, upon the 
 bed, a handful of silver coins. '*Will you send it to 
 my lovely Gumbinger? He owes me more than that, 
 but I'm no thief; it appears I'm only a burglar." 
 
 The baker looked very doubtful. 
 
 **What will you do. Jack, for money, yourself?" 
 
 The fugitive grinned. 
 
 ''Who, me? I'm rich." 
 
 He slapped his other pocket, in which something 
 jingled. 
 
 * * It will not last you long, ' ' sighed his friend. * ' To 
 begin the world with " 
 
 '*I began the world with less," replied Jack, ** along 
 about the age of one day old. ' ' 
 
 From overhead suddenly resounded a thundering 
 knock at the street door. 
 
 '*Eh? yoi7d/" whispered le Retit. 
 
 ''Time's up!" 
 
 Boldero carried the chair swiftly toward the wall, 
 set it under one of the basement windows, tossed his 
 bundle upward and outward into the night; then, with 
 
BOLDERO 229 
 
 a catlike spring and wriggle, he was gone. No sooner 
 had his feet disappeared, however, than his brown face 
 shone in the window. 
 
 **I forgot.'' He looked down, very serious. 
 ' * How 's my little Jeanne to-day ? ' ' 
 
 The baker's upturned eyes, black and sparkling, 
 grew softer, younger. 
 
 ' * Doing well, poor child ! " he whispered. ' ' But she 
 will stay in the hospital many days yet. It is lonely 
 for her that I am a widower, me, and have to 
 work " 
 
 Boldero 's face vanished. His feet and legs remained 
 visible for a moment in the candlelight. Then his 
 clenched fist came reaching down into the room. All 
 this time the knocking at the shop door grew more and 
 more violent. 
 
 **Here, shake!" said Boldero 's voice. *'Good-by, 
 old one!" 
 
 As the baker reached up to seize the fist it opened, 
 and a shower of coins, falling over him, spilled and 
 ran wheeling about the bedroom floor. 
 
 *'Buy her some toys and flowers, with frere Jean's 
 love." 
 
 **My boy! My boy!" hissed Victor, amazed and 
 protesting. **It's your all — your whole — ^your last 
 sou. And you have left even your comemuse. What 
 shall you get on with? How to proceed?" 
 
230 BOLDERO 
 
 Boldero's blue eyes laughed down at him in a flash 
 of good humor. 
 
 "Proceed? I know a magic charm for that. Here 
 she goes. Look sharp: Ek dum. Rubber dar. One, 
 two, three! 'Feet, carry me away from here!' '' 
 
 The charm worked; with a twinkle of canvas 
 pumps, the feet obeyed as though shod in seven-league 
 boots. Victor, hopping on the chair, saw in the outer 
 darkness over the black wall of a high board fence a 
 flying shadow vault against the early starlight and 
 drop silently into the void. 
 
II 
 
 Some months later a young man lay resting beside 
 what minor poets call the great highway, the open 
 road, the long trail, or God's green caravansary, in 
 the Kingdom of Vagabondia. Put thus, the fact has 
 a pretty and romantic air ; but in plain language, the 
 young man, very wretched and cold and hungry, was 
 lying in a patch of sand and dead weeds under a levee 
 or dike. His belly was empty, his clothing wet, his 
 mind as dark as the landscape before him. A broken 
 grove of young marsh poplars, gray-green and sickly, 
 straggled along the levee bank to right and left. A 
 pale river, like coffee mixed with too much cream, 
 swirled angrily past this grove, and in a froth of 
 twigs and bubbles and floating grass blades lapped 
 round the lower sapling trunks. Beyond the river 
 stretched another level dike overtopped by low cot- 
 tonwoods : a wet landscape, cold, gloomy. Above the 
 musty Cottonwood foliage a strip of pale sunset glow- 
 ered far away. 
 
 **This is what they call being your own master,'* 
 231 
 
232 BOLDERO 
 
 thought the young man lying in the weeds. ''Can't 
 Bay much for if 
 
 He shivered, and looked with disgust at his clothes, 
 which hung on him wet and wrinkled. 
 
 '*No; not much fun.'' And he hugged himself in 
 a vain effort to be warm. ''This is the way you catch 
 fever and things. ' ' 
 
 Boldero 's luck had failed him all winter. Tramping 
 many miles through town and country, he had found 
 little work and no fortune. It was a bad winter, and 
 now the spring promised poorly. Behind this levee 
 which gave him a moment's shelter from the wind, lay 
 a town full of men as able-bodied as he, dozens of the 
 needy, scores of the lazy, hundreds of the worthless 
 who only serve to keep their betters from working. 
 
 "I don't seem to have any luck nowadays," he re- 
 flected. "And my shoes gone to pot, too." 
 
 The soles of his boots, in fact, were parting from the 
 uppers. The broken stitches were beaded with mud. 
 He was bending over to examine them helplessly when 
 he heard voices talking near by. 
 
 "I don't want to play checkers with my nose no 
 more," growled one. 
 
 "No chanst; no chanst," said the other softly. It 
 was a hateful, false, persuasive voice. ' ' Go git a poke 
 in the ear, if you can 't hear what I 'm telling you. It 's 
 only old Door-nail Jimmy. Who cares whether he's 
 here or there, alive or — ^missin'?" 
 
BOLDERO 233 
 
 Boldero quietly rolled over in the tall weeds, craned 
 his neck, and peered in the direction of the voices. 
 
 Behind a poplar screen two men lay side by side on 
 the bank of the levee. An evil, white-faced pair, they 
 eyed each other with the distrust of men who believe 
 nobody and nothing. The watery sunset lighted them 
 as they argued there by the river. 
 
 **No gunfirinV' declared he who had spoken first. 
 '*Le^s git down behind and lay him one acrost the 
 peak. No gun, Fingers! I ain't goin' to play check- 
 ers with my nose for him.*' 
 
 The softer voice poured out a stream of meaningless 
 filth. 
 
 * * Look-a-here, Pill-Hop ! ' ' it said. ' * You no need to 
 carry jail inside your head like that. All you do is 
 sit up on this levee and watch both ways. 1 11 act it 
 out ; me, I'm the boy ! If you see anyone comin', you 
 whistle. There's the old fool started his fire burnin' 
 right down among them saplings.'' The speaker 
 pointed toward Boldero, who had barely time to dodge 
 and lie flat under his weeds. **He's a totterin' old 
 man, weaker 'n a cat, likely drunk by now and deaf 
 as a post. That's why they call him the Door-nail. 
 He carries it round with him all the time. What bet- 
 ter do you want, brother?" 
 
 The brother made reply in which nothing was audi- 
 ble except: 
 
 '*! want a smoke, first." 
 
234 BOLDERO 
 
 '^AU right; roll one/' replied the persuasive voice. 
 ''Go ahead. Roll two while youVe about it, so's I'll 
 drag at a cigarette with you, brother. But soon as 
 we quit smokin' down I go and git the Doornail. I 
 git him, un 'stand? Dead as a Doornail, hey? Un'- 
 stand? That's a lucky sayin', too. Roll 'em. Your 
 hand shakes like an old maid knittin'. Here, gimme 
 your bag and papers, Pill-Hop." 
 
 Boldero looked cautiously through his weeds, a 
 mass of cockleburs and greasewood, withered brown. 
 Beyond their trembling tops he saw again the two 
 ruffians, lolling on the bank. The more resolute, who 
 had last spoken, sat up and rolled cigarettes very 
 knowingly. He was a long, lean fellow, with a great 
 chucklenose. 
 
 ' ' Can 't afford to lose time, ' ' thought Boldero. * ' Do 
 a duck out of here. I don't want to mix round in 
 any murders." 
 
 He began sliding backward, feet first, down through 
 the weeds that covered the levee slope. He went as 
 quietly as a cat hunting birds. But, when he had 
 reached a thicket of young poplars and could stand 
 erect behind them, Boldero felt a sudden compunc- 
 tion. He was alone, weaponless, half giddy with hun- 
 ger, so tired and damp and cold that his courage had 
 run low. A fiend tempted him — the fiend that dances 
 in an empty belly. His safest course was to steal 
 away. Roundabout, overhead, the dark evening clouds 
 
BOLDERO 235 
 
 hung funereal, and seemed to warn him that he was 
 jilone in a land of murder. Nevertheless, he paused. 
 Something else, not a fiend, warned him that if he 
 tried to evade this moment he should be an unlucky 
 man forever. 
 
 **What can I do barehanded against a gunf 
 he pleaded with himself. The answer came promptly : 
 ''You can't let *em kill an old man.'* 
 
 This must have been his duty; it wore an aspect 
 BO glum and hard. 
 
 * * Oh, damn it ! ' ' he sighed, and looked rapidly about 
 him. 
 
 A few paces below, in a small clearing, a handful 
 of fire burned on the wet sand at the river's edge. 
 Beside this fire sat the dejected shadow of a man, with 
 his back turned, warming his hands. The man, the 
 curl of smoke, the intervening shadows — all stood out 
 clear and black against the gloomy sunset. 
 
 Boldero raced down the levee slope and halted, 
 facing the man. 
 
 The fire, though humble, cast a warm red glow on 
 him who watched it. He looked up, a hawk-nosed, 
 beardless, brown-faced little old man, with skeptical 
 eyes. 
 
 ** Can't hear a word you're saying,'' declared this 
 figure in a toneless voice. * 'You'll have to speak 
 louder. I 'm deaf as a doornail. " 
 
236 BOLDERO 
 
 Uttering the words like an old and tiresome for- 
 mula, he continued to warm his hands. 
 
 Boldero laid finger on lips. He was forced to 
 think very quickly; no one could help him. A sheet 
 of wrapping paper, stained with mud, lay near the 
 fire. This he took and with a half -burned twig printed 
 upon it in charcoal letters : 
 
 *'a couple of crumbs want to kill you. 
 
 SIT QUIET. I won't LET THEM. SIT STILL." 
 
 The skeptical eyes, rimmed with heavy lids, stared 
 at this legend for what seemed an age. They had 
 plenty of intelligence after their kind. The sitter 
 nodded. 
 
 ** Threatened men live long,'' he said in his strange, 
 flat voice; then, grasping his chin with both hands, 
 he contemplated the fire. 
 
 Boldero glanced hither and yon for a weapon. Not 
 even a good stick offered; nothing but sand, a fagot 
 of twigs, one large imbedded rock too heavy to be of 
 use, a few rusty cans, two or three bottles, and half 
 an old shirt. The outlook seemed desperate. But 
 then, so was Jack. 
 
 There being no time for niceties, he fell back upon 
 an ancient and dishonorable method. Seizing the 
 largest of the black bottles, he knocked the **kick" 
 off it upon the rock, then passed the shirt rag through 
 
BOLDERO 237 
 
 it and took a half hitch of filthy cloth round his wrist. 
 This done, his mind became clear and ready. He 
 tossed the charcoal warning on the fire, stole back into 
 his thicket, and crouched there, waiting. All this time 
 the deaf man remained still as Saturn's image, look- 
 ing down into the flames. 
 
 Hardly had the paper caught, flared briefly, and 
 died in fluttering ashes, than a footstep came down the 
 levee. Boldero saw passing within touch of his bush 
 the pale face of the big-nosed man. A cruel coward's 
 face, it was wrinkled in a conceited smile. The fellow 
 hummed a tune as he went, and twirled on his fore- 
 finger a bright nickel-plated revolver. It was his left 
 hand he meant to use: his right seemed lacking or 
 mutilated. 
 
 Boldero slid out from the poplar leaves. Under- 
 foot the sand made all still. Four paces brought him 
 within reach of the murderer's slouching back. He 
 saw it straighten and grow rigid. He saw the deadly 
 toy cease twirling and fly to position, ready. Even 
 then, he could not bring himself to strike, for he had 
 never hit a man from behind. 
 
 ''Look out!" he shrilled, his voice dry in his 
 throat. 
 
 The enemy bounded and wheeled in his tracks. His 
 left hand flew upward, emitting a flash and a roar. 
 He was lightning quick. Boldero, not at all slow, 
 
238 BOLDERO 
 
 with a good conscience and a free, loose-bodied swing, 
 gave Mm the bottle over his ear. 
 
 He pitched into the sand, tumbled from side to side 
 for a moment, then lay collapsed — a bundle of long 
 arms and legs; a scarecrow with a red mask for a 
 face. 
 
 Boldero tossed away flinders of broken glass, untied 
 the rag from his wrist, stepped over his adversary, 
 picked up the fallen pistol, and aiming toward his 
 recent refuge, fired twice. Immediately a dark figure 
 bounded from the weeds and went flying over the 
 levee, performing antics of terror, like a clown. 
 Brother Pill-Hop did not wait. 
 
 Boldero turned. The old man by the fire had not 
 risen, but sat there on a charred stump of railway 
 tie and regarded the outcome wearily over his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 **You're a bloodthirsty young wildcat!" was all he 
 murmured. '*Is that carcass dead?" 
 
 With his toneless voice, he seemed to put the ques- 
 tion to empty air. Boldero looked down. The car- 
 cass lay breathing. 
 
 "No!" He came and stood over Doornail Jimmy. 
 * * Not yet ! " he shouted. * * You needn 't call me names, 
 either. I didn't do it for fun." 
 
 With some bewildered purpose of warming himself, 
 he sat down by the fire. To his further bewilderment 
 he found Ms whole body trembling, and began to 
 
BOLDERO 239 
 
 cry like an infant, with strange, long-drawn, blubber- 
 ing noises, which he had no power to check. 
 
 **It wasn't any quarrel o' mine!'' he wailed. 
 
 The old vagabond slowly rose and stood looking 
 down through the smoke — a black silhouette against 
 the river, the watery strip of sunset, and cottonwood 
 boughs dotted with great nests and Druid bundles of 
 mistletoe. 
 
 "Let carrion lie!" he ordered sternly. "Come! 
 Courage, boy! You need some food and drink. Let 
 carrion stay where it falls. If it's dead it will float 
 off soon enough. The river's rising. Come! I owe 
 you a dinner at least." 
 
 He stooped and picked the forgotten pistol out of 
 the sand. 
 
 "Pawn that," he grumbled. "Pawn it, we can, 
 for a dollar, anyhow." 
 
Ill 
 
 They left their fire smoldering at the river's edge, 
 left the scarecrow figure asp r awl, and climbed to the 
 levee top. Here a beaten path of hard sand tufted 
 with Bermuda grass went curving as the dike curved, 
 between poplar and willow boughs on the right hand 
 and on the left acres of roofs. Like a Noah's Ark 
 village arranged in a basin, the town lay sunk be- 
 neath them. Boldero and the old man walked above 
 chimneys. Without, beyond the trees, they saw the 
 yellow stream hurry past, below them, yet higher than 
 the streets within. 
 
 Doornail Jimmy set an easy pace. Boldero, fol- 
 lowing, saw only his back; but he became conscious 
 that this guide, unlike most wanderers, moved with 
 good action, not slouching, and wore a coat which had 
 been made to fit him long ago from well-woven stuff. 
 Homespun, threadbare and faded green, it still was 
 weatherproof, pearled with gray seeds of moisture. 
 
 He went along talking to nobody in his flat, deaf 
 accent. 
 
 240 
 
BOLDERO 241 
 
 ''Bloodthirsty young catamount!'' said he. **But 
 I owe you a dinner. Don't know why you should kill 
 men on my behalf. Never saw you in my life. Quix- 
 otic!" 
 
 The far-off sunlight died beneath a cover of indigo 
 storm clouds. While it did so, the Doornail turned 
 his back on it and began stumbling down a divergent 
 path into the city. 
 
 **This way," he muttered, ''is where I live." 
 
 A Chinese temple raised the dragon scroll-work of 
 its eaves and ridgepole to meet them as they descended. 
 A humble joss house, built in old brown wood, with 
 traces of weatherworn finery, it maintained under 
 shelter of the levee an open door between two faded 
 red pillars — the door of an exiled and forsaken faith, 
 which yet flickered visibly from the inner dusk where 
 pin-point lamps revealed a few tinsel banners and 
 gilded godlings crowded among shadows. A gong 
 shuddered once or twice with muffled overtones ; and 
 a bent, black-hatted figure passed before the altar 
 like a weary ghost. 
 
 Into this temple the Doornail peered for a moment, 
 then moved on, skirting its battered portico. Through 
 an alley choked with greenish mud and queer odors 
 he led the way, round a corner, through more alleys, 
 to a ramshackle street lined with wooden verandas. 
 Here, among the last and poorest shops of the Chinese 
 Quarter, he paused. Flame-colored labels^ marked 
 
242 BOLDERO 
 
 with vertical black ideographs, plastered the face of 
 a brick wall in which was a little sunken door. 
 
 ''Come upstairs/' said the wanderer, groping for 
 a key in his pocket. **Come up and have a talk/' 
 
 He made hard work of unlocking the door ; but at 
 last it opened, and they kicked their way up a narrow 
 flight of stairs, darker than a wolf's mouth. The 
 darkness contained a medicinal smell of herbs. At 
 the stairhead the old man seemed to pause and 
 grope. Presently an iron latch clinked ; a door upon 
 the left opened and disclosed a room full of twi- 
 light. 
 
 * * My lodgings. Enter ! ' ' 
 
 It was a little room, with one window, the walls of 
 matched boarding painted an Oriental green. A table, 
 three chairs, and a cot bed were the only furniture — 
 all fairly new and commonplace, yet all transformed 
 by that antiquity which settles upon the commonest 
 Chinese belonging. A fireplace, empty and black, 
 seemed ready to fall in ruin, with bricks askew. The 
 window stood open to the fading western light. 
 
 Jimmy closed his door. 
 
 **Sit down over here," said he, dragging chairs to 
 the window, ** where I can see your face. Now then! 
 Why didn't you let 'em kill me? You needn't shout. 
 Talk naturally, or whisper. I can read lips." 
 
 Boldero sat facing him. Outside, the levee bank 
 reared its wall of darkness, and a little grove of 
 
BOLDERO 243 
 
 switches, beaded with pussy willows, formed a net- 
 work sharply against the sky. It was impossible to 
 know the face of this questioner, who leaned back- 
 ward into gloom, with one long, slender hand covering 
 the eyebrows like a visor. 
 
 **I couldn't stand by and let 'em. Not in cold 
 blood!'' 
 
 ** That's very brave." 
 
 *'No!" Boldero rejected the compliment in dis- 
 gust. **No, sir! I nearly ran away." 
 
 The man leaning in the shadow made a movement. 
 
 ** Never do that," he exclaimed harshly. ** Never 
 run away from anything. It's the one great mistake. 
 Go on. Tell me who you are, by the way." 
 
 Below stairs, in another part of the house, somebody 
 was playing on a **Full Moon." The whining music, 
 thinner and sharper than a mandolin's, penetrated 
 the room and made an accompaniment to Boldero 's 
 history. He had not reached that afternoon's episode 
 when his hearer checked him : 
 
 '*Too dark to hear what you're saying. Wait till 
 we have a lamp and some dinner. But it's the same 
 old story, frying pan and fire. You jumped 6ut of 
 burglary into what decent people — ^not you and I, but 
 decent people — call manslaughter. Remember that, 
 my boy. Engrave it on the tablets of your mind, if 
 you have a mind." 
 
244 BOLDERO 
 
 The window was a gray blank; the room and its 
 tenant had become lost in obscurity. 
 
 **Go out and pawn this revolver/' continued the 
 deaf man's voice. **We can spoil the Egyptians a lit- 
 tle. And here; take this. Get it changed for me." 
 
 Boldero, receiving the pistol, took also a round piece 
 of money — gold, to judge by the weight, and by its 
 breadth a double eagle. 
 
 * * Twenty dollars ! " he cried. ' * You trust me ? " 
 
 The other laughed at his amazement. 
 
 *' Don't know whether I do or not," came the 
 dry answer. **Go out and see. Pawn that devil's 
 plaything, anyhow. There's a Jew next door to the 
 Acropolis Bar. Any of our neighbors will direct you. 
 *And mind you come back with the chynge — ^IMe!' " 
 A world-weary laugh followed this injunction. * ' Trot 
 along. You can leave the street door unlatched." 
 
 Alone in the street, Boldero found himself a prey 
 to mingled feelings. He had killed a man, and the 
 fact crushed him; he had rescued a man from death, 
 and the rescue seemed a trifle. This queer old crea- 
 ture upstairs, for whom his soul was blackened, cared 
 nothing about it either way, but treated him like a 
 child whose guilt or innocence was not worth con- 
 sideration. 
 
 '* What's the use," thought Jack, "of trying to 
 do the right thing?" 
 
 Nevertheless, he went on his errand down the gloomy 
 
BOLDERO 245 
 
 row of wooden verandas. A few lighted windows 
 here and there disclosed the brown interiors of shops 
 where Chinamen sat talking soberly among tiers of 
 red-labeled merchandise. He found the pawnbroker 
 easily, for the Acropolis Bar stood bright and gaudy 
 upon a comer and served to light up a dusty neigh- 
 boring den, the front of which was crowded with 
 guitars, accordions, carpenters' tools, firearms, and 
 silver watches. In this den, over a smoking kerosene 
 lamp, he quarreled with a talkative member of the 
 lost tribes, a degraded and discourteous Jew, who at 
 last lent him four bits for the dead man's revolver. 
 
 Thence he returned to the glaring Acropolis, 
 where amid the smoke, heat, and sweaty wrangling 
 of a hundred Macedonian laborers, he caught the 
 bartender's attention long enough to have his gold- 
 piece changed into silver. The Greeks had been paid 
 off and crowded along the bar, drinking Dionysus 
 brandy and jabbering something about a flood from 
 the hills. He left them to their pleasure and re- 
 gained the cool air of the street. 
 
 Halfway home, at the next comer, he met a group 
 of three men. In this Chinese Quarter, this foreign 
 refuse pile of the town, it was not surprising to find 
 one of the men a tall Sikh, who stood very straight in 
 an old khaki jacket and wore a pink turban. 
 
 **The Little Old Man," this Easterner was saying 
 in excellent English, ''who lives at the Black Door 
 
246 BOLDERO 
 
 in the Wall? Where is that door, please? The old 
 man who cannot hear '' 
 
 '*Ah, go to blazes, raghead!'' growled the other 
 two, and turned slouching away. 
 
 The Sikh looked after them, his brown face touched 
 with the mild scorn of a man well used to such re- 
 buffs. 
 
 ' ^ Straight ahead, ' ' said Boldero. * ' I ^m going there 
 myself. Ahead; on your right.'' 
 
 At the sound of his voice the two white men wheeled 
 about. Boldero found himself facing his enemies; 
 for the taller of the two was the big-nosed man, alive 
 and grim, with a red-stained bandage under his hat 
 and dried blood upon one cheek bone. 
 
 **Come along, Fingers!'' urged his companion. 
 *'It's that kid again." 
 
 But Mr. Fingers advanced with a menacing air. 
 
 *'I see it is," he cried. ''I'll fix him now." 
 
 Boldero cast a glance behind. The Sikh was march- 
 ing on his way. 
 
 ''No ; you won't ! " he retorted, confronting the pair 
 once more. "You're not man enough." 
 
 Something in Jack's bearing, and a slight forward 
 movement of his hands, bespoke such practised readi- 
 ness that the tall man halted. They stood looking 
 each other in the eyes. 
 
 "This ain't no place," said Fingers, "and my 
 
BOLDERO 247 
 
 head swimxnin' too. But there'll be other places, 
 don't forget that, son.'' 
 
 ''Places are alike to me,'' stated the young man 
 boldly. 
 
 *'A11 right. We'll meet up." The other, wagging 
 his damaged head, spoke softly, but with a relish of 
 hatred. * 'We'll run acrost one 'nother." 
 
 Jack's eyes suddenly brightened. 
 
 * ' Now I know you ! " he exclaimed. * ' Thought that 
 voice was familiar. You were robbing a house down- 
 stairs" — he named the town, street, day and hour — 
 ' * and sung out, tellin ' me to go upstairs. Didn 't you ? 
 We've met before." 
 
 The big-nosed man gave a start. 
 
 '*0h!" He fixed his look harder than ever. His 
 manner changed. "One of us," he said gravely, "is 
 meant to be unlucky for the other." 
 
 "Well," agreed Boldero, "don't count on me for 
 your little mascot." 
 
 His foe remained thoughtful. 
 
 "One of us — ^meant to be — ^that's plain. I'm a- 
 comin', Pill-Hop." 
 
 With that he turned, rejoined his fellow, and walked 
 slowly away, talking as he went, and holding a 
 broken, imperfect hand to the side of his face. As 
 for Boldero, he strolled homeward under the dark ve- 
 randas, chinked the money in his pocket, and breathed 
 great draughts of the night air; his heart light, his 
 
248 BOLDERO 
 
 conscience free, unburdened of a dead body lying 
 among the river bushes. 
 
 He entered the Black Door in the Wall to find a 
 bright light streaming downstairs. His host^s room, 
 above, stood open to the landing, and gave out lively 
 talk that ceased as he went up. 
 
 The little deaf ^man and the tall pink-turbaned 
 Sikh looked at him across a table, on which a hot 
 supper smoked by the light of four candles. 
 
 **Wuh kaun liaif" inquired the Sikh. 
 
 *'My preserver," said the old man satirically, but 
 not unkindly. *^ Bolt a jao." 
 
 The two went on speaking in a foreign tongue of 
 which Boldero understood more than they could have 
 guessed. They were ending some brief tale of a 
 shipload of laborers, and more than once used the 
 word ''conspiracy." 
 
 "Ill probably get into a row, then," said the Sikh 
 at last. ''So" — ^he drew from one pocket a buck- 
 skin pouch, from another three or four silver war 
 medals — "your worship will take care of these?" 
 
 The deaf man nodded. 
 
 "Of course! Good luck to you. And," he added, 
 as the Sikh laid his valuables on a chair, "remember, 
 Ghanda Singh, if ever you meet this boy again, he is 
 a friend of mine." 
 
 Ghanda Singh ^s lean brown face wore a smile as 
 he regarded Jackj his dark eyes twinkled with sa- 
 
BOLDERO 249 
 
 gacity; he seemed to be taking Jack's portrait and 
 stowing it away at the back of his mind. 
 
 "Good!** said he, then gave the Doornail a very 
 curious salute, set his lean legs in motion, 
 marched to the stairs — ^the lintel brushing his pink 
 turban — and, with a nod and another quick smile, 
 went down into the darkness. 
 
 Greatly interested, Boldero stood watching while 
 the old man opened a tiny door in the matched board- 
 ing of the wall, gathered up the buckskin purse and 
 the war medals, put them into a recess or cupboard, 
 and locked them safely away with a flat key. 
 
 *'I was once in India,'' he observed, as though re- 
 plying to a question. **Many of these chaps come 
 to see me, passing through." 
 
 With that, he returned to the table, where supper 
 smoked amid the candlelight. 
 
 **Take a chair, Mr. Boldero," said he; and when 
 they were seated, began heaping Jack's plate with 
 rice, chopped bacon, and cubes of white bean cake: 
 "How much did you get from the Jew?" 
 
 Boldero laid on the table his pocketful of money — 
 the Jew's pittance, two small coins, apart from the 
 rest. 
 
 **You keep that," said Jimmy, sweeping the main 
 heap toward himself and counting it carefully. **The 
 Jew's money is yours, of course." 
 
250 BOLDERO 
 
 Boldero said nothing, and took the two coins back 
 again. 
 
 ''Satisfied?'' snapped Doornail Jimmy. 
 
 His pnpils had grown narrow and keen as a miser's ; 
 yet it was no miser's look, Boldero felt, that pierced 
 him now, but something more human, more complex, 
 in which the cupidity aimed at higher and subtler 
 affairs than money. This was the first time they 
 had seen each other clearly; and with a touch of 
 wonder Boldero discovered Jimmy's face to be any- 
 thing but that of the drunken vagabond he had 
 taken for granted. In the yellow glow of the candles 
 it shone forth, withered, austere, with fine features 
 roughened by outdoor wear, and pouched eyelids 
 forming the triangular folds of age round a pair of 
 glittering eyes. Neat-shaven, hawk-nosed, the old fel- 
 low seemed tart as a frosty apple and wary as a 
 bird. 
 
 ''Quite satisfied?" 
 
 Boldero nodded. His host fell to eating the rice and 
 bean cake with great appetite. The only drink on 
 the table was two cups of tea — covered cups without 
 handles, Chinese fashion. The meal proceeded in 
 silence; but when they had left the platter clean 
 Boldero found those birdlike brown eyes fastened on 
 him again. 
 
 "I like people who are easily satisfied," declared 
 the Doornail, "and my life is hardly worth a 
 
BOLDERO 251 
 
 great reward. I 'm not ungrateful, though. Is there 
 anything you*d like to ask me for?'' 
 
 **ye8/' replied Boldero, finishing his tea and re- 
 placing the cover. **Your name?" 
 
 *'Heh!" The other chuckled as though more and 
 more pleased. **Well, sir, you may call me*' — Bol- 
 dero perceived the choice of words — *'you may call 
 me James Weechurch, at your service. But what 
 else ? For yourself, now. What do you want ? ' ' 
 
 **I don't want anything," cried Jack, growing in- 
 dignant. ** Forget it, Mr. Weechurch. You didn't 
 hire me to slug that hobo, did you?" 
 
 For the first time Mr. Weechurch smiled; and the 
 smile brought a transformation, making his wrinkled 
 face warmer, wonderfully kinder, almost young. 
 
 **No," said he. **You're my benefactor. We 
 don't always like our benefactors; but I rather like 
 you; though all I'm going to give you in return is 
 what I've given you already, a piece of good cou»- 
 sel. Keep it, for it's beyond rubies, and a pearl of 
 great price. It's this: Never" — ^he tapped out the 
 words with forefinger on table — ** never run away 
 from anything." 
 
 Shoving back his chair, he rose, looked meditative, 
 and drew from his waistcoat a large iron key, which 
 he laid beside Jack's plate. 
 
 **With that key you can go and come," he con- 
 tinued. *'Your meals here, your bed in the back 
 
252 BOLDERO 
 
 room. I make you heartily free of the house on 
 one condition.'' He paused, and repeated with em- 
 phasis. ''Upon one condition: that you hold your 
 tongue and do not speak, outside, of anything you 
 may see or hear in this house — ^not anything what- 
 soever.'' 
 
 B older 0, glad of a lodging in wet weather, promptly 
 agreed. 
 
 "And now," continued Mr. Weechurch, '*good 
 night. I'm turning in early." He blew out two of 
 the candles, gave the third to his guest, and, himself 
 taking the fourth, crossed the room and set it at 
 his bed's head on a wooden sconce from which he 
 took a small black volume. ''Good night. I shall 
 now read myself to sleep from the dullest book ever 
 printed on this earth." 
 
 Candle in hand, Boldero paused at the threshold 
 and hesitated. 
 ."What's its name, sir?" 
 
 The old man chuckled and darted a glance of ap- 
 proval. 
 
 "Its name," he replied, folding his coat neatly 
 over a chair, "is Philip's 'Beauty of Female Holi- 
 ness.' Two hundred and fifty-one pages of poppy 
 and mandragora. I've been reading it for a twelve- 
 month and am mired in page thirty. You like books, 
 then?" 
 
BOLDERO 253 
 
 '*Yes, sir/' admitted Boldero. **Some. Not 
 many." 
 
 Mr. Weechurch sat down to unlace his boots. 
 
 "Can't have this one!'* he cried jealously. "It's 
 my nightcap, my posset, my door into the vast inane. 
 Good night again, boy!" 
 
 It was characteristic of Boldero that, as he went 
 exploring by reddish candlelight the strangely smell- 
 ing corridor which led to his new quarters, he would 
 not have exchanged them for a palace, or his eve- 
 ning's entertainment for all the theatres in Chris- 
 tendom. » 
 
 "And he has good table manners," thought Bol- 
 dero. * ' By watching I can learn to eat right, here. ' ' 
 
IV 
 
 The bedroom to which Boldero found his way and 
 which his candle dimly lighted was a cavernous little 
 place, filled with Chinese refuse — ^broad, varnished 
 wicker hats, worn-out sandals ; rusty hoes and trowels 
 and spades; a wilderness of bulbs, roots, withered 
 herbs piled in every corner, wreathed round the win- 
 dow frame, dangling overhead from a network of 
 wires. It smelled of the earth, of pungent blossoms 
 and juices not quite evaporated, but still breathing 
 virtue. 
 
 Boldero placed his candle on the window ledge 
 and sneezed. Over the counterpane of a neglected 
 bed there were scattered little bundles of dried sea 
 horses, like chess knights wrinkled with age. He put 
 them upon a shelf before turning down the covers. 
 It was a strange room, and Boldero gloried in it. 
 
 * ' What a lot, ' ' said he, * ^ to learn about this house ! ' ' 
 
 He flung open the window, blew out his candle, and 
 slipped into bed. Though not a sumptuous couch, it 
 was the best he had known for many a night. To hear 
 rain splash and trample outside the window, to lie 
 
 254 
 
BOLDERO 255 
 
 so near a drenching, and yet be as dry as these clean- 
 smelling herbs roundabout, enhanced his luxury. 
 
 **A heap to learn !*' he mumbled, and so fell com- 
 fortably asleep, looking forward to great things. 
 
 He woke next morning with a sense of bright prom- 
 ise and novelty, though his room and the world were 
 filled rather with a brown gloom than with daylight. 
 Rain crossed his window in heavy vertical lines, like 
 glass rods, which melted and broke into silver spray 
 on the rusty iron of Chinese roofs, a green trellised 
 gourd vine, the tiled cornice of the joss house, and a 
 sodden courtyard in which a troop of Mandarin ducks, 
 their varicolored feathers bedraggled and darkened, 
 went waddling aimlessly among puddles. 
 
 **Pine weather,*' he thought while he dressed, '*to 
 go looking for work." 
 
 In the corridor he found, to his surprise, a band 
 of yellow light crossing the stairhead where the door 
 of Mr. Weechurch's room stood open. As he passed 
 he glanced into say good morning, and saw Mr. Wee- 
 church still abed, sitting propped on pillows. Two 
 candles burned low at his bedside, as for a wake. 
 The old man's head, in a pointed white woolen night- 
 cap, which made him look like Marley's Ghost 
 with its pigtail on end, had fallen back. His 
 breath came regularly and peacefully; his eyes were 
 shut fast; his arms, clothed in the sleeves of a blue 
 silk wadded jacket, were folded on the counterpane; 
 
256 BOLDERO 
 
 and his fingers weakly grasped a little black book. 
 '*The Beauty of Female Holiness'' had done its work. 
 
 Boldero, smiling, was about to pass, when he saw on 
 the table a thing that gleamed in the candlelight. 
 
 *'Ho! This won't do!" he murmured, and stole 
 into the room. 
 
 The gleaming thing on the table was a small scat- 
 tered mound of money, silver and gold pieces ; a large 
 old-fashioned gold watch, with a heavy chain ; a gold 
 snuff-box; and a locket set with sparkling stones of 
 different colors. 
 
 *'He empties his pockets there and leaves the door 
 wide open?" thought Boldero, staring. **This won't 
 ever do ! He needs a guardian. ' ' 
 
 Glancing from the little hoard to its owner, he had 
 a momentary shock. For an instant he thought the 
 old man's eyes had seemed open, watching him: but 
 they were not ; it must have been some trick of can- 
 dlelight and shadow. 
 
 Boldero stared again at the shining heap on the 
 table and wagged his head disapprovingly. 
 
 * ' Mr. Weechurch ! " he said aloud. * * Oh, Mr. Wee- 
 church!" 
 
 Remembering the man's deafness, he stepped over 
 and shook the footboard of his bed. **The Beauty of 
 Female Holiness" tumbled from his relaxed fingers as 
 lifelike as possible. The head and its goblin night- 
 cap rolled gently from side to side. Yes, he must 
 
BOLDEHO 257 
 
 have been asleep; he woke easily and naturally, his 
 brown eyes wandering at first, then growing alert and 
 fixed. With an effort of drowsy muscles, his lean 
 face drew into a smile. 
 
 **Who are you? Oh, yes! Good morning. What 
 is itr' 
 
 Boldero nodded at the pile on the table. 
 
 **That ain^t right, sir,*' he declared in rebuke, "to 
 leave a mint of valu'bles lyin* loose, and your door 
 wide opent You 11 wake up some mornin* and find 
 it all gone; or, what^s more, you won^t wake up at all. 
 Honestly, sir, it ain't safe at your age." 
 
 Mr. Weechurch considered this advice with a look 
 which seemed unnecessarily cunning. 
 
 **I seldom do it," he replied at last. From Bol- 
 dero 's serious young face he glanced toward the table ; 
 then yawned. *'It was careless, as you say, at my 
 age. Give me the watch, will you? And put the 
 rest back into my pockets there. Good! Many 
 thanks." 
 
 And, humping his knees comfortably under the bed- 
 clothes, he began to wind his great gold watch with a 
 careful, preoccupied air. Boldero saw that the time- 
 piece had a chequered shield and a pig's head en- 
 graved on its broad back. 
 
 "What amuses you?" inquired Mr. Weechurch 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Mq?'* The young mai^ was taken u^aw^^e, fp^ 
 
258 BOLDERO 
 
 he knew he certainly had not smiled. ''Why — ^well — 
 it seemed funny, kind of, to go and spoil a splendid 
 watch by carvin* pigs on it/' 
 
 His friend looked very much surprised. 
 
 *' Carving pigsT' Weechurch peered at him as 
 though he were mad, turned the watch over and over, 
 studied it, then laughed. **0h, ah, you're right. 
 That pig is rather silly. Heralds cleverly disguise 
 the absurdity by calling him a boar.'' 
 
 This speech left Boldero fathoms deep in mystifi- 
 cation. Heralds? He knew heralds: they were old- 
 fashioned military bandsmen, who used to blow brass 
 horns and wear queer shirts like a couple of towels 
 pinned together at the corners. They were all dead, 
 anyway. What could a set of dead-and-gone buglers 
 have to do with this pig on a watch ? 
 
 **0h, I see!" he replied, not to betray any ignor- 
 ance. 
 
 But when, with a promise to return to dinner, he 
 had shut the old man's door for him and stumbled 
 down the dark stairway, Boldero found this puzzle 
 heavy on his mind. He was hag-ridden by it while 
 he ate a dime's worth of breakfast at an oilcloth coun- 
 ter, and even afterward. 
 
 "That Old Fox there — ^was he laughing up his 
 sleeve?" Boldero could not answer the question. 
 ''Maybe it ain't him needs a guardian. Maybe it's 
 me. After all, I don't believe he was asleep for a 
 
» 
 
 BOLDERO 259 
 
 minute. But, if not, now what was his game? Times 
 I think he*s deeper 'n a well and smarter *n a whip; 
 times I wonder if he's got good sense. A miracle he 
 ain't been killed before I came along.'' 
 
 So thinking, he wandered the streets to look for 
 work. Under the broad verandas he could travel 
 dry, though the rain slanted its white lines down the 
 streets and blew like smoke along the asphalt. Bol- 
 dero had little hope of getting employment in such 
 weather, but would not fail for lack of trying. 
 
 **I can't sorn on Doornail Jimmy forever," he 
 vowed; **or try to live off what I done for him." 
 
 Proceeding in this frame of mind, he met immedi- 
 ately with good fortune. At the third street cor- 
 ner a round little bright-eyed man, with a florid wet 
 face looking through the collar of a rubber coat, 
 darted at him from somewhere and cried: 
 
 ''Hold on, boy! Want a job?" 
 
 ''You bet!" said Boldero. 
 
 "Look as if you could juggle a sandbag," snapped 
 the little bright-eyed man. "Run up on the levee 
 there, by the bridge ; report to Mr. Breagan, and tell 
 him the mayor sent you. Couple of dollars in it. Go 
 after 'em." 
 
 Flapping a rubber sleeve in the direction of the 
 river, he was gone. 
 
 "Thank you, sir!" cried Boldero vainly, and set 
 off at a run. 
 
260 BOLDERO 
 
 High on the levee, black against "willow tops and 
 the gloomy sky, more rubber-coated men were hurry- 
 ing back and forth, shouting, waving their flippers 
 like penguins. Boldero clambered up to join them. 
 A tired foreman made him welcome with great curses. 
 For the next ten hours he labored mightily, wet to 
 the skin but red-hot and cheerful, shoveling gray 
 river sand into jute bags, carrying them on stretch- 
 ers, piling them to form a bulkhead under the ramp 
 of a wooden bridge. Half the time he stood in the 
 river, which coursed violently, a muddy orange tor- 
 rent hissing louder than wind or rain. Half the 
 time he sweated on the dike above a scene of glassy- 
 white roofs, with here and there a forgotten flag 
 whipping itself to pieces on a bending staff. He 
 went home after dark, thoroughly tired, and dripping 
 like a water rat, but with a time card in his pocket. 
 
 ** Heavens, young one!" cried Mr. Weechurch at 
 the stairhead. **Are you come back from the bot- 
 tom of the sea? Come here!" In a brown dressing 
 gown corded at the waist, the old man stood, like 
 a monk, before a fire that roared up the ruinous 
 chimney throat. "Come in! Put on something 
 dry.*' 
 
 He bustled about the room until Boldero, in a suit 
 of Chinese woolen pyjamas and thick sandals, sat 
 lolling before the live-oak blaze, watching his clothes 
 steam on a chair back. 
 
BOLDERO 261 
 
 ** Drink this/' Weechurch shoved a tumbler into 
 his hand and poured from a round-bodied earthen 
 bottle a few drops of some angry-colored liquor. * * It ^s 
 the real ng ga pi, and will do your business.*' 
 
 The drink tasted like quinine, ginger, and earth 
 moidd dissolved in flame. Boldero coughed. Tears 
 sprang to his eyes. 
 
 **Now," chuckled his host, *'you feel like Ram Dass 
 with the fire in his belly. Don't you T' 
 
 Putting away the earthern bottle, Weechurch drew 
 up the third chair and sat beside Jack to toast his 
 feet at the blaze. For a time neither man spoke; 
 both enjoyed the silence and their hearth; till pres- 
 ently, what with the warmth and the effect of that 
 potent medicine, Boldero found his nature expand- 
 ing in a glow of kindness. 
 
 **Mr. Weechurch, I got a confession to make." 
 
 ''Make it," said the monk, twisting his girdle. 
 
 Boldero considered. 
 
 ''It's only fair. You've been darn' good to me," 
 he began. ** 'Tain't every man would house me so 
 pleasant and friendly. Treatment tells. This morn- 
 ing I felt inquisitivelike, and thought I'd try to find 
 out more about you and your house. I'm ashamed of 
 that now, sir ; and, before we go any further, I want 
 to own that when you stood talkin' with your raghead 
 friend, Ghanda Singh, last night — well, I could un- 
 derstand part of what you two was sayin'." 
 
262 BOLDERO 
 
 The brown hermit started up in his chair. 
 
 '^How muchr' he asked. *^ Which part?*' 
 
 Boldero told him fully and honestly. 
 
 *'But how could youT' inquired Mr. Weechurch. 
 
 Boldero stretched his legs before the hot live-oak 
 billets. 
 
 ** Because/' he answered dreamily, as though his 
 short life were ages long — *' because the first I re- 
 member, when I was a little stray of a boy, old Eph 
 Bucklands, the tin peddler, carted me round Canada 
 and New England on his cart. Eph said he went 
 soldier to the East Injun Mutiny, whatever that was. 
 He was a funny old feller, wore earrings, used to 
 play the humstrum to all the dances, and win money 
 on horse trots at the fairs. He taught me how to run 
 foot races.'' Boldero 's face shone with the memory 
 of past delights. ** Old Ephr 'm allowed he could talk 
 East Injun, and taught me bits of it, so's he and I 
 could carry on conversation private, among us two. 
 I was knee-high to Bildad then — ^no father nor mother ; 
 so everything come natural, you might say. We'd 
 talk all kinds o' stuff right before people's faces 
 without lettin' on. It made me kind of sly, maybe; 
 but I don't want to fool you." 
 
 He stared at the fire and, therefore, did not see 
 his companion's face; but he heard an altered voice 
 replying. 
 
 '*John, my son," said Weechurch, *' confession is 
 
BOLDERO 263 
 
 good for the inwards. Now let me unbuckle a few 
 holes.'* He laughed. **It was a trap I set for you 
 this morning. I wasn't asleep. When you saw those 
 gewgaws on my table, and walked in to wake me — 
 well, you chose the proper course. Had you taken 
 anything, you might never have got out this door 
 with it, boy.'' ,. 
 
 Boldero's eyes opened, very blue and wide. 
 
 '*Was that it?" he cried. His face lighted with 
 satisfaction. ''I couldn't imagine why. You didn't 
 seem asleep just right, someway, but I never thought 
 of that, Mr. Weechurch!" 
 
 His monkish friend parted a smile between him 
 and the fire. 
 
 ''Call me Jimmy." 
 
 "I never once thought of it, Jimmy." 
 
 Doornail Jimmy shrank into his brown wrap, 
 laughed again, and drew in his feet from the hearth. 
 
 * * Now we know each other ! " he proclaimed. * * And 
 it's time we ate some food. I saw you never thought 
 once." 
 
 He got up, shuffled to the landing, and snarled 
 something down the stairs in discordant Chinese. 
 
 * * Time for dinner, boy, ' ' said he. * ' You must turn 
 in early, and sleep hard all night" 
 
Half of this advice Boldero followed easily; but 
 the other half was in the hands of fate. It 
 seemed that he had hardly forgotten his aching mus- 
 cles, and begun to dream of India-rubber men who 
 flapped their wings like penguins, when suddenly a 
 glare hurt his eyes and voices hailed him. He woke to 
 find a figure from his dream invading the room — a 
 burly man in wet rubber that shone red by the light 
 of a lantern he carried, a man dripping like the 
 drowned sailor ^s ghost in the ballad. Mr. Wee- 
 churches face appeared somewhere in the background. 
 Buindles of dried herbs and their shadows played 
 phantasmagoria round walls and ceiling. 
 
 *'Get up!*' commanded the formidable lantern 
 bearer. ''It's the mayor's orders. He wants every 
 able-bodied man up and out. Water's comin' in 
 over the North Levee. ' ' 
 
 Boldero blinked, for this vision and these words had 
 no meaning. 
 
 *'Come! Up!" cried the stranger; and, lumber- 
 ing forward, he grasped all the bedclothes by the 
 
 264 
 
BOLDERO 265 
 
 middle and whisked them aloft in one fist, like a 
 conjurer removing the magic napkin. *'Up, unless 
 you mean to lay there drownded like a rat. The 
 whole town '11 be one bottom of a lake inside half 
 an hour!" 
 
 With this gloomy prediction he dropped the bed- 
 othes on the floor, and applied his hot lantern 
 chimney to the soles of John's feet. 
 
 *'I'm comin','* stammered Boldero, and hopped out 
 of bed. ** Which way r' 
 
 The black-armored giant rolled across the room, his 
 long coat rasping as he went. 
 
 **Ride in the wagons, if they ain't all gone," he 
 ordered, swinging his lantern in the doorway. **If 
 they are gone, follow their lights. North Levee. 
 Wake up and get that! North! See? North side of 
 town." 
 
 He disappeared, and ran thundering down the 
 stairs. Mr. Weechurch spoke in the darkness. 
 
 ** Dress in my room," said his voice. 
 
 Candles and fire had burned low, but his little room 
 seemed too warm and bright to leave on such a dismal 
 errand. Boldero admired it ruefully. It was a kind 
 of home. 
 
 * * What time o * night ? " he asked. 
 
 Weechurch took down from a nail his famous gold 
 watch. 
 
 **The Pig says two o'clock. It's morning. If I 
 
266 BOLDERO 
 
 were younger I 'd go. My poor old son, your clothes 
 aren't half dried from yesterday.'' 
 
 Boldero found them warm, but clammy and leaden. 
 
 **No matter," he grumbled, as he rammed his legs 
 through adhesive swaddlings. **I expect they need 
 all hands. You go hop back into bed." 
 
 He opened his cap, which was like a cold pudding, 
 and smashed it down over his head. 
 
 *'We won't let you get drownded," said Boldero, 
 grinning'; **not if we have to fetch down the Ark 
 off Ararat. Go to sleep, father." 
 
 He galloped downstairs and forth into the rain, 
 happy as a colt to imagine he had someone dependent 
 on him, someone he must protect. The notion sent 
 his spirit mounting. 
 
 The streets were a vista of dead houses and glossy 
 pavement striped with long blue reflection from arc 
 lamps, past the blurred radiance of which fell num- 
 berless white streaks of rain. No wagons- appeared 
 anywhere, but wheels rumbled upon asphalt, far 
 away. Boldero began running after them. *' Can't 
 let Jimmy drownd in his bed," he thought. The 
 houses, the lamps, the empty streets unrolled before 
 him and drew behind as he raced along with echoing 
 footsteps. Presently there was no more town, no 
 pavement, no echo, and he churned heavily through 
 mud, alone in the dark. Past fields, past the crowd- 
 ed blackness of vegetable gardens, along a flat waste 
 
BOLDERO , 267 
 
 where the hiss and sputter of rain marked solitude, 
 a tiny reddish spark trailed far ahead, guiding him 
 northward. As he overtook this travelling drop of 
 fire, he heard some wooden gear racketing; a horse 
 coughed, an axle groaned, leather traces flapped loose 
 and taut with a rhythmical creaking. 
 
 Suddenly Boldero splashed through a pool and saw 
 heaving before him the stern of a wagon on which 
 lay huddled men, asleep or dead. A lantern burned 
 on the driver *s perch. Boldero caught the tailboard, 
 vaulted from a quagmire, and landed head first among 
 these bodies of men. 
 
 They were not dead, for as he plowed into them 
 they grunted and sat erect. A dozen voices jab- 
 bered at him. His friends of the Acropolis, the 
 Macedonian laborers, woke to stare through raindrops 
 and crossed lantern rays at the newcomer. * ' Georgi ? ' ' 
 cried one. * * Triantaphyllou ? ' ' said another. * * No, ' * 
 a third growled; ** American. What you wanta, 
 hehr* This wagonload was all Greek and smelled 
 ranker than cattle. A man whose legs dangled over 
 the near front wheel began chanting a song without 
 end — How Papa Oneiropolos Tamed the Wild Stal- 
 lion. 
 
 ** Dream-Dealer hound the 7iorse*s moutJi, 
 
 Ho, Jiey, a raging heast! 
 He roped Jiis legs out, North and South, 
 
268 BOLDERO 
 
 Haul away, West and East, 
 Four iron shoes on a -fighting beast! 
 The corn is up; the Lord arisen!" 
 
 While this song continued mournfully — half im- 
 provised, half recalled from ballads and Easter 
 legends — Boldero snuggled down into the wet, steam- 
 ing mass of men. They accepted him, let him lie. 
 Their cart labored on through mud and water. Rain 
 pelted everyone. The singer lifted a young barytone 
 voice to wail out the Dream-Dealer's long-drawn 
 miracles; and to this Lenten music the town lights 
 dwindled beyond a mile or more of darkness and 
 waste land. Thus they came to the North Levee. 
 
 **Git out,*' said the driver of the wagon. *' Here's 
 Kellaway Grade Crossin'. Take your shovels." 
 
 At this point the North Levee was a long hillock 
 of grass lighted by a feast of lanterns, and scarred 
 with footpaths of orange mud. A road, trampled 
 into paste, climbed this hillock to end in a rampart 
 of sandbags. All the rubber-coated penguins of Bol- 
 dero 's dream were running about here, digging with 
 shovels, carrying jute sacks, calling out commands, 
 clambering up and falling down the levee side. 
 
 A round little fury, daubed all over with clay, 
 charged among the unloading Greeks and shouted: 
 
 "Who's leader here?" 
 
 No one replied. 
 
BOLDERO 269 
 
 **Who's your boss?" 
 
 Boldero recognized his friend, the mayor of the 
 city. 
 
 'I'll lead 'em, sir," he offered, *if you 11 gimme 
 authority. ' ' 
 
 The furious mayor wiped his eyes and grinned. 
 
 ' * Go to it, boy I You 're all right, ' ' said he. * ' Take 
 your mudhens up where the railroad crosses, and 
 sandbag her good and heavy. She's a low spot like 
 this. No time to lose. We forgot her. Mind! You're 
 captain. Drive the work!" 
 
 Boldero waved an arm above his Greeks and cried, 
 as though he had owned them all hi& life : 
 
 *'Come on, fellers! This way! Shovels wanted. 
 Fetch your sacks. Come on! Come on! Tumble 
 up!" 
 
 They climbed the slippery bank among the clus- 
 tered lights and made off westward, falling over a 
 lumpy rounded battlement of sandbags. Before they 
 had gone far, Boldero discovered that in his gang 
 only two carried lanterns. He ran back to beg for 
 more. 
 
 **Lend me a light!" he shouted. 
 
 The workers, busy with spades, handbarrows, 
 picks, carrying-litters of lashed saplings, glared at 
 him and told him to go to. In that turmoil they 
 had no time to listen. He snatched at the bail of a 
 lantern that stood perched on a heap of mud. Its 
 
270 BOLDERO 
 
 guardian shoving him backward, he stepped on what 
 appeared to be solid ground, and immediately, waist- 
 deep, went sonse into the river. The invisible flood 
 swirled round him, carried his feet from under him 
 as he splashed and fought his way back upon the 
 dike. A man dropped a sandbag to laugh breath- 
 lessly. Nobody else heeded him. 
 
 **Go to the devil yourself!'' 
 
 Boldero, laughing also, ran off lanternless to re- 
 join his Greeks. 
 
 They continued stumbling in single file, and sang 
 no longer, but cursed in perplexity. Between the 
 darkness where the bank sloped inward and the faint 
 shine of the river, to walk on these rounded backs of 
 slimy jute was like walking over greased pigs. A 
 few hundred yards of such going seemed as many 
 miles. When the lights of the Kellaway Grade Cross- 
 ing made a misty glare far behind, the string of men 
 came down off the last sandbag, and not long after- 
 ward plunged into a depression where the path felt 
 smooth and semi-fluid. 
 
 *'Gorry!'' said Boldero. **The river's got over!" 
 
 Their two lanterns disclosed a thin, jet-bright 
 layer of water stealing over the narrow path. The 
 rails and ties of a disused freight line crossed the 
 levee in this depression, which the flood had not over- 
 looked. 
 
 "Here! One light here; one below!" 
 
BOLDERO 271 
 
 A broad-backed, sullen little old Greek understood 
 him and shouted interpretation. Boldero grasped 
 this man by the arm, electing him lieutenant and keep- 
 ing him close. 
 
 **Half of 'em below in that patch o* mud to dig 
 and fill sacks. Other half lug up here and pile. The 
 man that don't work, I'll chuck him into jail — eis tas 
 pJiulakas! Get me?" 
 
 The little morose man promptly nodded. 
 
 '*Asklipios!" he shrilled. ^'Ithanasso!" He 
 bawled names and orders in profusion through the 
 rain. His countrymen obeyed, ran shouting down 
 the bank, and quickly began to ply their shovels. 
 ''Eet ees no good, sar," he reported, with a gesture 
 of despair. **The bags they air too haivy." 
 
 Boldero followed the gesture and became aware 
 that his gang had neither stretcher nor barrow. 
 
 *'Too heavy? Hell!" quoth Boldero. '*Do it by 
 main strength and awkwardness." 
 
 Through dripping tumbleweed and grass he slid 
 down among the diggers, who lifted him on foot and 
 stared at him, disconsolate, round the lantern ring 
 in a mudhole. He grasped one of the full sandbags. 
 Indeed, it sat too heavy. * * Can 't lift it ! " he thought. 
 But his men kept their eyes upon him so that he could 
 not endure the idea of failing publicly. **Here; 
 watch!" said he; and, twisting the **ears" of the bag, 
 by a fearful wrench managed to whirl it a hands- 
 
272 BOLDERO 
 
 breadth from the ground, to crouch, throw one hip 
 under, and swing the dead weight across his loins with 
 a blow that staggered him. ' * Come on ! ' ' he groaned, 
 crawling up the levee again like a foundered horse. 
 ''Come on!" 
 
 As he went splayfooting, he saw a fat old Greek 
 hug another bag into the pit of his stomach and loy- 
 ally follow. 
 
 The work had begun. They two dumped their loads 
 near the other lantern where the water flowed thinly, 
 and then came tumbling down for more. While they 
 did so a flash of common sense crossed B older o's mind. 
 
 ''Half full!'* he shouted. "Fill your bags half 
 full.'' 
 
 The Greeks caught his idea, and laughed as men 
 laugh to whom the obvious comes like an inspiration. 
 There was no more hanging back. Half a bag of wet 
 mud was no child's plaything, but they filled and 
 carried busily. Within an hour they could see by the 
 upper lantern a cobbled wall of sacks blocking the 
 depression where railroad and levee crossed. Their 
 defense was holding, and even gaining on the flood. 
 Half an hour more of such work would render this 
 point safe. 
 
 "Doing grand, fellers!" panted Boldero. He 
 was a mass of slimy clay, so hot and wet that he 
 felt parboiled. It would never do to show exhaus- 
 tion, "Grancl work! Where's your singer? Tell 
 
BOLDERO 273 
 
 him to knock off and sing for us. Music, here! 
 Music!'' 
 
 "Ithanasso!'' bawled the lieutenant. **Sing for 
 us!'' 
 
 Ithanasso obeyed in the darkness, and began to 
 chant again the wonderful adventures of Papa Dream- 
 Dealer. He was encouraging the work, melodiously- 
 yelling something about a merry devil named Calli- 
 cantzaros, when hoarse cries above, on the right, cut 
 him short. A man came heavily running from no- 
 where to leap upon the new wall — a white face and 
 waving arms in the mist of lantern light and rain. 
 
 ** She's busted!" wailed this fellow. '*Run for 
 it, boys ! The levee 's broken both sides of ye ! Run I 
 She's busted!" 
 
 The wild figure fell among them, shouting incohe- 
 rent orders to flee. With a great hubbub the Greeks 
 dropped everything and ran down the inner slope of 
 the levee. One lantern toppled, rolled flaming, and 
 was smashed underfoot ; the other, caught up hastily, 
 led the whole rout, bobbing among a herd of legs 
 and casting queer shadows that fled from under the 
 scarred mudbank. 
 
 Boldero found himself swept along, fought back 
 with his fists, tripped, fell, banged his head on a rail 
 or the edge of a shovel, and rose blindly, with blood 
 thickening the rain down his cheek. 
 
 **Come back!" he shouted, 
 
274 BOLDERO 
 
 He was alone. For a few steps he lurched after 
 the lantern and its crowd of flying shadows. 
 
 **No!*' he stammered. 
 
 The words of old Doornail Jimmy, the deaf man, 
 resounded through his daze and told him to stop, 
 to halt ; never to run away. 
 
 **I can't do anything more/' his weakness argued 
 reasonably. 
 
 If the levee had broken, no man could be of service 
 here. He had seen dikes break in other low coun- 
 tries, and perfectly remembered how a hundred yards 
 of earth, solid as a hill, can melt, fall inward and 
 flow like chocolate. 
 
 ** Don't run!" repeated the ghostly voice. **It's 
 the one great mistake." 
 
 He was alone with that ghost of morality. 
 
 **If she ain't broken," he thought, smearing blood 
 from his eyebrows, * * and I leave this part of her, why, 
 she may bust right here for lack of watching." 
 
 He crawled back painfully, up the ooze of his de- 
 serted post. 
 
 **If we was soldiers we couldn't leave." The sup- 
 position more or less comforted him. **We didn't get 
 no real orders. That cuss who came a-bellowing to 
 run, his face looked unreliable, kind of poor white 
 to me, and scared. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe 
 he just heard a rumor and was trying to play Johns- 
 town hero. Always is some fool like that!" 
 
BOLDERO 275 
 
 Boldero sat down on the unfinished bulwark. He 
 was of a piece with it, water-logged and slippery. A 
 noise of waters filled the night, until gradually night 
 grew paler and paler. Tangible rain became visible 
 as gray beads rolling down the mud poultice on his 
 chest, down the woven jute and clay mush he sat 
 on, down through the wiry globes of last year's tum- 
 bleweed at his feet. He waited, cold and motionless, 
 except when lifting a hand to wipe from his eyebrows 
 more blood, which ran slower and heavier now, as 
 though freezing. 
 
 Dawn began to stain the darkness, a sour dull- 
 green light that showed the curve of the levee. From 
 the crossbars of a telephone line sunken in the flood 
 without, batches of stuff hung like seaweed; treetops 
 appeared here and there as islands, tufts of infant 
 bushes; and all the rest of the world extended as a 
 colorless lake without motion, though now and then 
 some black object — driftwood or a dead carcass — 
 passed in revolving flight, with sinister, gulping 
 noises. 
 
 "What's that?" Boldero drowsily asked himself. 
 
 It seemed impossible to keep awake, yet he strug- 
 gled out of his weary dream to mark some dull gray 
 thing crawling along under his thighs. He stared 
 down at it stupidly. It had a slow, furtive movement, 
 lapping, withdrawing, lapping forward again. Bol- 
 
 I 
 
276 BOLDERO 
 
 dero retained enough sense to know this crawling 
 grayness for a fluid. 
 
 ''Water! It's water!*' he croaked. ** Round my 
 legs, too/' 
 
 He nodded, blinked, and relapsed more deeply into 
 stupor, when a sudden pang of meaning crossed his 
 brain. 
 
 **The river's over your sandbags," he reproved 
 himself aloud. **The river's climbin' over." 
 
 This would not do. He stumbled to his feet and 
 stared about him vacantly. There were no more 
 sandbags anywhere to be found in that trampled 
 gloom. 
 
 "Don't run away!" came Jimmy's warning again, 
 like the words of a stern angel. 
 
 He remembered having fallen over some strips of 
 wood near the diggers' mudhole. Sliding and creep- 
 ing on all fours, he found the place again — partly by 
 sense of touch, partly by the glimmer of dawn upon 
 wet boards. With numb fingers he chose a scantling, 
 tugged from the inward mess of his clothes a pocket- 
 knife, knelt down in a pond, and managed to whittle 
 a few pegs. 
 
 His last conscious act — if, indeed, he were not 
 dreaming again — seemed hopelessly involved with a 
 board to be propped up edgewise on the rampart, 
 pegs to be driven, a last forlorn kind of dam with 
 which to oppose the deluge. 
 
BOLDERO 277 
 
 *' *Stay with it/ says Jimmy/' croaked his guar- 
 dian angel somewhere in the rain. **Bet your neck, 
 old man ! You bet your neck ! ' ' 
 
 Driving the last peg, he felt the wooden block with 
 which he hammered fly from his parboiled hands. He 
 toppled over the scantling edge, and, face under wa- 
 ter, heard the world pass derisively away in a roar. 
 
VI 
 
 He woke in his old bed under the bundles of dry 
 Chinese herbs, with their medicinal fragrance fill- 
 ing the room, though tempered by mild fresh air. 
 His window opened on a heavenly blue expanse of 
 sunlight, a boundless warmth of spring, in which 
 he heard sparrows fighting and now and again the 
 solemn quack of Mandarin ducks. 
 
 * ' Bad dreams ! ' ' he muttered. * ' I certainly dreamt 
 some powerful bad notions. '' 
 
 With that, trying to stretch, Boldero felt his arms 
 and legs refuse their function and dissolve in a 
 weightless inertia. 
 
 **Been sick,'' he reasoned, aloud. 
 
 *'Yes; but you're well now," replied a voice. 
 
 Mr. Weechurch, in his old monastic gown, sat 
 bending over a table near by. He waggled a long 
 paintbrush, and seemed to be coloring a picture of 
 flowers on Bristol board. 
 
 **You're right enough now," he repeated, smiling 
 across his work. *'What was it?" 
 
 278 
 
BOLDERO 279 
 
 Boldero considered the few muddled remnants of 
 his nightmare. 
 I *' Water on the brain, guess I had/' And he 
 laughed. 
 
 Mr. Weechurch's dry old face grew wrinkled with 
 satirical kindness. 
 I *'A sop you were when they found you/' he said, 
 as he gathered up his paint box, his picture, brushes, 
 and glass of many-colored water. **Now you go 
 back to sleep again like a good patient. 1 11 fetch 
 you some very high-class lunch about noon. Go on! 
 Fais dodo/' 
 
 He tiptoed away to the door. 
 
 **0h, me!" sighed Boldero, relaxing into a vast 
 and comfortable weakness. ''Seems it was true; 
 seems I been the goat again.'' 
 
 Jimmy, departing, paused for a moment in the 
 corridor — a brown hermit who grinned from a frame 
 of darkness. 
 
 *'You haven't seen the newspapers," he declared 
 mysteriously. **Drop off, my young friend; culti- 
 vate the hay; or else I sha'n't fetch you anything to 
 eat." 
 
 When Boldero roused again from a delicious nap 
 the afternoon sun slanted through his window, and 
 two men stood regarding him in his bed. One man 
 was Jimmy, his thumbs under his monkish girdle, 
 his eyes twinkling with satisfaction ; the other man, a 
 
280 BOLDERO 
 
 grave Chinese elder, who wore a blue silken jacket and 
 carried a tray. 
 
 **I hop' you betto/' squeaked the Chinaman in a 
 quavering treble. *^You not makee die now. You 
 all lite, guess. Eat 'em some somezing, chinchee yo' 
 blood, welly goo'.'' 
 
 It might have been only their kindness, yet Bolder© 
 fancied both men regarded him with warmth and 
 liking. While he sat up to eat hungrily of strange 
 but excellent food, they both watched him as in a 
 conspiracy of approval. 
 
 ** 'Twill do you good, that aweto soup," said Jim- 
 my, ''though you don't know what an aweto is. 
 Perhaps because you don't. Leung She understands 
 how to cook, I believe." 
 
 ''Mmh!" replied Boldero, enraptured and glutton- 
 ous. While he ate he caught sight of himself mir- 
 rored in the metal cover of a dish. ''Hello!" he 
 groaned. "Who put that kind of a head on me?" 
 
 His reflected likeness wore a scrub of orange-tawny 
 beard, had sunken eyes, and was turbaned with a 
 white bandage. He groaned again, beginning to re- 
 call the reason for this change. 
 
 "How do you get about?" he asked. 
 
 Mr. Weechurch frowned. 
 
 "Get about? There, there! Don't fret yourself 
 with fancies. Everything's quite all right." 
 
 "Get round, I mean," persisted the invalid; 
 
BOLDERO 281 
 
 *' round the streets. This town's under water, ain't 
 sher' 
 
 *'No; she ain't,'* retorted Weechurch promptly. 
 "Dry as the back of your hand." 
 
 The old Chinaman burst into a cackling laugh. 
 
 "He no sabe!" Leung She's silk- wadded body 
 shook with merriment. "Hai-yahl He fo'get an 
 he head!" 
 
 "You sha'n't inveigle us into talking with you at 
 present, ' ' declared Jimmy. * * You 've had a bad week 
 — cold, exhaustion, lack of blood. Thought we were 
 going to lose our man, one while. Now you just eat." 
 
 "Eat, thasaw!" crowed Leung She. "He welly 
 goo' boy. Bimeby plenty stlong, alio same bull-cow. 
 Welly smaht boy. Eat large food, thasaw!" 
 
 Boldero obeyed them and ate, laughing weakly, 
 for he felt anything but like a bull-cow. 
 
 Not until three or four days afterward did he learn 
 the history of this gap in his life. Then, sitting in 
 Jimmy's room, with his head bandage off, a pipe to 
 smoke, and the song of a meadow lark from beyond 
 the sunny mist of willow buds on the South Levee, 
 he pieced things together; not quickly, but little by 
 little, for sometimes his questions got a reply, some- 
 times none. 
 
 Jimmy wrote for hours every day, it appeared, as 
 he was writing now, — ^with a huge pencil upon brown 
 paper sheets piled a foot high. "A Chinese Herbal; 
 
282 BOLDERO 
 
 or, Certain Neglected Aspects of an Old System'* 
 was, he admitted, the title of his labors. He scrib- 
 bled manfully, covered page after page with a large, 
 clear handwriting, and seldom glanced off his work. 
 
 ''Who found meV asked Boldero. 
 
 ''Several men/' 
 
 "Howr' 
 
 "With your head in the river, '* snorted the herb- 
 alist. "About daybreak. Picked you out for a 
 drowned puppy. Carried you home in a wagon. ' ' 
 
 He wrote half a sheet, then added : 
 
 "Thought you were dead, myself, when I saw you." 
 
 Boldero waited till the sheet was written. 
 
 "But the levee busted.'' 
 
 Mr. Weechurch sharpened his pencil with a clasp 
 knife that seemed larger than his whole person. 
 
 "No! Never a bust. Safe as the Bank of Eng- 
 land!" 
 
 "What happened?" 
 
 The author stabbed knife into the table, turned his 
 brown page, and drove the pencil with reckless energy. 
 
 "You'll hear all that to-morrow evening," he 
 grunted over his shoulder. "Wait till I finish this 
 bit about fumitory and glandular disease." 
 
 Nothing more would he vouchsafe, but wrote like a 
 machine. The Golden Pig lay ticking among his 
 manuscripts. At last he consulted it, rose, unbound 
 his corded girdle, took off his gown, and put on 
 
BOLDERO - 283 
 
 the worn homespun in which Boldero first had seen 
 him. 
 
 **Four o'clock. Time for constitutional. You 11 
 find plenty of books in the cupboard you haven't read. 
 Go on getting well, for to-morrow I shall carry you 
 off to an evening party." 
 
 With that, taking an old penang-lawyer for walk- 
 ing stick, he performed a sabre salute and went out, 
 as it seemed his daily habit to do at this hour. Bol- 
 dero unearthed a book and read until twilight, but 
 with many pauses to revolve the questions which he 
 had not asked or to which he had not heard the an- 
 swers. 
 
 All the next day Mr. Weechurch labored under 
 visible and catching excitement. His cheeks were 
 fiushed, his eyes flighty, his manners irritable. That 
 great work, the Herbal, lay forgotten while he fiddled 
 about the room. Leung She, who brought up their 
 lunch, grinned like a Chinese earth god and viewed 
 Boldero with twinkling almond orbs. 
 
 ''All lite now,'' he chanted. ''That boy he go 
 catchee Goo' Lock. My can see one piecee Goo' Lock 
 on he face. ' ' 
 
 Jimmy shook his head irascibly. 
 
 "Not on that face," he objected; "not until it's 
 clean shaven. 'Lord worshipped might he be, what 
 a beard hast thou got! More hair on thy chin than 
 
284 BOLDERO 
 
 Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.' Where the 
 devil's my shaving tools gone?" 
 
 **In Yo* Honah' boots-bok," said Leung She, grin- 
 ning still. 
 
 Jimmy flung open the boot-box and fetched from 
 under many things a silver brush, a silver soap case, 
 a strop, bottles of luxurious Corinthian lotions, and a 
 morocco tray of Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday razors. 
 
 '*Take those,'' he ordered peevishly; ** apply them 
 to your cheeks, and break the stubborn glebe. I want 
 you to look halfway decent at my party." 
 
 Boldero took the barber's kit and the unjust re- 
 buke with equal gratitude. 
 
 ''Thanks. You needn't fret, Jim," said he. '*I 
 don't no more enjoy going dirty than what you do." 
 
 Mr. Weechurch suddenly puffed and swelled at him 
 like a turkey gobbler. For the first time in their 
 acquaintance he seemed to lose his temper. 
 
 '*Look here!" he cried. ** Don't you give back 
 talk to your seniors. You shave off that horrid, sick, 
 bog-trotting, luteous beard ; get dressed, and be ready 
 at eight o'clock sharp." 
 
 This appointed hour saw Boldero not merely ready 
 but in a high state of expectation. Dressing, he had 
 found his old clothes neatly restored — ^brushed, mend- 
 ed, and smelling warmly of Chinese flatirons ; also, a 
 new shirt, new boots, and very noble neckwear, lying 
 on his bed, with a card, ' * J. W. 's Compliments. ' ' The 
 
I 
 
 BOLDERO 285 
 
 writer of that card, himself appearing vaguely beau- 
 tified and twiddling his penang-lawyer, surveyed the 
 general result with a sort of peevish gloom. 
 
 '*Tidy, at least/' he grunted, and led the way down- 
 stairs. 
 
 Outdoors, by the black door in the wall, a cab stood 
 waiting with lighted lamps. 
 
 * * Get in, ' ' snapped Jimmy ; and to the driver : * * You 
 know where to go.'' 
 
 They trundled through the darkness of the Chinese 
 Quarter, round several turns, into a bright and 
 crowded street, then up an obscure alley. The cab 
 stopped before a high, blank building, like a deserted 
 warehouse, in which a single narrow door showed, 
 lighted by a jutting lamp. Weechurch, who had 
 fretted silently all the way, bundled Boldero out, 
 through this door, and into a long, bare passage. 
 Music, chiefly that of violins, came in muffled gusts 
 from somewhere within. 
 
 A lame man, shuffling down the corridor, met them 
 as though they were expected, and without a word 
 ushered them into a whitewashed cell that contained 
 two chairs, a broken box, a shelf, and over the shelf 
 an aged yellow bulb casting a discouraged light. The 
 lame man shut the door and was gone. 
 
 **Know where you are?" Jimmy sat down, then 
 erossed his arms on the head of his stick. 
 
 "Theatre." 
 
286 BOLDERO 
 
 ''How d 'you know r' 
 
 ''The smell." 
 
 "Humph!'' said Jimimy, and began restlessly tap- 
 ping his lawyer on the floor. 
 
 Minutes went by. The gusts of music died away; 
 a distant murmuring succeeded; then came the 
 crackle of applause; then silence. Jimmy continued 
 to fidget, to beat his devil's tattoo. 
 
 "We in here for life?" asked Boldero, to check 
 the growing despondency. 
 
 "Pull your cravat straight!" barked his mentor. 
 "And, whatever they say or do to you, just keep 
 your mouth shut. You'll look more compact. Bow 
 or not, as you please." 
 
 While he uttered this dark counsel, they heard the 
 footsteps of the lame man, who drew near and tapped 
 at the door. 
 
 "Go with him," Jimmy ordered. "I'll meet you 
 in the cab when it's over. Go where that man takes 
 you." 
 
 Boldero, with a rapidly sinking heart, followed his 
 lame guide through the corridor, which grew darker 
 and stuffier as they advanced. Suddenly a door 
 opened, disclosing a flight of stairs, up which they 
 mounted into a huge, dim, drafty vault full of cord- 
 age and furniture, gray mounds and leaning slats of 
 colored scenery. A few men flitted or lounged in 
 this limbo. The lame one, twitching Boldero 's arm, 
 
BOLDERO 287 
 
 led him to the verge of a brilliant inner space and 
 held him there, tightly, a prisoner. 
 
 They looked from the wings upon a stage, where, 
 alone in a gaudy woodland, a little orator stood ar- 
 guing with great energy. He glanced their way, 
 caught sight of Boldero, nodded, grinned, and went 
 on speaking. Though he no longer wore glistening 
 wet rubber, but sober evening clothes, his face, glow- 
 ing above the footlights, was the ruddy face, his eyes 
 were the ferret eyes, of that indefatigable man, the 
 mayor. 
 
 "So, friends,^' he cried in conclusion, **I^m 
 glad to interrupt the show long enough to say that 
 we're lucky to be sitting here to-night. Some of us 
 came mighty near being nowhere at all. We owe a 
 heap of thanks to the people aforesaid who worked so 
 hard to save our lives and property ; but, most of all, 
 we owe to that one man. We won our fight by a few 
 minutes and, say, a couple of inches. The thing was 
 that close, ladies and gentlemen. Well, the man who 
 made it possible for us to win, to be sitting here to- 
 night, as I say, was soul alone, hurt bad, a stranger, 
 with nobody on hand to oversee him or to help. He 
 hung on, friends; he stayed with it. I want you to 
 see that boy. If he'd showed — er — shown the white 
 feather " 
 
 The orator lost his apodosis, which he stood fishing 
 for on the green stage carpet; but he never found 
 
288 BOLDERO 
 
 it there or elsewhere, because a greax salvo of heart- 
 shaking applause drowned his confusion and filled the 
 vault with thunder. 
 
 The little mayor lifted his honest round face, 
 laughed, and made a gesture toward the wings. The 
 uproar dwindled to a dead silence. 
 
 '*Jack What*s-your-name, come here!" cried the 
 mayor. **Give us a look at you. Come here to me, 
 you boy." 
 
 Jack's blood ran cold; but, before he could turn to 
 escape, the lame man shoved him violently out from 
 the painted tree trunks, and His Honor had him by 
 the wrist. 
 
 '*Let me intro " 
 
 A roar swept all the rest away. Boldero, with 
 knees unstrung, looked across a barrier of blazing 
 lamps and saw a bottomless black concave filled with 
 eyes, long foreheads, women's dresses, and row upon 
 row of hands fluttering like birds in a gale. Before 
 all this tumult, centered hot upon him, the flesh 
 quailed and the reason took flight. 
 
 ^'Lemme go!" he stammered. **Lemme go!" 
 
 The mayor's grip was a handcuff. 
 
 "Speak to 'em. They like you. Speak to 'em!" 
 
 Boldero moved his jaws twice. No words came. 
 The noise had ceased and left another waiting still- 
 ness, far more terrible. His throat went dry as a 
 powderhorn. 
 
BOLDERO 289 
 
 "Thank you!'* he squeaked; then, turning to his 
 captor: **Lemme go!" he implored. **Jimray told 
 me to keep my mouth shut.'* 
 
 At that the place rocked with laughter. While he 
 struggled to free his wrist, Boldero saw a man jump 
 up in the black pit and throw something, with a loud 
 cry: 
 
 ' * You 're all right, boy ! Chip in ! Chip in ! ' ' 
 
 What he threw came flying over the footlights to 
 jingle on the stage ; other cries answered, with whistles 
 and catcalls from aloft; the blackness above the daz- 
 zling barrier became thick with showers of money. 
 One coin hit Boldero on his wounded forehead, a 
 crack that left him dizzy; he tore himself loose and 
 ran; laughter pursued him down the stairs and cor- 
 ridor. 
 
 He stumbled through the lighted door into the 
 alley, thinking only of freedom. There stood the vil- 
 lainous cab, with its door open, and Jimmy watching 
 from inside like a hawk in a padded cage. 
 
 "Welir* said Jimmy. 'Tlimb aboard.'' 
 
 Boldero could not bring himself to enter. This man 
 had dealt treacherously. 
 
 * * Come ! Tell us about it. ' ' And Jimmy, catching 
 his sleeve, pulled him into the cab. **What hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 Boldero fell blindly on the seat. His companion 
 waited, but he would not reply. Presently they saw 
 
290 BOLDERO 
 
 the lame doorkeeper come stumping out, cross the 
 narrow pavement, and lean toward them. He car- 
 ried a pasteboard box. 
 
 ''Don't forget your testimonial, sir,'* urged the 
 lame man. ** Here's the — your purse the audience 
 made up for you. It come kind of a surprise, didn't 
 it? Guess you don't read the papers." 
 
 Jimmy reached out and took the tribute into his 
 lap. 
 
 **Many thanks." He drew from the box a fistful 
 of coins, which he bestowed on the lame man. **For 
 you, my friend. Good night!" 
 
 The cab was rumbling among the Chinese shops be- 
 fore Boldero could find words to convey his bitterness. 
 
 '* Jimmy," he shouted, *'I never thought you'd do 
 that — ^take a man there to be made a fool of, in public ! 
 You know I never did anything, Jimmy; not one 
 thing. It ain't right " 
 
 Mr. Weechurch's hand gave him a slap on the knee. 
 Mr. Weechurch's laughter, not dubious now, re- 
 sounded merrily in their dark confinement. 
 
 *' John, I love you like a son," cried Mr. Weechurch. 
 ** You know the false taste of glory, which few of 'em 
 can say." 
 
 Boldero understood him less than ever, but the 
 words and the manner restored their friendship. 
 Somehow, after all, there had been no treachery. 
 
 "You're going to work for me after this," declared 
 
BOLDERO 291 
 
 his friend. **John, I could trust you with Golconda! 
 We've got a job ahead, dear boy, that will make you 
 open your eyes and keep them open.'* 
 
 So saying, he unlatched the door of the cab. They 
 had come home to the black postern in the wall. 
 
VII 
 
 "How shall you lay out your fortune T' A 
 fortnight after Boldero's public fiasco, they were 
 lounging in the sun beneath the only eminence in 
 a flat landscape. It was part of the levee, a vivid 
 green bank pied with new flowers, — ^harsh tansy- 
 orange poppies, mallows with pink bells quivering. 
 Spring, the hushed warmth of an April afternoon, 
 brooded over the world and made all things doze. 
 Jimmy sat smoking a briar pipe, looking beyond the 
 green waste fields toward a cottonwood and willow 
 grove, across whose lower branches a stripe of dried 
 clay, putty-colored, and wisps of dead grass hanging 
 frowsily, marked the vanished flood. Jimmy's white 
 bullet head was bare, his leathern face twisted into 
 a comical gnarl of thought. 
 
 "How lay out your fortune? A neat round sum 
 the grateful city gave its hero." 
 
 Boldero lay prone on the slope, chewing a leaf of 
 miner's lettuce. 
 
 "I want to send that money to Victor le Retit. 
 292 
 
 1 
 
BOLDERO 293 
 
 He's a French baker. His little girl, Jeanne, is in 
 the hospital for a long time to come.** 
 
 **Not aU of itr* said Jimmy lazily. ''Half is 
 enough." 
 
 **No,** replied the herbivorous and stubborn young 
 man. ''Half ain't enough — ^the whole." 
 
 Jimmy thumbed the burnt rim of his briar. 
 
 "Very well," he agreed. "But don't expect to 
 save a city every day." 
 
 "Oh, quit guying me!" growled Boldero. 
 
 The older man went on smoking ; under their puck- 
 ered lids his eyes twinkled like brown glass. In the 
 wet, verdant field below, myriads of young frogs 
 trilled silvery notes and gradually fell silent. Back 
 and forth across one field trotted a pair of pale-blue 
 figures. Chinamen balancing their twin baskets as 
 they went about the ceaseless labor of making the 
 waste a garden ; whenever they stooped near a thicket 
 of dark-green rushes, up flew like sparks and cinders 
 a cloud of red-winged blackbirds. Far off above the 
 haze, mountains lifted against a dreamy sky their 
 overlapping billows of snow. A meadow lark sang 
 gloriously, teetering on a fence wire. 
 
 "You promised to work for me," continued Mr. 
 "Weechurch. "What can you do? I mean. Jack, 
 what can you do best — ^better than most men?" 
 
 Boldero finished his bite of wild salad and lay 
 thinking. 
 
294 BOLDERO 
 
 '*I can run/' he answered with his face in the 
 grass. **It's about the only thing; it's my one best 
 holt. I never made nothing of it, you see; but I 
 can outrun a good many pro's.'' 
 
 Jimmy chuckled. 
 
 *' That's a gift," said he; and, again smoking, 
 watched the landscape in which, for him, the voices 
 of spring were dumb. After a time he roused. 
 **What I shall hire you to do, my boy, is this." 
 
 Rolling over on his back, Boldero stared at the sky 
 and waited. His face, browned by many such days 
 of outdoor loafing, shone with cheerful health. 
 
 * ' First, about myself, ' ' began Jimmy. * ' You 're too 
 polite to ask me questions, therefore I '11 tell you. In 
 a humble way I'm what grander folk would call an 
 Orientalist. Understand what that means? You 
 needn't open your eyes so wide, for I'm not the Great 
 White Mahatma, or a sinologue, or even a scholar; 
 just a wandering, botanical, poor old pettifogging col- 
 lector. Among other trifles, I 've tried to learn about 
 Eastern art. Do you comprehend? A-R-T, eh?" 
 
 Boldero had rolled over again and, with chin on 
 elbows, lay watching the speaker intently. 
 
 '* Pictures." He nodded like a sage. ''Statues. 
 I know all that." 
 
 Weechurch seemed to enjoy the conversation. 
 
 ''Excellent young man," he cried; "formed for my 
 
 
BOLDERO 295 
 
 very purpose ! You know Art. Well, as Boffin would 
 say, do you like it?*' 
 
 ''Sure I like it!'* declared Boldero. 
 
 His employer brought forth a leathern tobacco 
 pouch that resembled a large and very aged mush- 
 room. 
 
 **Why, then," he drawled, shoveling round and 
 round with his pipe in this receptacle, **then you'll 
 do. I want you to go to a certain place in the hills 
 and meet a friend of ours. Understand?'' 
 
 Boldero 's blue eyes burned with eagerness. 
 
 ''Yes, sir." 
 
 *'This friend will have a certain Chinese painting, 
 an extremely old Chinese painting on silk. Follow 
 me?" 
 
 'Yes, sir." 
 
 Jimmy restored the mushroom pouch to his hip 
 pocket, and continued: 
 
 "You will take this painting and never let go of 
 it until you have brought it to me. But" — he sud- 
 denly threw off his indolent air, sat erect, and gave 
 Boldero a look that went through him like a wimble — 
 "but you will not say one word concerning this to 
 anybody except me and our friend. Not a word." 
 
 Boldero, wholly absorbed, crossed his throat and 
 spat on his thumb. 
 
 "There's my oath, Jimmy," he urged, with ardor. 
 
 Jimmy had grown deadly serious. 
 
296 BOLDERO 
 
 "Certain other collectors," he went on, choosing 
 the words carefully, *Vould pay many thousand 
 pounds to obtain this painting by any means what- 
 ever. Understand? Whatever! I can't give you 
 more than a hundred or so ; and you must guard the 
 thing upon your honor, just as you guarded, the other 
 night, this bank of earth behind us. The painting, a 
 scroll, a Tsou SJiou of the Five Dynasties, js about one 
 thousand years old. I must have it. I — me — no one 
 else. Youll undertake the job? Yes? Good! While 
 bringing it back here to me you may have to travel 
 on foot, avoid all towns, railways, and highroads. 
 That shall be as you and our friend may decide best. 
 Will you do that also?" 
 
 ''Like a duck!" 
 
 Boldero began eating another leaf of miner's let- 
 tuce, not from hunger but excitement. This game, he 
 foresaw, would be great fun. 
 
 *'Not too fast!" warned his friend. '* Don't rush 
 into this blindfold. I tell you plainly it may be 
 dangerous. You'll have to go through thick or thin 
 for a hundred pounds — ^five hundred dollars, and 
 you'll earn every penny of your hire." ] 
 
 ''Sure I will!" cried Boldero, and sat up, thought- 
 ful and ready. He looked like a sunburnt Mercury 
 Resting, in old clothes. "Many thousands o' pounds? 
 Golly! That picture must be big as all outdoors. 
 How '11 I carry it?" 
 
BOLDERO 297 
 
 Jimmy laughed. 
 
 **In your inside pocket/' he replied. **It makes a 
 roll no longer than your forearm and no thicker.'* 
 
 The young Mercury scowled. 
 
 ** Sounds kind o' fishy/' he objected. ''A little 
 thing like that ? What 's painted on it r ' 
 
 '*A picture of three cows," said Jimmy. ** That's 
 all, bar inscription. But those three cows hung in the 
 bedroom of many emperors, and were admired by the 
 Son of Heaven." 
 
 Giving this strange information offhand, he rose, 
 stretched his arms and legs, clapped his hat on, then 
 proposed a walk before returning home. As they 
 rambled on their way he talked a great deal, but of in- 
 different matters ; and during their many halts he re- 
 mained lost in contemplation of the pale green valley 
 floor, which stretched mile up.on mile, palpitating with 
 stillness, warmth, and the sense of growing things — a 
 panorama of spring inclosed, far off, by snow peaks 
 and the misty blue of mountain air. The larks and 
 the frogs made an undercurrent of music fitfully, to 
 which the deaf man seemed listening. Then he moved 
 onward, with Boldero following him along the 
 narrow path that curved slowly between fields and 
 sultry market gardens toward the spires of the town. 
 
 Nearing home, Mr. Weechurch paused again, this 
 time above the southern facade of the joss house. The 
 sun blazed hot upon the old gilding and faded red 
 
298 BOLDERO 
 
 tablets of this dingy temple, and into its door, which 
 stood open, as always, fronting a bank of weeds. 
 
 ** Let's drop in a moment, '^ said Jimmy. And he 
 went down the seldom-trodden path to the steps of the 
 temple. "Leung She may be inside here.'' 
 
 From sunshine they entered a blinding darkness and 
 the thick, sweet odor of burning punk. For a time 
 nothing was visible but the diagonal shaft of bluish 
 smoke, in the doorway behind, and before them a 
 wavering bead of flame; then gradually, as they 
 waited, there trembled out from the surrounding dusk 
 a concourse of tinsel banners, scarlet-hafted halberds 
 with silver-gilt heads, baskets of dusty paper flowers, 
 and on the altar a trinity of motionless gods, forever 
 meditating. 
 
 **Not here," delared Jimmy in a lowered voice. 
 
 Boldero, seeing him remove his hat, did likewise, 
 and felt ashamed to remember the contempt with 
 which he himself had formerly viewed these things. 
 It was a kind of church after all. 
 
 ''Leung She?" said Jimmy, aloud. ''No; he's not 
 here." 
 
 But while he spoke a black shadow came shuffling 
 from some inner door and approached them. The tiny 
 altar lamp, that yellow bead of flame, shuddered in 
 its cracked tumbler at the breath of its guardian's 
 passage. Leung She — cook, janitor and priest — 
 nodded and smiled upon his visitors. 
 
BOLDERO 299 
 
 "How toof said Leung She amiably. 
 
 **You remember this boy T' inquired Jimmy. 
 
 Leung She's moon face expressed nothing but gen- 
 eral intelligence. 
 
 '*Shoe; I know nm," he declared. **He you 
 pardno; catchee Goo' Lock, I hop' so." 
 
 **I hope the same," replied Jimmy; and then, in a 
 language Boldero could not understand, he spoke at 
 some length, motionless, with folded hands, while 
 Leung She listened, his wide pointed eyes blinking 
 assent. '^This boy," Jimmy concluded, **he my 
 friend, my partner now. You treat him all same me, 
 every time." 
 
 **Shoe!" said the priest. 
 
 There followed more unintelligible talk. Yet Bol- 
 dero caught the drift and tone of it. This ghostly 
 darkness, where at one step from living sunlight they 
 had passed among the spirits of the dead, was a 
 friendly place. 
 
 **Aw lite!" said Leung She. 
 
 **A11 right!" Mr. Weechurch echoed. '*John, if 
 ever you need another friend come to this China- 
 man." 
 
 They moved out into the blinding noon, and so 
 home to Jimmy's black door in the tile-capped wall. 
 
 Thirty-six hours later Boldero was traveling north- 
 ward on a midnight train. He knew his instructions ; 
 but, as he dozed uncomfortably on a red plush chair 
 
300 BOLDERO 
 
 and listened to the half -drunken songs or dingy love- 
 making of his fellow passengers, he tried to become 
 letter-perfect. The affair should be simple enough. 
 He was to leave the train at Hunter Landing, go 
 westerly as far as Yellowhead's Flat, and there in- 
 quire for the Cash on Hand, a barroom kept by one 
 Dalrymple. 
 
 He revolved these directions thoroughly; at dawn, 
 in a cold blue mist, followed them ; and so, after sun- 
 rise, came lugging his blanket roll into a village of old 
 cabins, all asleep, which looked with blind, glittering 
 windows down a steep gully of white-oak and bay 
 trees. Not a creature stirred in the muddy red street ; 
 but there was no need to put questions, for he per- 
 ceived at the uphill end of the village a brick hovel, 
 leaning badly out of plumb, which bore on its front 
 the half-obliterated sign: **. . . Express . . . Gold Dust 
 Bought Here;'' and over this palimpsest of placer 
 days a white board, proclaiming in black letters : 
 
 THE CASH ON HAND - 
 First and Last Chance 
 C. Dalrymple 
 
 Boldero walked up to its crazy veranda and opened 
 the door. Inside, a low brown-boarded room con- 
 tained rows of bottles behind a counter, three or four 
 chairs, a card table, and the giddy clockface of a 
 
BOLDERO 301 
 
 wheel of fortune. He rapped with a dollar on the bar. 
 After waiting a long time, he rapped again. The echo 
 gummoned at last from within a sound of boots; a 
 door opened, and a paunchy but brisk red-haired man 
 slid behind the counter. 
 
 ''What '11 you have?" he asked, with a tired pro- 
 fessionalism. 
 
 **Are you Cassius Dalrymple?" 
 
 ''Bet you!" 
 
 '*Are you Cash on Hand?" 
 
 "And some in pocket." 
 
 '*Then I'm a friend of Jimmy Weechurch" — Bol- 
 dero recited his orders — ^** looking to meet a fellow 
 from the North." 
 
 Mr. Cassius Dalrymple lost his cynicism, brushed 
 his red hair all on end from his forehead, and stared. 
 
 *'Are you the boy that Injun's askin' about?" he 
 cried. ** Well, say, you been expected! Have a touch 
 to open the day? No? All right! You go straight 
 on up the gulch till you hit his cabin. It's the only 
 buildin' there; can't miss it. Same to you, and many 
 of 'em!" 
 
 Boldero went out and up a narrowing path among 
 the bay trees whose tops already began to sparkle in 
 the sun. He thought a good deal, for his way seemed 
 curiously prepared before him. 
 
 *'This Jimmy," he reflected, *'is some man after 
 all, and wide known." 
 
302 BOLDERO ' 
 
 Where morning mist lingered and drifted down- 
 hill, the path ended, and he came to a dark board-and- 
 batten dwelling in a clump of madrona. Smoke rose 
 from its rusty chimney pipe through the peeled and 
 spotted branches. He heard a stove lid clattering. 
 
 *^ Wonder who my next friend isV 
 
 The cabin door, a flimsy piece of old carpenter 
 work, swung inward at his knocking. 
 
 '*Kya!'' snarled a voice that made him jump. 
 
 The cabin swam full of smoke and pungent cook- 
 ery. Through the reek a man came toward him with 
 carving knife in hand, as if ready to fight. A pair of 
 black eyes outstared him. 
 
 **Ho-ho! The boy!'* cried this man, lowering his | 
 knife. **You are the boy!*' He drew aside cour- 
 teously and pulled the cabin door wide open. ' ' Come 
 in. Jack ; come in ! I having plenty breakfast for two. 
 You are on good time.'* 
 
 The speaker wore a turban of faded pink cotton 
 and was wrapped to his ears in an old army serge 
 overcoat. His face, grinning mildly through smoke, | 
 was the light-brown face of Ghanda Singh. 1 
 
VIII 
 
 The Sikh repeated his courteous motion. ''Come 
 in! Sit, and eaf 
 
 Retreating to the stove — an iron barrel red with 
 rust, so cracked that fire showed every joint between 
 the plates — ^he took a forked bay stick and stirred the 
 bottom of a steaming kettle. Boldero sat on a box 
 and awaited further orders. Presently Ghanda Singh 
 poured from the kettle a great mess of vegetables into 
 a tin basin, which he laid in Boldero 's lap. 
 
 ' * There, boy. * ' He brought an old tin spoon. * ' Fill 
 your ee-stomach.'' 
 
 So saying, he went outdoors to pace up and down 
 the path, and leave his guest in privacy. He had not 
 long to wait.* His mustard-yellow overcoat and pink 
 turban passed hardly a dozen times through the morn- 
 ing mist, into which the cabin smoke poured and 
 mingled, when Boldero called out to say his breakfast 
 was gone. 
 
 **You have eat enough?'^ asked Ghanda Singh, en- 
 tering. 
 
 303 
 
304 BOLDERO 
 
 ''Great!'* sighed Boldero, and wanned himself by 
 the stove. ''Thank ye/' 
 
 "Good! Now I ask : Are you the boy ?' ' 
 
 "What?" 
 
 ' ' The right boy to come — ^not the wrong boy ? How 
 I do know. Talk.'' 
 
 A glance from soft Indian eyes told Boldero that 
 proof was needed. 
 
 "I came a-traveling direct from Jimmy. He sent 
 me yesterday afternoon. ' ' 
 
 Still those brown eyes betrayed a glimmer of 
 doubt. 
 
 "You call him that? "Who is he? Who are your 
 Jimmy and you?" 
 
 Laying his tin basin empty on the floor, Boldero 
 declared his instructions. 
 
 "Mr. Weechurch, then; he wanted me to come get 
 it. He's a deaf man who lives at the Black Door in 
 the Wall, and wears a gold watch with a pig's head 
 carved on it. He's keeping your war medals for you. 
 I saw you leave them. ' ' 
 
 Ghanda Singh laughed a pantomime of a laugh and 
 rubbed his slender hands thoughtfully above the 
 steaming kettle. 
 
 * ' Good ! What is i1>-the thing he wanted ? ' ' 
 
 "A picture," said Boldero, "of three cows." 
 
 The Sikh removed his kettle from the stove hole, 
 threw in some billets of dry laurel, and watched them 
 
BOLDERO 305 
 
 bum, while curving flames reached up toward him and 
 an odor like that of lemon peel mingled with the smoke 
 in the room. 
 
 *'A11 true,'' said he. Replacing the lid, he dragged 
 from behind the stove a white-oak chopping block and 
 sat down upon its spongy head. **You are the right 
 messenger.*' 
 
 ** Don't know about that; but Jimmy told me to 
 come fetch him his picture." 
 
 Ghanda Singh stroked his brown cheeks. 
 
 **My master knows best," he admitted; then, with 
 a smile at once crafty and gentle, a rare smile that 
 bore out his words: **You and me," declared Ghanda 
 Singh, **we are friends." 
 
 For a while they sat, with the stove and this agree- 
 ment between them. Outside their cabin door a bluish 
 light cleft the gorge, a tissue of vapor and sunshine, 
 a veil of illusion beyond which the mountain spurs 
 ran their long gray-green beaks down in parallel se- 
 ries toward the hidden plain. 
 
 **Have you got it?" asked Boldero, breaking a long 
 silence. 
 
 **No," replied Ghanda Singh. 
 
 Huddled in his greatcoat, he sat warming his thin 
 hands by the stove. His brown eyes dreamed of 
 something far away. It seemed he might wait thus 
 for hours, when, without changing look or posture, he 
 began to think aloud. 
 
 I 
 
306 BOLDERO 
 
 ''No. Ramdayal is bringing it here.'* He spoke 
 as quietly as the crackle of the fire. ' ' A long journey- 
 going, those Three Cows. Some man he loot them 
 from the great Peking Palace, how many years ago. 
 A German soldier gave it to somebody for a bottle of 
 beer. Then no more heard of it ; maybe at Tientsin ; 
 maybe Wei-hai-wei — ^who knows? Then, long after, 
 in Shanghai, a Russian sailor from aboard Askold sat 
 up dead on a ricksha, all alone — dead, but very 
 straight — in a snowstorm before morning light at 
 Hongkew Bund. They never finding his coolie. Per- 
 haps the Askold man dead of drink. But that coolie — 
 I know how — he sold it to French barber for ten dol- 
 lars and one bag Duck-Lily flour. The barber talked 
 much. Stolen again. Gone ! ' ' 
 
 Ghanda Singh mused for a while, tucking folds in 
 his pink cotton turban with neat, unconscious, femi- 
 nine touches. 
 
 *'Next a bank clerk, Ee-Scotch; he hang it up in 
 messroom of his chummery. One night, some boy 
 missing, the picture gone. Always gone; always 
 change the hands. Too long to tell.'' The Sikh 
 sighed. * ' Too long ; too many. Just now I heard that 
 a man was carrying the Three Cows aboard one ship ; 
 a ship nobody coming landed from. No. But off 
 that ship Ramdayal is bringing it to me, here." 
 
 The Sikh rose, went to the door and, leaning out, 
 stared down the bushy hill track. His gaunt figure, 
 
BOLDERO 307 
 
 against the bluish curtain of morning light, remained 
 like a statue. His frowning eyes waited for Ramdayal 
 to appear. Boldero felt a curious expectancy, a long- 
 ing to know what man or what thing could be so late 
 in arriving from the ends of the earth. Ghanda 
 Singh, however, dropped one hand to signify that 
 nobody was in view, and, without impatience, came 
 lounging in to wait once more on the splintered cush- 
 ion of the chopping block. 
 
 "Who's the man coming?'* said Boldero. 
 
 " Ramdayal, '* sighed his quiet companion. "A 
 brother of the Khalsa. He was to come yesterday, but 
 he is late; quait late. — Ramdayal and I, at home, we 
 go together to the Akal Bungah, and there at one 
 same time the priest taken for us the vessels from the 
 Golden Ark. Ramdayal is my twin among the elect. 
 You do not understand. No. It is too long; too 
 many ; too old. You are young man. ' ' 
 
 Boldero, if repulsed, never knew it. 
 
 *' What '11 we do," said he, trying again, "when 
 your brother does come?" 
 
 Ghanda Singh studied the cabin rafters, which, 
 through the smoke, leaned broken apart with fallen 
 ends that bristled full of nails like claws wrenched 
 loose. 
 
 * ' We must go then, ' ' he replied thoughtfully. ' ' We 
 must carry the picture home. Some man will stop us 
 going if he can. We must run the faster than him. 
 
308 BOLDERO 
 
 using more brain inside our heads. You, me, Ram- 
 dayal, we having more brain. He is a tall man, large 
 nose, bad eyes, and three fingers gone ojff his right 
 hand.'' 
 
 These words, uttered in soliloquy, made Boldero 
 start up and look; for he recognized the mark of an 
 old acquaintance. 
 
 ''Middle fingers gone — that wayT' Boldero held 
 out his own right hand with only thumb and little 
 finger displayed erect. ''So?*' 
 
 * * Just so, ' ' agreed Ghanda Singh placidly. * ' Where 
 was he?'' 
 
 In a few words Boldero told how the two vagrants, 
 Pill-Hop and Fingers, had attempted Jimmy's life 
 one dismal evening by a river bank. 
 
 *'Yes." The Sikh nodded, but continued to warm 
 his hands without concern. ** Fingers the Miner, that 
 the name. He before tried to be a sailor ; all talk, no 
 work, no good at sea, now anything ashore like that — 
 miner, mutwallah, sore-nose. The kind they hire to 
 lay dynamite in buildings and crowds, then running 
 away, blow women and children to pieces. Pah!" 
 The Sikh's face curled into a light-brown mask of 
 scorn, then became placid again. ''This country full 
 of such, God knowing why they are not all in jail- 
 khana! He is a corpse-eating dog with the mange." 
 
 Nodding heartily, Boldero considered this informa- 
 tion in the light of his own past ; he recalled what Fin- 
 
BOLDERO 309 
 
 gers the Miner had said while Jimmy sat by his fire 
 among the willows : 
 
 * * * He carries it on him all the time. ' Ghanda, your 
 mangy dog thought Jinrniy carried it. Was It the 
 picture?'' 
 
 Ghanda understood at once, calmly. 
 
 ' * I think so, ' ' said he. * * They running ahead of the 
 deer, then. Jimmy never saw this picture. Now they 
 know that, they know better, and getting behind us, 
 like cheetahs who are called in and hooded and put on 
 again to the game. Oh, yes 1 They are coming down 
 after us. Why Ramdayal is late.'' 
 
 Boldero became skeptical. 
 
 ''Those three cows," said he, *'must give a lot of 
 milk among 'em. ' ' 
 
 **Yes; worth more than seven lakhs," returned 
 Ghanda Singh. **The white color in the paint 
 was grinded powder of pearl dust; the picture made 
 by a queen, she die, she work one thousand years 
 ago, in the lazy days when people made pretty thing 
 to last and be good." 
 
 A noise outside the cabin disturbed their talk — a 
 rush of leaves parting tumultuously. Ghanda Singh 
 jumped and ran for the door, his carving knife again 
 held so ready that Boldero made after him with a 
 laurel club. They saw nothing but a gray streak that 
 overshot the path, some wildcat or mountain lion slip- 
 ping like quicksilver down along boughs into a leafy 
 
310 BOLDERO 
 
 depth of manzanita and huckleberry. The beast, 
 whatever it was, vanished. Again the mountain gorge 
 yawned silent, a crease of rounded greenery among 
 the hills. 
 
 They returned from viewing that deep solitude, and 
 once more squatted by the stove to enjoy all the heat 
 it could give; for a bitter, bone-chilling dampness 
 breathed up the glen and filled their cabin. Ghanda 
 Singh hugged his old army serge about him and shiv- 
 ered. 
 
 **Well, war is coming,*' he declared after a time, 
 like a man who found mitigations in a rough life. 
 "They say we shall have war.'' 
 
 *'Who says that?" 
 
 *'Many people," droned Ghanda Singh moodily. 
 "A fat man with a white face — not a sahib — who sold 
 beer and oil-tin fishes at the roalroad near Corinda- 
 pur; he was of some caste that hated English and 
 Americans ; his little crazy gods told him a great war 
 is coming and all India jump out of bed to murder the 
 sahibs overnight. His name I forgetting — Freundlich 
 or Geib, like that ; and he was quait mad. Inside his 
 head the weather always hot; his face turn red as 
 bricks, his mouth boiled when he spoke about some- 
 thing not worth two pice and a half. Yet madmen 
 can tell you what is coming, Jack; not the whole 
 truly, the part. This one preached always war ; great 
 war, soon." 
 
BOLDERO 311 
 
 **You believe him?" asked Boldero, to pass the 
 time. 
 
 '*! think he was paid to say," replied the Sikh more 
 cheerfully; but he began brooding again, and contin- 
 ued: ** Maybe true. I think so after that ship did not 
 land her passenger any up North. A trick. ' * 
 ** Where will his war come?" said Jack. 
 "God knows," mourned the Indian. "I can see, 
 I will go there. Maybe it falling on France, the first 
 time." 
 
 ** France?" echoed Boldero. He said no more, but 
 fell to ruminating this bit of news. 
 I The eastern wall of their cabin, downhill, was now 
 '' diced by upright lines of orange fire among the board- 
 ing. Sunrise had stolen down from the summits to 
 pierce the cracks of the hovel and cut its bluish reek 
 into planes and slats of quivering light. The door- 
 way shone like red gold; and through its frame the 
 two men beheld luminous fumes of mist rolling up 
 where spur after mountain spur plowed a whole world 
 to make ready for the sun, the Sower of Day. Birds 
 I began to sing. A canon warbler lavished his melody 
 as if he could go on forever. Among laurel branches 
 , a highland blue jay perked his crest, twinkled his 
 i azure wings, and sounded his impudent call : Grrink ! 
 Boldero and the Sikh watched him as he flew to 
 another treetop. 
 R The spray on which he lighted swung to rest; the 
 
312 BOLDERO 
 
 bird remained motionless and silent ; yet they seemed 
 to hear the quiet beating of his wings continue in the 
 morning stillness. 
 
 No, it was not wings beating; it was a pulse, or a 
 light clapping of hands, weak and regular. It was 
 neither, but footsteps that raced up the path, and a 
 panting like the panting of a dog. 
 
 The listeners jumped up just as a man stumbled 
 over the threshold and pitched headlong between 
 them. A little dark man in soiled khaki, he lay with 
 his face on the floor and shook as though the violence 
 of his breathing would rend him apart. 
 
 '^Ramdayal!" 
 
 The runner turned limply over on his back, stared 
 at them with hot, glazed eyes. He was bareheaded, 
 and much oily black hair, loosened from its knot, 
 hung round his face. 
 
 **Juldi ao!'* he gasped, and lifted one hand in a 
 beckoning gesture. ''Come quickly!*' 
 
 The khaki round his armpits showed black with 
 sweat; his throat was a smear of blood. 
 
 ** 'mara . . . kdm . . . Jiogia!'* The words 
 
 came as from a bellows. *'My work is finished!*' 
 
 And he dropped flat again, with his face on the 
 rotten floor boards. 
 
IX 
 
 Ghanda Singh would have raised him ; but the man 
 made a sign to be let alone, pillowed his bare head on 
 crossed elbows, and lay panting like a worn-out dog, 
 shaken with rapid panting, relaxed in a great heave, 
 shaken again. Boldero watched him for a moment; 
 then stepping quietly to the door, looked down the 
 hill track. It curved and crooked through glistening 
 evergreens, a red scar along the canon flank, blotted 
 here and there by tree tops, but, on the whole, visible 
 in the clear sunlight which poured under rising mist. 
 Boldero studied every corner and every clump of 
 bush. Nothing approached but the mist overhead. 
 More than a mile away the reddish scar became a 
 thread looping round a laurel promontory. Nothing 
 moved in all its length ; neither man nor beast. 
 
 He leaned against the frame, watching indoors and 
 out by turns. 
 
 The runner's breathing became gradually more 
 human. At last he rolled upon his back and sighed. 
 
 **Pani?" asked Ramdayal plaintively. 
 
 A short, thin man, he was much darker than his 
 313 
 
314 BOLDERO 
 
 brother Sikh, more coarsely featured, with big, soft 
 eyes, pouting lips, and even in this distress, a look of 
 invincible rough-and-ready humor. 
 
 **Not dead yet,*' he groaned. **Give me a drink.*' 
 
 Ghanda Singh fetched him a battered canteen, 
 rolled under his head the chopping-block, padded it 
 with the old serge overcoat, and lifted him comfort- 
 ably. Ramdayal grinned. He took the canteen, but 
 only rinsed his mouth and squirted the water across 
 the floor. His throat showed a fearful mass of red — 
 part wet, part clotted. 
 
 '*Look to his wound," said Boldero. **I'm watch- 
 ing the road.'* 
 
 Ramdayal squirted another jet. 
 
 *' Who's thatr' he asked. ** Who's the young sa- 
 hib?" 
 
 ''One of us," replied Ghanda Singh. ''That's 
 Jack. Sent by the Little Old Man. Show us your 
 bleeding." 
 
 The wounded messenger nodded, put down the 
 water can, relaxed, and lazily unbuttoned his khaki 
 jacket. All within seemed gore at first; but his 
 friends were soon relieved when he drew his finger 
 along the wound itself — a flesh cut from left shoulder 
 to left breast. It had ceased bleeding, stanched per- 
 haps by the salt sweat, which made it look worse than 
 it was. A weapon, somebody's knife, had driven for 
 the collar-bone hole, that three-cornered gateway 
 
BOLDERO 315 
 
 down into the heart, but had missed and gone glanc- 
 ing off the lean upper ribs. Ramdayal folded his 
 tunic gingerly into place and laughed. 
 
 *'They beat me with latJiis, also/* he declared. 
 **But I not stopping, I come. Hey, brother T' 
 
 And he made Bolder o a little jaunty salute. 
 
 '* You're all right!'' stated Boldero warmly. 
 
 Ramdayal, snuggling into the folded coat, winked 
 both his merry black eyes, like a babe who cannot 
 wink one singly. 
 
 '*Yes," said he; **and I got it." 
 
 With that he reached under his right side and pro- 
 duced a cylinder of dirty brown paper about a foot 
 and a half long, tied with piping cord, which he held 
 out as though it were a diploma or an address of wel- 
 come. 
 
 "Dwrw5f/' he chuckled. ''No fear." 
 
 With joyful countenance Ghanda Singh took the 
 paper cylinder. 
 
 "Is it?" he cried. "That? The Three Cows?" 
 
 Ramdayal nodded, shut his eyes, and lay back, a 
 smiling picture of content and weariness. 
 
 "What shall we do?" said Ghanda Singh. He 
 poked the roll into his bosom, rose, and came to consult 
 Boldero. ' ' How, ' ' he whispered, ' ' we are going on ? " 
 
 "Give me it and 111 run," replied Boldero, "while 
 you look after Ramdayal here." 
 
 " No ! " cried the other, frowning. " No ! " 
 
316 BOLDERO 
 
 Jack knew his man then ; good fellow, brave, faith- 
 ful, Ghanda Singh had for their present need a habit 
 of too quick suspicion and not enough foresight. 
 Their need was great, moreover; time pressed; they 
 must act, and somebody play leader. 
 
 **A11 right.'' Boldero, affecting to watch the trail, 
 thought quickly. ** Where's your crowd that's fol- 
 lowing you ? How far behind ? ' ' 
 
 **In the bush, down,*' Ramdayal answered, like a 
 man talking in his sleep. **By the railroad, last time 
 of seeing them. Six; all bad ones. They break the 
 bush over looking for me, swearing. They carry pis- 
 tols." 
 
 Those railroad bushes, a vagabond-haunted thicket, 
 lay not more than five miles away. Boldero knew the 
 place of old and hated it. Ramdayal 's pursuers, wait- 
 ing there, could block the lower mouth of the canon. 
 ' * Can 't go down, ' ' thought Boldero. * * We must climb 
 on up ; take to the hills. " If he took to them he must 
 keep them, begin a hare-and-hound game southward 
 along the mountains, one hundred miles and more 
 of tough going, with only five head start. 
 
 '*Able to walk?" he asked Ramdayal. ''Slow, 
 downhill, mile or two?" 
 
 The spent runner showed his teeth. ^ 
 
 '* Able, sahib? Yes. lean." 
 
 "Have you money to go on?" 
 
BOLDERO 317 
 
 A cunning light smoldered in Ramdayars eyes to 
 say that his purse was a private affair. 
 
 '*Then take this note.'' 
 
 From a fly-spotted lithograph on the wall Boldero 
 tore a corner of blank paper, on which, holding it 
 against the door jamb, he wrote in pencil : 
 
 * * Cash D alrymple : 
 
 ''Please feed and bed the bearer. On quiet. He is 
 a friend of ours. 
 
 ''J. W., per J. B." 
 
 This he read aloud, then folded and gave to Ram- 
 dayal. 
 
 ' ' Go down to the bar-room, first building you reach. 
 Hand that chit to the red-haired man. Keep off this 
 path. Go through the woods, and mind you, to the 
 back door of the red-haired man's house." 
 
 Ghanda Singh added a few words in some unknown 
 tongue — perhaps a bit of slang from the Five Rivers : 
 
 ''The shrub seller who is red as a panda." 
 
 Their wounded friend pocketed the scrap of writ- 
 ing, got up, buttoned the neck of his tunic, shook him- 
 self like a man half rested, and calmly stalked out-of- 
 doors. 
 
 "My salaam to the Little Gray One Who Hears 
 Nothing." 
 
 He wriggled under a branch beside the cabin and 
 
318 BOLDERO 
 
 disappeared as though the green mountain had swal- 
 lowed him alive. 
 
 Such obedience, though more than Boldero had 
 hoped for, he endeavored to take as a matter of course. 
 
 "Make up your baggage,'* he told Ghanda Singh, 
 ''quickly. You and me for the hills.*' 
 
 Again came obedience. The Indian squatted on the 
 floor and folded his greatcoat into a neat and sin- 
 gularly compact roll, which he left open until he had 
 gathered and laid inside it his black-handled knife, 
 two tin plates, two spoons, a little cotton sack of food, 
 the canteen, and a box of matches. His quick brown 
 fingers made a pass, a loop, a knot ; then the man rose, 
 with a tidy pack hanging between his shoulder blades. 
 
 ''Ready, go,'* reported Ghanda Singh. 
 
 Boldero swung under his blanket roll. Without so 
 much as a farewell glance the two men slipped quietly 
 out of the cabin, shut the door, and dodged upward 
 from the path among the overhanging evergreen 
 boughs. A steep wood mottled with shadow enfolded 
 them. Young laurel trunks wriggled in snaky lines of 
 gray and green; brown madroiia limbs, smooth as a 
 peeled wand or scabbed with curling tissue, upheld 
 broad foliage glossed in the sunlight which they 
 caught and obscured; while dead leaves, cinnabar 
 dust, and sharp-cornered pebbles littered a maze of 
 old runways made by wild beasts or by roaming cattle 
 — false trails that began everywhere, parted, and 
 
BOLDERO 319 
 
 led roundabout to impassable walls of chaparral. 
 
 '*We lose our way," grumbled the Sikh. 
 
 Boldero said nothing, but through this puzzle fol- 
 lowed the black will-o'-the-wisp of his own shadow, 
 knowing that it struggled upward and westward be- 
 fore the morning sun. 
 
 He climbed at a pace that kept his companion 
 wheezing. The ground rose abruptly; underfoot the 
 sharp-cornered volcanic pebbles rattled down like dice, 
 and last year's oak and bay leaves, a dry, brittle car- 
 pet, slid away to fetch him on hands and knees ; but 
 the two men hurried upward, sweating, until a blue 
 light pierced the tangled boughs ahead. They had 
 conquered their first hill: like a strip of window, 
 through irregular-pointed mullions, gleamed the sky. 
 
 * 'We're up far enough," Boldero panted. *'Now 
 south we go, Ghanda." 
 
 Turning at a right angle, he dove into bushes and 
 tore his way through to sunlight. 
 
 ''Now let's do a trot." 
 
 They stood all at once in open country on a bare 
 green ridge that undulated southward, unrolling miles 
 of upland turf crinkled with shadows. The mist had 
 drawn aloft and melted. Clean as a polo field the 
 long-backed hill ran, an oval park surrounded by 
 mountain forest. 
 
 * ' Come ! ' ' said Boldero. ' ' Let 's jog. ' ' 
 
 But Ghanda Singh flatly refused to hurry. Halt- 
 
320 BOLDERO 
 
 ing for breath, he smiled agreeably and shook his 
 turbaned head. 
 
 * ' No ! Running is no need. Look ! ' * 
 
 In climbing they had fetched a circuit round the 
 head of the glen, which now lay hidden beneath its 
 topmost trees as by a low hedge. Through a gap in 
 the branches Ghanda Singh, with a satisfied air, 
 pointed an arm down the canon. It lay vacant under 
 the morning light, a narrow crease among the hills 
 choked with rounded laurels, like huge green sponges 
 piled in confusion. Down through them zigzagged 
 the reddish thread of the path, winding toward a 
 white speck, far-off, which was Dalrymple's tavern. 
 Nothing in this vista moved but the shadow of a 
 hawk — the bird himself lost in dazzling upper air — 
 that glided with long curves across the greenery. 
 
 '*You look? Nobody coming.'' 
 
 **Why notr* inquired Boldero. 
 
 '*You can see?" replied the Sikh, tolerant and su- 
 perior. '* Who is there? No one. The path empty.'* 
 
 At this Boldero began to lose his patience. 
 
 "Of course she's empty!" he cried. ''Do you sup- 
 pose they'd come up waving flags and blowing sirens 
 for us? Come on here, my friend; a little speed." 
 
 His companion, with the same provoking ease, 
 walked onward some few paces, a long-legged figure 
 of Oriental dignity. Boldero stood looking after him. 
 ''If I'm going to have trouble with this fellow," he ''\ 
 
BOLDERO 321 
 
 thought, "better have it now while there's time." 
 And with that, striding forward, he overtook and 
 confronted the Sikh face to face. 
 
 **Look here!" said he. **I like you well enough, 
 Ghanda, and we can't afford to spoil things by a row. 
 But" — he looked the man hard in the eyes — ^''we're 
 making a wrong start. You give me that roll o' 
 paper." 
 
 The Hindu threw back his head, staring haughtily. 
 
 ''No!" he cried. 
 
 ''Yes!" said Boldero quietly. "Hand it over." 
 
 The other made a slight movement, as though to 
 reach a weapon. Boldero, having none, stood mo- 
 tionless but ready. Blue eyes and brown held each 
 other in silent conflict. 
 
 " 1 11 take the paper to Jimmy. That 's my hookum. 
 Give it here. I'm not fooling." 
 
 It was the brown eyes that yielded. Suddenly, with 
 a pettish jerk, Ghanda Singh tore open the breast of 
 his jacket and slapped the paper into Boldero 's hand. 
 
 "Give it to me properly." 
 
 This reproof, uttered in a casual way, completed 
 the man's surrender; his body seemed to relax and 
 turn supple ; and it was with an almost bashful cere- 
 mony that he presented the dirty cylinder to his 
 master. 
 
 ** Hookum Jiaif sahib." He laughed sheepishly and 
 
322 BOLDERO 
 
 rebuttoned his jacket. *'Do not be angry. I was 
 joking.'* 
 
 Boldero put away the treasure. 
 
 **I know it, Ghanda/' he agreed. '* *This was a 
 g-o-a-k.' Now let's do a jog.'' 
 
 He spoke as if they had been arguing the weather, 
 ignored his companion's embarrassment, and, with a 
 tug to tighten belt and blanl^et roll, stepped off, run- 
 ning at an easy pace. For half a dozen strides he 
 went alone; but soon, though careful not to look be- 
 hind, he heard the Sikh overtaking him. Elbow to 
 elbow they ran. Underfoot, spangled with pink mal- 
 lows and tiny blond lilies of zygadenus, the grass in- 
 vited them like a race course. Boldero gamboled along 
 with plenty of action, performed in a mixed gait, 
 and at every step rejoiced to feel sunny turf upspring- 
 ing, to pass young flowers glinting with moisture. 
 Yards, furlongs, miles, all distance became alike in 
 the pleasure of running; this bare hilltop unreeled 
 its length, a wavy green ribbon, a magic carpet for 
 speed; while the morning breeze filled his nostrils 
 cleanly in a long, abiding draught, the wine of 
 motion. 
 
 Thus the two men sped along the ridge till it 
 plunged into a forest from whose edge, while resting 
 for a moment, they could look backward and see the 
 billowy miles of greensward they had left. 
 
 '* 'The wicked flee,' " thought Boldero, " 'when no 
 
BOLDERO 323 
 
 man pursueth/ *' That sunlit hill stretched away, 
 empty of living figures. *'But, just the same, well 
 do more fleeing.'* 
 
 So all day they hurried southward by forgotten 
 paths that wound among evergreens, now vanishing 
 in a thicket, now burrowing under the windfallen 
 mast of some great pine. Once they halted to lie on 
 a bed of moss and munch dry biscuits; once more, 
 where a waterfall roared through a wilderness of 
 quivering spikenard leaves, to drink and to bathe in 
 crystal pools, ice-cold, that smelled of trout; but 
 after these breathing-times, refreshed, they trotted 
 steadily uphill and down, disturbing a shadowy si- 
 lence barred with rays of dusty green light. 
 
 Evening closed overhead as they crawled through a 
 lonely pass where giant boulders leaned against the 
 stars. 
 
 * * No more, sahib, * ' groaned Ghanda Singh. * * I can- 
 not.'' 
 
 He spoke honestly and humbly; he had followed 
 like a true man ; but now his breath came hoarse and 
 his body trembled with fatigue. 
 
 * * AU right. We '11 camp here. ' ' 
 
 A grassplot curved under the base of a torn crag. 
 On this plot they flung themselves down and panted. 
 
 **I am very cold." The Sikh, wrapping his great- 
 coat round him, shivered miserably. ** We not having 
 afire, sahib?" 
 
324 BOLDERO 
 
 There seemed no reason why they should not make 
 a camp fire here in this rocky solitude. They had 
 come fast and far enough, surely, to be alone, safe. 
 Boldero gathered some dead brush, with a log or two. 
 Soon a small but hot and clear fire crackled on the 
 grassplot, twined its column of sparks up the crag 
 chimney, and lighted round its edge a few wild irises 
 that pushed from the grass their dark blue fleurs-de- 
 lis. Ghanda Singh *s turban, as he hugged the flame 
 and chafed his hands, glowed with changeable color, 
 now lilac, now orange. To see all this on a background 
 of smoke and gray rock spires wavering toward the 
 starry heaven, to smell the faint bitter-honey per- 
 fume of iris, reminded Boldero of some happier life 
 that he had known before and forgotten. 
 
 **I wonder why we*re up here doing this?'^ he 
 thought. Until the present moment he had viewed 
 his errand sceptically; but now of a sudden it be- 
 came real, and he felt inside his coat for Jimmy *s 
 document. 
 
 *' Let's have a look/' said he, '*at our Three Cows." 
 
The picture he unrolled and held up in the fire- 
 light seemed a poor scrawl, without color, a three-foot 
 vertical strip containing angular dark scratches hap- 
 hazard upon gray. So Boldero thought at the first 
 glance, and so much Ghanda Singh, peering through 
 the smoke, implied as his final judgment. 
 
 * * Yes, that being it. Durust was the word of Ram- 
 dayal, who never telling lies — to me. Certainly the 
 right picture. ' ' The Indian regarded it with a mourn- 
 ful lack of interest, as he would have regarded the 
 loveliest landscape on earth. **A queen made it in old 
 time. Seven lakhs for that! Great money all gone. 
 But the white paint is pearl dust — ^you can see, sahib 
 — pearls grinded like curry powder. I suppose she 
 wet them with tarpintel? Oh, foolish! What a 
 waste!'* 
 
 Boldero agreed, then doubtfully wagged his head, 
 and, continuing to gaze, drifted under the power of 
 an ancient charm. What his bodily eyes beheld was 
 an oblong panel of silk, worm-eaten in one corner, the 
 rest an illusion of faint coloring which, delicate and 
 
 325 
 
 I 
 
326 BOLDERO 
 
 subtle even by the firelight, showed three cows graz- 
 ing in a slant hill pasture. His inward eyes beheld 
 something more remote. Grotesque and peaceful, the 
 creatures wandered in morning vapor, and, under a 
 high background where fantastic pointed mountains 
 loomed, wore that supernatural air of dawn, silence, 
 and loneliness which can clothe brute life with won- 
 der. The queen who painted them — dead, centuries 
 ago — ^had left a miracle upon this band of silk. They 
 were no farmer's cattle, nor even sacred heifers that 
 a priest might lead with garlands and gilded horns 
 to an altar ; for their vague shapes outlined the greater 
 mystery inherited, suffered, and transmitted from 
 generation to generation by all the beasts of the field 
 that perish. They were cropping fairy grass, drink- 
 ing ghostly dew, in the forlorn light of ages. 
 
 Boldero felt some part of this Chinese magic 
 dumbly. 
 
 '^I can see why folks would like it.*^ He sighed, 
 and returning from distant regions to his own life, 
 blew a camp-fire ash from the silk panel, which he 
 rolled carefully together. **Yeah, I can see," he 
 mused, putting it away. '*Must be mighty valuable. 
 Jimmy wasn't fooling me.'' 
 
 The knowledge reassured him, for until now his 
 errand had seemed a doubtful, harebrained matter, 
 too much like another of Jimmy's tricks ; but here in- 
 side his jacket he carried proof and reason, a pre- 
 
BOLDERO 327 
 
 cious thing, real substance to be guarded. He sat 
 watching the Hindu warm his lean brown wrists, from 
 one of which an iron bangle swung and glinted red- 
 dish in the firelight. Both men were hungry, but 
 not as yet sufficiently rested to begin eating. They 
 drowsed by their little fire, while smoke and sparks 
 drew up the gray crag chimney into windless 
 night and the glory of stars. One clear planet burned 
 above the void where lay the eastern valley. 
 
 ** To-morrow '* — the Sikh nodded toward this lus- 
 trous wanderer — ^"to-morrow we going there the way? 
 Down, and travel the plains? We being safe.'' 
 
 Jack saw no objection. Having threaded so much 
 wilderness all day, surely they were free from pursuit 
 and might descend into the lower country, where go- 
 ing would be easy. 
 
 '*Yes,'' he replied; ''I think we're safe enough 
 now." 
 
 The words were no sooner out of his mouth than 
 he had cause to think differently. A sound from be- 
 yond the crag brought him upright, listening. It 
 was a muffled sound that approached in a regular 
 rhythm — the steady grunt-grunt of horses cantering 
 on grass. 
 
 Boldero jumped into the fire, stamped it flat, and 
 kicked showers of dirt over the coals. Then, finger- 
 ing round the edges of the rock, he tore up a long 
 scalp of turf and spread it like a mat over the embers. 
 
328 BOLDERO 
 
 '^Corne!'* he whispered, as soon as he had made all 
 dark and re-slung his blanket. "Here with me — 
 lively!'' 
 
 Noiseless and quick he wriggled up toward the 
 gap in the crags, a notch of starlight among gray 
 pinnacles. He heard the Sikh bound on foot, making 
 as if to follow. But presently, when he crawled 
 among boulders into the narrow mouth of the pass, 
 he found himself alone there : Ghanda Singh, whether 
 by misunderstanding or losing the way or willfully 
 taking another direction, had vanished. B older o 
 crouched on a ledge of sharp rocks, and closed his 
 eyes to get rid of the dazzling effect left by the camp 
 fire. 
 
 ''Fur enough for to-night," drawled a quiet voice 
 that he seemed to know. It spoke from somewhere 
 near by, under his rocky pinnacle. 
 
 Boldero opened his eyes. He could see clearly now, 
 by starlight, a ridge of dark open country sloping 
 away below the pass. Two horsemen, motionless, were 
 halted so near that he might have dropped a pebble 
 on their hats. One horse was white, the other a 
 shadow alongside it. 
 
 ''Fur enough," repeated the man on the white 
 horse. ''They couldn't 'a' hoofed it clean to here 
 sence mornin'." 
 
 Once more Boldero nearly recognized this voice; 
 
BOLDERO 329 
 
 and the reply, in a louder and more whining tone, 
 made it certain. 
 
 ''Listen to me, Fingers. This here is Gunsight 
 Pass. Reckon we better scrabble right on through, 
 and then '' 
 
 ''Shut your gap!'* growled Fingers the Miner. 
 His white horse gave way and started at the words, 
 earning a curse and a blow. "You quit your yawp- 
 in', Pill. We got 'em headed off; got 'em bunged 
 up in a jug. Through this here pass they're bound 
 to come, and by daylight to-morrer we'll ketch 'em 
 comin', sure." 
 
 The other horseman retorted under his breath some- 
 thing that was followed by a hoarse, whispering wran- 
 gle. Boldero could not hear what they were saying, 
 nor did he wait to listen. Crawling backward at 
 top speed, though carefully, he retreated down the 
 rocks to the grassplot again. Their smothered fire 
 reeked sourly, but gave not an ember of light. Where, 
 he wondered, was Ghanda Singh? Unable to call or 
 whistle, he could only peer roundabout and see noth- 
 ing but gray rocks, the shadowy floor of the clearing, 
 the black wall reared by the northern woods, all ob- 
 scure and deceptive under the starshine. He had 
 lost his companion. The Sikh was gone. 
 
 For a moment Boldero weighed his chances of over- 
 taking the man : back to the forest, or downhill east- 
 erly toward that burning planet, they seemed equal: 
 
330 BOLDERO 
 
 and before he had chosen there came from the 
 crags above a clink of iron and a rattle of sliding 
 pebbles. 
 
 The horsemen were through the Gunsight notch, 
 descending the cleft upon this side. 
 
 It would have been easy to make a grave mistake. 
 Boldero nearly made it, then bethought himself in 
 time: he darted silently, not down across the open, 
 but up toward his approaching enemies. Among the 
 rocks of the little pass he wriggled and lay flat, 
 hardly two paces from the trail; there he waited, 
 burying his face in his arms, for he knew the power 
 of eye to attract eye, to call a seeker's glance to a 
 hiding-place. 
 
 The horses, feeling their way down the rocks, 
 paused beside him, so near that one hoof tossed a 
 flint upon his blanket roll. 
 
 **I smell somep'n burnt,'' murmured Pill-Hop's 
 voice. 
 
 The other hissed at him, commanding silence. 
 Leather creaked. The horses went on, till their de- 
 parting clatter ceased on the grassplot. 
 
 At once, before they were fairly past, Boldero had 
 begun crawling on his belly up the Gunsight ; now he 
 rose in the nearest shadow and crept along the broken 
 wall on his right, flattening himself sidewise with 
 arms outstretched like a man groping in a blind cor- 
 ridor. Thus he climbed painfully, with every foot- 
 
BOLDERO 331 
 
 hold to be tested, every jntting cornice to be hugged, 
 every loose block swarmed over. So he came into the 
 nick full of stars at the summit, passed his former 
 ledge, and, with redoubled speed but no less caution, 
 lowered himself through the crowded chaos of the 
 southern cleft. 
 
 '* Blessings on ye!" he sighed at last, addressing 
 the welcome turf. 
 
 Here at these rocks the hill-back was nipped to- 
 gether like an hour-glass; but before him stretched, 
 widening, a bare upland, of what extent he could not 
 guess. Far ahead the white star of the Lion blazed 
 on high. With that for guide he gathered up his 
 heels and fled. 
 
 **A narrow squeak!'* he thought. '*A dam tight 
 comer! Ouf!" 
 
 The joy of escape revived him, as he ran, with an 
 exhilaration keener than the night air. He forgot 
 his weariness. Earth became a shadow that flowed 
 behind like smoke, its contours melting and scudding, 
 the touch of it underfoot recurring as a fleet pulsa- 
 tion, a thrill of speed. He seemed to race along a 
 dond, to breathe starlight and liberty. 
 
 This extravagance could not last long when a man 
 had been going hard since daybreak; two miles 
 of it, and Boldero, panting, came back to solid ground. 
 He flung himself down, pressed his ear to the grass, 
 and hearkened. Throughout the hill there was no 
 
332 BOLDERO 
 
 stir or tremor to be heard. He rose, however, and 
 went forward at a long, swinging Indian trot which 
 he maintained for an hour or more ; only then, after 
 laying ear to ground again, did he permit himself 
 the luxury of walking. 
 
 ** Slipped 'em,'* he concluded. **I hope the Hindu 
 got away." 
 
 At the first clump of trees he halted, untied his roll, 
 ate a handful of cold victuals, wrapped his blanket 
 round him, and crept under a bush. Finding a dry, 
 sweet-scented lair covered with a network of black 
 leaves and bright stars, he fell asleep. 
 
 Dawn found him up and trotting through the gray 
 mist like a patient phantom ; sunrise lighted the water 
 of the brook he bathed in; morning slipped away to 
 the tune of leg over leg, the light, monotonous rhythm 
 of good running. Sometimes he plowed through ferns 
 in a tall wood ; sometimes went sweltering up or down 
 canons, dazzled with the brightness and cloyed with 
 the hot perfume of sky-blue lilacs. It was afternoon 
 when he reached a bare hillside pitted with gopher 
 holes, from which his passage frightened a company 
 of small, light-brown hawks that left their watching 
 in burrow mouths to soar aloft, as though the earth 
 were spawning birds. Upon this hill he paused, for 
 below in sudden depth lay the plain and the rest of 
 his journey spread like a map. 
 
 **Now we must go pretty sly,'* he thought, scan- 
 
BOLDERO 333 
 
 ning this prospect. '*We must use the headpiece.'* 
 
 Boldero sat down to a long study. Beyond the 
 slanting flight of hawks he saw the valley floor as an 
 apple-green haze reaching toward the lost horizon, 
 where it broke into silver lakes and rivers — the last 
 reminder of his old enemy, the flood — whose glimmer 
 floated upward melting into the vague spring sky. 
 North and south, east and west, a penciling of roads 
 ruled the country into squares. Far away a gray 
 stain in the air above a church spire no larger than 
 a thorn point showed there was a town. 
 
 ** That's the home stretch." Boldero, like a pil- 
 grim on Mount Caution, learned the view by heart. 
 ** Hurrying won't do now. If those fellows headed 
 me off once they can head me off again. In their 
 boots, what'd you do? Certain sure I'd travel by 
 rail straight back to the city, and lay waiting at 
 the finish." 
 
 He would cross that living green map with extreme 
 care, and enter that city with both eyes open. 
 
 Next evening he did so, dela3dng his arrival until 
 after dusk. Where the levee curved its high path 
 he came like any humble wayfarer, — a lean worn wil- 
 derness shape courting the darkest fringe of sal- 
 lows, limping in their obscurity with a lameness 
 half genuine, half copied from that tribe which he 
 despised, the hobos. Thoroughly tired, Boldero 
 nevertheless could finish; he had run his race, and 
 
334 BOLDERO 
 
 kept the faith, and brought Father Jimmy's treasure 
 home. Only a hundred yards remained; he could 
 reach the Black Door in ten seconds. 
 
 **Just what I ain't going to do," he reflected. 
 **Now comes the pinch. When you're almost there 
 and nobody in sight, better look out." 
 
 A glowworm hint of light spread up the embank- 
 ment from an open door below. It was the door, the 
 pillars, the carven gables of a quiet and friendly 
 refuge — Leung She's sunken temple, the joss house. 
 Boldero halted and considered that doorway. 
 
 * ' Play careful, ' ' some instinct warned him. * * Don 't 
 overdo your game. Yeah! Leave her here. That's 
 the right way." 
 
 He slunk down the diagonal path, between the two 
 great red-and-gold tablets, through the door. Inside, 
 the shadows yawned black and still, the point of 
 lamplight floating in its cracked tumbler revealed 
 the dusty embroidered banners hanging lifeless, 
 the silver-gilt halberds in their rack, the sandal- 
 wood prayer sticks unravelling their dove-blue smoke 
 toward heaven. Boldero watched and listened. 
 
 ''Leung She?" he called quietly. ''Leung 
 She?" 
 
 There was no answer. The janitor-priest did not 
 appear. Boldero stood alone in the gloom with the 
 solitary lamp, and the firefly sparks and perfume of 
 burning sandalwood. 
 
BOLDERO 8SS 
 
 He heard the river flowing like a breath of wind 
 behind its willow bank. 
 
 '^Now's your time.'* 
 
 The place was lonely as a desert, dark and secure 
 as the grave. He drew from his breast that soiled 
 paper roll, now damp with sweat, which contained 
 the dead queen's marvel. Craning over the altar 
 light, he peeped behind the shabby, gleaming idol, and 
 saw what he expected; in a recess lurked two more 
 images of the god, the third a lump swaddled in 
 cobwebs, — ^the innermost god that would never march 
 in procession, never journey abroad, but always re- 
 main at home, dwelling unseen. 
 
 He dropped the Three Cows behind its cobweb veil. 
 The cylinder fell rustling, and a light cloud of dust 
 drifted about the gods, past the altar flame in the 
 cracked tumbler. 
 
 '*There!'' he sighed. ''That's all right for one 
 whHe.'' 
 
 And with a burden off his mind, he stole outdoors 
 to the levee. 
 
 When a few moments later he stood by the Black 
 Door in the Wall, his precaution seemed unnecessary. 
 The lighted windows of Chinese merchants dis- 
 closed the street veranda as quite empty but for 
 a farmer of vegetables who came hobbling, flat-footed, 
 under yoke and panniers. No man lay waiting to 
 
336 BOLDERO 
 
 intercept Boldero; no one cared whether he came 
 home or not; for the Black Door, Jimmy ^s door 
 among the flame-colored labels, had a placard nailed 
 upon it. The topmost words were printed in Eng- 
 lish: TO LET. 
 
 A strip of ideographs hung raggedly beneath. 
 
 ** What's thatr* cried Boldero in dismay. 
 
 The coolie with the panniers came bobbing past and 
 amicably answered the question. 
 
 **Allo same hotel,'* he explained, grinning. **Say, 
 you wantchee hylah some loom, go to sleep, you askee 
 Leung She, you catchem, saw. You wantchee T' 
 
 Boldero wanted nothing. He stared at the placard ; 
 then at the basket-bearer, who went swaying on his 
 business into the dark; then at the placard again. 
 The bottom had dropped out of Boldero 's world. 
 
 Mr. Weechurch's rooms were to let. Jimmy had 
 gone. 
 
XI 
 
 He stared at the Black Door as though it were the 
 entrance of a tomb. To return successful and find 
 his old friend gone brought all his belief and confi- 
 dence tumbling into ruin. Father Jimmy had not 
 even waited ; the expedition led to nothing whatever ; 
 and this homecoming, this triumph of one moment 
 ago, ended in a blank desertion far worse than failure. 
 
 The mood passed. It served to tell Boldero, clearly, 
 how much he had grown to like the strange, deaf, 
 eccentric little old creature known as James Wee- 
 church. 
 
 *'He wouldn't leave me in a hole.'' Boldero re- 
 gained his wits and his loyalty. ** Something's hap- 
 pened. Something's gone wrong." 
 
 Remembering that he owned a key, he drew it out, 
 unlocked the Black Door, opened, and entered. 
 
 The stairway was darker than ever; his footsteps, 
 as he mounted, seemed to rouse more echoes than 
 before; and, though on the landing corridor both 
 doors stood open, there came from the two rooms 
 neither light nor the stir of living presence, but only 
 gloom and emptiness. 
 
 337 
 
338 BOLDERO 
 
 "Jimmy?'' he called aloud. 
 
 The question rang hollow in the dark. Boldero 
 struck a match and held it up in the front chamber. 
 Not so much as a stick of furniture remained; the 
 shelves were swept clean, tier on tier; the cupboard 
 doors leaned open. He carried the burning match 
 into his own bedroom, and there, likewise, found an 
 abomination of desolation; for, though the familiar 
 smell of herbs lingered powerfully, not one bundle of 
 them was left hanging. The match went out. 
 
 ''Something mighty wrong here," thought Bol- 
 dero. 
 
 He stood in the corridor, trying to imagine what 
 had happened while he was away. The effort only 
 increased his bewilderment and made the darkness 
 in the vacant loft seem more disquieting; so he re- 
 turned quickly to the front room, listening and peer- 
 ing about as though to meet some hostile watcher. 
 Yet when he had found a candle-end stuck in its 
 guttered wax upon a cupboard shelf, and had lighted 
 it, nothing appeared in the room but his own shadow. 
 
 *'I can't believe Jimmy would," he told himself 
 again, less hopefully. A creaking noise on the stair- 
 way made him jump. ''What? I left the door un- 
 locked?" 
 
 The thought flashed through him with a premoni- 
 tion of something evil about to happen, about to ar- 
 rive. Reluctantly, like a man forced by hypnotic 
 
BOLDERO 339 
 
 summons, he turned his face toward the doorway. 
 Wavering there in reddish half light, not far above 
 the threshold, another face watched him from round 
 the edge of the casing. It seemed to float, bodiless 
 and malignant. 
 
 **Don't move!»' 
 
 The words dispelled Boldero's first conviction of 
 unreality. 
 
 ** Don't move,'* repeated a soft and drawling voice. 
 
 The floating face moved quickly upward. The 
 man to whom it belonged had risen at a leap and 
 cleared the topmost stair. Then, casual and smirk- 
 ing, Fingers the Miner lounged into the room. 
 
 **We traveled a long ways to meet, which wasn't 
 necessary," he averred with dry sarcasm. **I guess 
 maybe well quit dodgin' wu'nuther now, and talk 
 business comfortable. Saves time.'* He closed the 
 door, then leaned against it, with hands in pockets 
 and a grim pretence of being entirely at ease. *'Too 
 bad you run so hard, son. Kinder look tucked up 
 and famished. What scairt you, anyhow? You and 
 me's good old friends." 
 
 There was no chance of persuading or outwitting 
 him, Boldero knew at once. The long, shabby, ill- 
 favored man, lolling there so awkward, had no such 
 foible as mercy. The candle stood too far away: 
 impossible to blow it out. 
 
840 BOLDERO 
 
 '*Talk for yourself.'* Boldero girded up the loins 
 of his spirit. ^'I pick my own friends.'' 
 
 Fingers the Miner smiled, or at least a pair of 
 bending lines furrowed his hard cheeks. If the man 
 felt any visitings of humor it was a cold-blooded hu- 
 mor, a cruel conceit prompted by the knowledge that 
 he held the upper hand. 
 
 *^Is 'at so?" he drawled. ''You select 'em, do ye? 
 Well, I don't admire your powers o' choice. Call 
 yourself an Amurrican, and go pickin' up raghead 
 niggers and Chinks and Britishers? A hell of an 
 Amurrican, you are ! Time you knowed better. But 
 you're young; and if you live" — ^he paused at the 
 word ominously — ^''if you live you will know better, 
 and maybe come to learn the principles of pattrytism 
 and who your natural friends are. Un 'stand? Now 
 you look at me, right in the face." 
 
 *'It won't do my eyesight no good," said Boldero, 
 adopting his foe's language and inflection. 
 
 As he backed away to sit down on the window 
 ledge, Fingers the Miner started, then relaxed. 
 
 "Don't go makin' sudden moves like that," he 
 advised. *'They ain't healthy. Don't move to- wards 
 the candle." 
 
 A brief silence followed. The man's lean jaws 
 worked as though he were chewing the cud of self- 
 satisfaction. 
 
 *'But we was meetin' here to talk business," he 
 
BOLDERO 341 
 
 began presently. '*Come, now! Fork out! You 
 know what I mean. Hand her over. ' ' 
 
 Boldero laughed. Like a woman, he had only his 
 tongue for defense; and therefore he would use 
 it freely. 
 
 ' ' I handed her over long ago, * ' he replied. * * You 're 
 late for the fair. I gave her to Jimmy.*' 
 
 His adversary's eyes narrowed and shone red as a 
 dog's against the candlelight. 
 
 **A lie; and a mighty weak- jointed lie too. Wha' 
 d'ye take me for — a sucklin' babe? You jest got 
 here to-night. You was off cavortin' over the hills 
 when Jimmy died." 
 
 Boldero 's acting failed him ; the shock was too great, 
 the pang too like a physical wrenching at the heart. 
 
 *'Jimmy What?" 
 
 It was the turn of Fingers to laugh, which he did 
 sourly. 
 
 "Ought to f oiler the news," he said, ** afore you 
 lie. You didn 't know Jimmy was dead ? Look round 
 ye. He 's a Doornail all right. The Chinaman carted 
 off and sold his furniture yesterday. See for your- 
 self." 
 
 The man drew a cigar, gnawed the end off, spat, 
 and lighted a match. Every motion of this perform- 
 ance, his trick of rolling the cigar in his mouth while 
 he smoked, was cruel, vulgar, and threatening. 
 
 **Dead as a Doornail ! Yeah; that's the word, boy. 
 
342 BOLDERO 
 
 Jimmy lays out in his Chinese buryin' ground, six 
 feet below, deefer than he was when livin'. What 
 you s'pose? He couldn^t hear ye now, not even if 
 you yelled/' 
 
 Smirking vaguely round, as if the room contained 
 an audience that approved him, the cynic fetched 
 from his pocket a long clasp knife, an eight-inch rod 
 of staghorn. He opened it thoughtfully. Its pointed 
 blade, of the kind that hunters use for the skinning 
 of deer, flashed while he tried the edge on his 
 thumb-nail. 
 
 **Not even if you yelled,'' he repeated, and stabbed 
 the knife backward into the casing of the door so 
 that its haft remained stuck at his hip. **So now 
 gimme your picture," he said. 
 
 Stab, look, and words left nothing to be misunder- 
 stood of the man's intention. He meant murder. 
 His lolling there against the door was only a pose, a 
 bit of cat-and-mouse play to heighten his own en- 
 joyment. At another time Boldero might have yield- 
 ed to the suggestion of dread; but now he rather 
 recognized than felt it, for his mind was numb. If 
 Jimmy were dead, what else could matter? The 
 world belonged to the powers of evil after all; so 
 why go on laboring and struggling? In this black 
 hole where the candle streamed and two shadows 
 bickered on the wall, presently one shadow would die. 
 [Weariness of body had become weariness of soul. He 
 
BOLDERO 343 
 
 sat on his window ledge without hope or desire, a 
 dwarf in the enormous clutch of pessimism. 
 
 '*I don't carry your old picture/' said he. 
 
 Fingers regarded him more sharply than ever. 
 This youngster's gloomy unconcern had the voice of 
 truth. 
 
 **You know where she is, though,'' stated Fingers. 
 
 With hands folded in his lap, Boldero stared va- 
 cantly at the darkest comer. 
 
 **Yes; I know," he replied. '* She's put where 
 you, nor nobody like you, will ever see her again." 
 
 Upon this the Miner plucked out his knife, bounded 
 halfway across the room, and spread himself for an- 
 other leap. 
 
 '*You give 'er to me!" he roared. '^You behave 
 sensible" — ^he held aloft the fork of his mutilated 
 hand, like a man making horns against the evil eye 
 — "or I'll cut your harslet out of ye! I'll show ye 
 what your insides look like, boy, right here on this 
 floor!" 
 
 Boldero did not raise his head. 
 
 "See here!" Fingers the Miner suddenly turned 
 quiet and cajoling. "No use your acting stubborn. 
 What is there left for ye? Not a thing. Nothin' 
 whatever." His voice resumed its old persuasive 
 whine. "Your friend's dead and buried. He don't 
 care. That picture, you can't never sell it on earth. 
 They'd cheat ye. But you and me as partners, 
 
344 BOLDERO 
 
 why . . /' He laughed like one who could give away 
 kingdoms. ''You and me together, for I know where 
 to go, can take that rag o' paintin' and make our- 
 selves rich off it. Rich men!'' He laughed once 
 more. ''Fifty — good Lord, a hunderd thousand dol- 
 lars : you and me will halve it, square ! 
 
 "Now come,*' he added harshly, upon getting no 
 response, and threw his cigar into the empty fire- 
 place; "don't play the fool. I'm makin' you a fair 
 offer. Think of it : handsome clothes ; gold money in 
 your pockets; the girls runnin' after you; one holy 
 time all your life, hey ? You be sensible, come along, 
 live like a rich man. If ye don 't — ^what ? Next week, 
 next fortni't, whenever they happen to find ye, a 
 carcass on the floor that some Chinaman '11 come and 
 hold his nose at ! I mean what I say. You think ! ' ' 
 
 Boldero thought. The candle still burned too far 
 away; he could never reach it in time, knock the 
 cupboard door shut on it, or blow it out ; nor could his 
 bare fists keep off this nightmare, this smiler with the 
 knife. He saw the room vaguely; amid his whirl of 
 emotion perceived in a lacklustre way that the door 
 had drifted ajar, and that a pink flower had bloomed 
 like a crocus in the dark opening. It signified noth- 
 ing. His vision, directed inward, saw four walls 
 furnished as he remembered them when Jimmy was 
 alive, a warm fireside, books to read, suppers, cheer- 
 ful talk. In this grimy lodging he had known a gen- 
 
BOLDERO 345 
 
 tleman and received plain counsel that contained 
 more value than all promises, all lust of the eye and 
 pride of life which he must now forsake. 
 
 He looked upon Fingers the Miner, who stood 
 ready, white-faced, leaning forward; yet the figure 
 was overshadowed by its meaning, and waited for an 
 answer, not in human terms, but like a symbol — 
 the champion of pessimism and despair. 
 
 * * Face it. * ' Once more, as when the levee was melt- 
 ing in rain and darkness, he heard the words of his 
 friend: *'Face this thing out.*' 
 
 He nodded, then rose from the window ledge. He 
 had found the only possible weapon, and its name 
 was nothing more than self-respect. 
 
 ** If I got a soul at all,'' he thought, *'I owe it to 
 Jimmy Weechurch.'* 
 
 His adversary waited still. 
 
 **No,'' said John Boldero. **No; I'd ruther go 
 with Jimmy dead than you alive, you poor crumb!" 
 
 The knife swung gleaming between them. Boldero 
 crouched; a freezing fire, the chill and flush of cow- 
 ardice, ran through him from toe to scalp; but he 
 crouched with the sharp of his hands forward, like 
 a wrestler. 
 
 * ' You 'U go ! ' ' cried Fingers. * * You 'U go ! " 
 
 While he swayed and danced to catch an opening, 
 over his shoulder came that pink crocus which Bol- 
 dero had fancied he saw blossoming in the dark entry. 
 
346 BOLDERO 
 
 ** Ha-ha! Marne-wallah!" rang out a laugh that 
 ended in a grunt. *'The striker ee-struckP' 
 
 A thump as of a drum resounded. Fingers the 
 Miner toppled and fell sidewise to the floor of which 
 he had spoken. He rolled clumsily over, sat up on 
 elbow with a black knife-handle protruding from 
 his left shoulder, and gazed queerly at Boldero; his 
 eyes were altered, forgot their enmity, and grew calm, 
 clear, intelligent. 
 
 '*I said you was unlucky " he whispered. 
 
 He rocked back and forth ; then fell sidewise again 
 and lay clasping his hands, the torn one and the 
 sound, over the black stump in his collar bone. 
 
 Boldero saw him die; then looked elsewhere. The 
 pink crocus was a turban. Over their dead enemy 
 Ghanda Singh nodded at him, with a serious look 
 and no trace of exultation. 
 
 '*It the same blow," declared the Sikh gravely, 
 '*the same blow he tryir^ to give my brother Ram- 
 dayal." 
 
XII 
 
 "We," said the Sikh, ''must leaving this.*' 
 
 He spoke without malice, without regret. In his 
 dark eyes and pale bronze face gleamed only a tran- 
 sient emotion. Gentle, meditative, Ghanda Singh 
 looked down at the fallen man like a hunter who had 
 tracked his game cleverly, struck his blow in time, 
 and was content. 
 
 ** Leaving this," he repeated. 
 
 Boldero stared also, for the moment pitying what 
 had been his tempter and his ragged angel of death. 
 It was quite harmless now. The breath had gone 
 forever from the nostrils of that big nose. The lanky 
 shape lay as if sleeping, worn out by vices. 
 
 The meaning of its relaxation, the consequences, 
 came slowly to Boldero *s mind. 
 
 *'You did this for me," he said, regarding the Pun- 
 jabi with mingled terror and compassion. ** They ^11 
 
 say you " He woke suddenly from his daze. 
 
 "You must get out of here. They sha'n^t hang you 
 on my account!"^ 
 
 347 
 
348 BOLDERO 
 
 The Sikh smiled, like a veteran acknowledging the 
 generosity of youth. 
 
 **A11 right, sahib,'' he replied. ''No man to hang 
 yon or me. We both very fast on our feet.'' 
 
 Beckoning, he turned toward the door. Boldero 
 went to extinguish the candle ; but when, before blow- 
 ing it out, he took a last survey of the room, the 
 homely old shell so bare and desecrated, a fit of 
 grief overcame and left him holding the edge of a 
 cupboard shelf, unmanned. 
 
 ''What?" cried Ghanda Singh harshly. "That 
 suar I have killed making you cry?" With a king's 
 gesture he indicated the body on the floor. "That? 
 A devil was living in it. It made bombs for killing 
 women and little babies of the crowd, and ran away 
 to laugh, to count the money of blood in its pocket. 
 My good clean knife for this dirt of a snake? I not 
 touching my knife again. So up your head, sahib, 
 and come!" 
 
 Boldero nodded miserably. 
 
 " 'Twasn't him altogether," he answered. "I was 
 thinking about Jimmy." 
 
 He regained himself, and once more prepared to 
 blow out the candle; but in the act of pursing his 
 lips he heard a sound that made him wheel about 
 and face the door. 
 
 Someone came mounting the stairway softly, as it 
 were with padded feet. 
 
BOLDERO 349 
 
 They had remained talking too long, were caught 
 like a pair of murderers. Or had they still time to 
 darken the room and jump from the window? Bol- 
 dero, exhausted, could not act upon the question. 
 
 The padded footfalls reached the landing. 
 
 *'Ai-yah!'' sang a comfortable voice. 
 
 Over the threshold came waddling that aged priest 
 and cook, Leung She. Clothed in black stuff as 
 glossy as a wet umbrella, with a broad black hat, the 
 Chinaman entered like a Third Murderer in some old 
 play, except that his face bore a moonish grin. 
 ' **Hi, hi!'' he laughed. ^^Jack, boy, Tto 2a?" 
 
 They did not echo his laughter. Leung She ob- 
 served the fact, squinted at them briefly ; then, spying 
 the dead man on the floor and scuffing toward him, 
 bent down for a careful look. 
 
 '*He makee die,'* pronounced Leung She. **Huh! 
 He no good.'' 
 
 With the cheerful air of one who had outspoken 
 Bossuet at a funeral, the priest bobbed up again. He 
 stood silent, his pointed eyes winking in a rapid 
 course of calculation. 
 
 '*You go," he advised the two others coolly. 
 
 ''What about this?" Boldero glanced at the body. 
 
 ''All lite. You go. I fix 'em." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 The river, it appeared, was ** plenty close." Hav- 
 ing disposed of that problem in three words, Leung 
 
350 BOLDERO 
 
 She slid one of his brown talons under the volnmin- 
 ons umbrella-cloth jacket, and produced a fat letter. 
 
 ''Fo' you/' He flipped it into Jack's hand. 
 ''Misto Weetshirt, he lite 'em; he tell me give 'em 
 you. I guess you welly Goo' Lock. You do ewelly- 
 sing Misto Weetshirt say; when he die he leafee you 
 all hees money." 
 
 So far as Boldero understood this speech, it did 
 not comfort him. He fingered the letter mournfully. 
 
 ''Now you go, quick!" Like a nurse driving 
 people from a sick room, Leung She waved his com- 
 panions toward the door. *'You stay heah too long 
 tam. You foolish! Goo '-by!" 
 
 With that he blew out the candle and left them in 
 darkness on the stairway. When they had stolen 
 outdoors they found the neighborhood of the Black 
 Gate deserted, a few shopwindows dimly glowing, the 
 shabby arcade vacant. 
 
 ''This way," whispered Boldero. 
 
 Through blind, ill-smelling alleys they hurried, 
 meeting no one, and so came to the shadow mound of 
 the levee and the bar of light from the joss-house door. 
 
 "Inhere." 
 
 They slipped behind a row of old flags and heavy 
 pewter vessels that screened the altar from passing 
 view. Boldero, reaching behind the third god among 
 the cobwebs, recovered his paper cylinder, which he 
 tucked inside his shirt. Then, by the bleary night 
 
BOLDERO 351 
 
 lamp, with a strange sense — even while the Sikh wait- 
 ed before him — of loneliness, he tore open Jimmy's 
 letter. 
 
 It contained a second full envelope and a sheet of 
 rather bad note paper on which was written in a 
 crabbed uncial hand more clear and vigorous than 
 print : 
 
 **My dear Boy: When you read this I shall be gone 
 — ^without having seen you again, which vexes me to 
 the heart, I assure you. However, death is not to be 
 put off or denied. 
 
 ^*I hope you were successful; but whether or no, 
 pray do me this added favor if possible. Won't you 
 set out immediately for London? The journey will 
 do you good, and this document which I enclose may 
 perhaps enable you to travel with so-called comfort. 
 The bank on which it is drawn is in Lombard Street. 
 Inquire there for Lord Belsire. 
 
 '*Do start at once if you can, like the good chap 
 and honest John Boldero that you are. Should you 
 be taking along the picture, so much the better. If 
 not, never mind. Your obed't servant, 
 
 ** Jimmy. 
 
 ''P. S. Be sure to buy plenty of handsome clothes 
 there and everything like that. Adamson is the best 
 tailor I know of. 
 
352 BOLDERO 
 
 *'0h, yes; take my document to the local bank for 
 your signature." 
 
 The document bore the superscription: 
 
 J. BoLDERO Esq 're 
 Travelling 
 
 It was a double sheet of tough, crackling, greenish 
 paper, elaborately inscribed. After much hard read- 
 ing, J. Boldero, Esq 're, who had never seen the like 
 before, deciphered it as a letter of credit '^to the 
 amount of, say, five hundred pounds sterling." 
 
 Had he been less tired, Boldero might have felt 
 astonishment or begun to dispute the fact. As it 
 was he turned a countenance of wonder upon the wait- 
 ing Sikh. 
 
 *' Jimmy," he declared, with something like a sob, 
 *'was all right." 
 
 Ghanda Singh smiled as one hearing a matter of 
 course. 
 
 * ' You speak the truth. ' ' 
 
 Boldero pocketed his letters. 
 
 *'It's the least a feller can do," said he. *'I'm 
 going to England." 
 
 Again the Sikh smiled. 
 
 ** Good-bye, sahib. Better we going other ways, one 
 here, one there. So we are harder to catch. But 
 
BOLDERO 353 
 
 who can tell? The ways may be crossing again." 
 
 He bent suddenly forward, made his outspread hand 
 vibrate in the startling salute of the Five Rivers 
 men, wheeled, and was gone from the joss house. 
 
 His shadowy turban — ^when Boldero reached the 
 door — disappeared, marching toward the left among 
 the dark outcast hovels that faced the embankment. 
 
 He had spoken wisely. After that killing in the 
 upper chamber it was time they should part. 
 
 Boldero took the path toward the right. 
 
XIII 
 
 Through the heavy red-brown haze of a fine 
 summer morning in London, a yonng man loitered 
 down a thoroughfare once dear to Victorian humor- 
 ists. In the days of Clive Newcome, even the immor- 
 tals resorted to Wardour Street as to a good easy 
 hunting-ground when greater game was scarce, and 
 there bagged many a harmless joke. On this day 
 in a more exacting year, the neighborhood made no 
 exhibition of mirth. The young stranger, at least, 
 was not on the broad grin as he walked along, or even 
 gently arrided; he found Wardour Street rather 
 grimy and blank, like a stage street when the actors 
 have gone. He was looking for a clothes brush, and 
 thinking meantime that this summer air in London 
 recalled the autumnal forest fires of his native land. 
 
 A shop-window to which he came displayed three 
 or four brushes in a general miscellany. They 
 seemed to pass the young man's inspection, for he 
 opened the door of the shop and went in. 
 
 It was a long dark shop, with a long bare counter. 
 An electric bulb hanging in a green pasteboard cone 
 
 354 
 
BOLDERO 355 
 
 threw down upon the counter a circle of brilliancy, 
 in which lay a heap of gray fur, coiled like the 
 makings of a muff. As he drew near, the muff yawned 
 and stretched out many voluptuous toes. It was a 
 cat, which leered at him with green eyes upside down, 
 and promptly fell asleep again. 
 
 *'Good morning, sir,'* said a ruddy young woman, 
 appearing from the farther twilight. 
 
 * * Good morning, * ' replied the stranger. * * Fine big 
 cat you have there, ma'am.'' 
 
 The woman smiled. 
 
 **0h, yes, sir. She's considered rather handsome, 
 is our puss." 
 
 ** Maybe," ventured her admirer, *Hhat's why she 
 goes to sleep right in the spotlight." 
 
 The cat's mistress appeared somewhat puzzled by 
 his terms, but caught their drift. 
 
 '*Why, you see, sir, formerly it was a gas lamp, 
 which made the boards quite warm. So puss formed 
 the habit of sleeping there, as I might say." 
 
 The young man laughed. 
 
 ** She's an English cat," he declared. 
 
 *'0h, yes, sir!" cried the woman, as if any other 
 allegiance would be shocking. 
 
 "Yeah. She's got a historical reason for doin' 
 something queer. ' ' 
 
 This flight of fancy proved too extravagant for 
 the shop woman; but, seeing it was kindly meant, 
 
356 BOLDERO 
 
 she indulged her customer with a smile and said: 
 
 **Well, sir, you've a quick eye to notice things. 
 There's not many gentlemen would see that old trick 
 of pussy's." 
 
 **0h," rejoined the stranger, *'mine ain't the only 
 bright eyes in this room." 
 
 Now with such a compliment the manner is all; 
 and this young gentleman's was proper as could be; 
 nothing more than his fun. Tall, active looking, he 
 had a good plain brown face, tanned so deeply that 
 his glances gave out light and color. She knew, be- 
 sides, that the compliment was not undeserved; and, 
 therefore, growing ruddier than ever, her face became 
 none the worse, but sparkled with pleasure. 
 
 So Boldero bought his clothes brush and the young 
 woman sold it with much good humor and satisfaction. 
 
 *' These togs need more than brushing, though," he 
 said. ''They need to be burnt and bought all over 
 again. ' ' 
 
 The cat's owner coyly advanced an opinion that 
 they were both tidy and becoming. Boldero thanked 
 her, but was not convinced. 
 
 ''They're all right; only they won't do. Maybe 
 you can tell me. How do I go from here to find a 
 tailor named Adamson? Ever heard of him?" 
 
 "Heard of him, sir?" cried the other gayly. 
 "Why, Adamson is — ^beg pardon, sir, but Adamson 
 has the reputation of being rather expensive." 
 
BOLDERO 357 
 
 The young stranger did not appear discouraged. 
 
 **Hang expense; I'm aimin' high/' he stated reck- 
 lessly. ** *What signifies a cent? Tommy, give that 
 dog a herrinV so long's Adamson don't sew gold 
 fringe on my legs." 
 
 These seemed wild and whirling words for a re- 
 spectable shop; but the woman recovered from her 
 alarm, and presently explained in what region the 
 great Adamson held his awful sway. 
 
 **Any cabman would know, sir," she added. 
 
 "Glad you didn't say Tube. I spent all yester- 
 day underground, like a lost gopher. Every time I 
 got my nose above 'twas either Shepherd's Bush or 
 the Bank. No headway whatever." 
 
 With this mad speech, yet with a polite good morn- 
 ing, he went his unaccountable way. The bright black 
 eyes he had praised watched him out of sight, their 
 expression part bewilderment, part admiration, part 
 something which Mr. Weller, Senior, might have 
 called **more tenderer." 
 
 '*A colonial," she thought charitably. 
 
 Meantime, unconscious that he had given her a 
 morning's thought, Boldero hailed a cab and went 
 rolling grandly westward through the reddish haze. 
 He passed a number of green gardens, jailed by lofty 
 ironwork, and was set down in a street this time 
 which had never been accused of levity. The differ- 
 ence failed to impress him. All streets were the same 
 
358 BOLDERO 
 
 street, he knew, open and free to law-abiding men; 
 all doors much the same door ; so, with light foot and 
 nnbashfnl forehead, he mounted the stairs and 
 entered the solemn portal of Adamson. 
 
 A Georgian calm at once enfolded him. Adamson 
 the Tailor's shop inhabited the best room of some 
 forgotten nabob who flourished after Warren Hast- 
 ings' day, whose gorgeous carved mantel, white panels, 
 and white pilasters maintained their specious nobil- 
 ity. A few long tables covered with rolls of cloth — 
 some grave, some gay, and all tremendously neat; a 
 row of dressing-rooms, white-paneled and white-pi- 
 lastered, built along the rear wall: these alone were 
 modern, and these fell decorously into order and made 
 a countenance of being aged. 
 
 The establishment daunted even Boldero. He had 
 come there only to please the shadow of a shade, to 
 fulfill the wish of Jimmy, his departed friend. 
 
 **No place for me," he thought. 
 
 It was too late for any form of retreat. The royal 
 Adamson himself came forward, neither smiling nor 
 frowning, but all a mask of dread civility. Round, 
 smooth, silver-haired, faultless, Adamson bowed, as 
 one who had been an archbishop but had repented and 
 chosen a more serious course of life ; and yet, unable 
 wholly to cast off the world, he walked mincingly on 
 his toes, like Horace Walpole entering an assembly. 
 
 ''Good morning, sir,'' he chirped. 
 
BOLDEKO 859' 
 
 Boldero faced him with a brave man's front. He 
 was doing all this to honor a memory. 
 
 **Good mornin', Mr. Adamson. I want to buy four 
 or five layouts, if you please; the best cloth you carry 
 in your house.'* 
 
 Mr. Adamson indulged in a charming smile. 
 
 **Ah, very well,*' said he. **My son will attend 
 you in a moment." 
 
 He turned away airily. Some underling conveyed 
 Boldero and shut him into a dressing-room where, 
 among mirrors and fat leather cushions, he reclined 
 mournfully, viewing his own brown face at many 
 angles. A taboret before him displayed in a huge 
 brass vessel a hundred of Samsoun cigarettes, chastely 
 decorated. He took the liberty of smoking one, for 
 no man came to open his door. 
 
 '*This ain't the place for me,'' he reflected. '*Too 
 high! They wouldn't make nothing short of an as- 
 cension robe." 
 
 Still, he waited and held his ground. In the next 
 booth people were busy talking and calling measure- 
 ments. Boldero forgot them while he smoked and 
 reviewed his past; a week ago he had first sighted 
 Dover Cliff and watched the forehead of England 
 rise above glittering smooth Channel water ; six days, 
 four days, two days ago, he had gone to Jimmy's 
 bank in Lombard Street, asked for Jimmy's friend, 
 the vague Lord Belsire, and at last been told to in- 
 
360 BOLDERO 
 
 quire again on Tuesday morning. But J. Boldero, 
 Esq 're, Travelling, had ceased to put confidence in 
 lords or princes. He was alone; he was tired; and 
 at the present moment he had cause to feel neg- 
 lected. 
 
 * ' Poor old Jimmy ! ' ' he sighed. * ' Jimmy did every- 
 thing he could. He behaved like a father to me." 
 
 From beyond the white panels of the cell, voices 
 in gentle argument floated gradually within his ken. 
 
 *'Why, now really, sir," declared the voice of 
 Adamson, *'l fancy they fit you." 
 
 Then came another voice, which made Boldero 's 
 hair to rise and his blood to curdle. 
 
 ''You do? I fancy you're wrong for once." It 
 was the toneless, penetrating voice of a deaf man. 
 *'John Adamson, my Jo, John, you're mistaken. 
 These trousers are on the tight side." 
 
 There came a soothing reply. 
 
 **I dare say you're right, sir. Possibly they are 
 a bit on the tight side; but nowadays we're so 
 often " 
 
 The deaf man spoke again. 
 
 **Tush! Nowadays?" he objected clearly. ''John, 
 my legs are older than yours, but frightfully vigor- 
 ous yet. I won't have them cribbed, confined, bound 
 in. You may talk your nowadays to ' 
 
 Boldero had risen, dropped his cigarette, and stood 
 like one in a dream. This was a voice from the 
 
BOLDERO 361 
 
 country beyond the grave. He sprang upon one of 
 the fat leather cushions. 
 
 ''Jimmyr'hecaUed. *' Oh, Jimmy!'' * 
 
 And then the house of Adamson beheld a thing 
 that rocked it on its base. A young savage, leaping 
 to the top of a white-paneled partition, hung there 
 and stared down into the next sacred compartment. 
 
 * ' Good gorry ! ' ' panted the savage. 
 
 Below, among more cushions and mirrors, and 
 thronged about by a little jury of sad men with tape 
 measures round their necks, stood James Weechurch, 
 half dressed, but wholly alive and well. Beside him 
 the great Adamson recoiled in horror. 
 
 '*What?'' cried the likeness of Jimmy. **Is that 
 you? The boy? Come down here!*' 
 
 Boldero bestrode the wall and dropped among them, 
 light as a jumping jack. 
 
 '*Move out,*' said Jimmy. **We wish to talk." 
 
 The tailors went like a flock of blackbirds; Adam- 
 eon, with a somnambulistic bow, closed the door; it 
 was a moment of dread and wonder in that house 
 of the nabob. 
 
 **I thought you were dead!" said Boldero. 
 
 Jimmy sat on a cushion, and motioned him to do 
 the same. 
 
 **Me dead?" His eyes were quick as ever at the 
 reading of lips. **Me dead? Why on earth should 
 you think that?" 
 
362 BOLDERO 
 
 ''They told me so/' 
 
 Boldero, not yet convinced they were wrong, began 
 feeling for a letter cherished in his pocket. '*And 
 you wrote me this. Fingers the Miner said you was 
 buried." 
 
 Jimmy, in a magnificent shirt and collar, but 
 trousers merely sketched with white basting-thread, 
 leaned comfortably back to read his own handwriting. 
 He was no ghost, but, beyond all doubt, his living 
 self, though altered: his leathern face, close-cropped 
 white hair, and twinkling eyes the same as ever, but 
 the whole man subtly transformed and quickened. 
 Boldero felt but could not define the change. Jim- 
 my's nature had been rusty and was now bright 
 metal. 
 
 *'No wonder you thought . . .! I must be losing 
 my mind. Formerly my letters were clear,'' com- 
 plained Jimmy. ''However, I did write that on a 
 packing-case while the porters waited. But Leung 
 She could have told you. It was my cousin that died. 
 Leung She knew I was called home suddenly " 
 
 "I never asked him," explained Boldero. "We 
 ducked out in a hurry. A man was killed." 
 
 The reader glanced up quickly. 
 
 "Ah? Killed?" said he, in a guarded tone. 
 "By " 
 
 Boldero could be cautious. 
 
BOLDERO 363 
 
 *'By happen-so/* he replied; and after a moment 
 added: **It was that there Fingers." 
 
 **Ahr' repeated his friend, watching him keenly. 
 
 **Yeah.'' Jack's eyes, wide, ingenuous, and very 
 blue, seemed to misunderstand the scrutiny they met. 
 He was not going to give anyone away, least of all 
 Ghanda Singh, his rescuer. *'Yeah. It was Fin- 
 gers.'* 
 
 If Mr. Weechurch smiled he might have been think- 
 ing of his letter, for now he read it again before 
 tearing it up. 
 
 ''Devilish glad to see you, my boy," he declared. 
 **What were you doing there in the next booth?" 
 
 **Waitin' to get measured." 
 
 Jimmy flung the pieces of his letter into a basket 
 and jumped up, with a snort. 
 
 ** Waiting, eh? Look here!" He pounced at the 
 door, opened it, and cried in a voice that brought the 
 entire force of workmen running. **Look here ! John 
 Adamson, what have we done that my friend is left 
 waiting all day in one of your blessed loose-boxes? 
 Tell me that, and unyoke! What does it mean?" 
 
 The wrath of Jimmy was a consuming thing, ter- 
 ble even unto tailors. Adamson 's marble became as 
 wax. 
 
 **Why, really, sir!" His countenance melted into 
 the uneasy grins of an old rogue who knew his mas- 
 ter's way. **My memory is no longer what it was, 
 
364 BOLDERO 
 
 sir. Pardon me. I failed to recognize — dear me! — 
 one of your friends " 
 
 Jimmy cut short his apology by thrusting Bol- 
 dero at him. 
 
 ''Take that young man," he cried, ''and exercise 
 your art upon him. One of my friends? He's my 
 child, my great-godson, and the apple of my eye. Do 
 your worst, and kindly be quick about it, John, for 
 we're going into the country as soon as possible.'' 
 
 A moment later Boldero, once more in his own com- 
 partment, found himself the object and centre of 
 great doings. Tailors ran in and out, tailors crouched 
 at his feet, tailors encircled him, held up his arms, 
 murmured deprecation in his ears, took his altitude, 
 wrote him down in Domesday Book. He enjoyed it 
 immensely; he would have enjoyed anything, he 
 could have embraced them all; for was not his idol 
 back on its throne, his world a place of brightness 
 and music, now that Jimmy had returned from the 
 shades ? 
 
 Through the open door he saw his old friend, com- 
 pletely dressed, very brisk and cheerful, watching 
 the commotion. 
 
 "Don't be too fastidious. We need time for lunch, 
 and well have a long afternoon." 
 
 Boldero was reminded of a duty. 
 
 "I was to go to see your friend Lord What's-name 
 
BOLDERO 365 
 
 this afternoon/' he said. ''How about it now, 
 Jimmy r* 
 
 "Lord who?'' 
 
 "LordBelsire." 
 
 "Damn it, that's me!" said Jimmy peevishly. 
 "Hurry them np!" Then he began to laugh. "JacKT 
 you're the picture, in there, of Lemuel Gulliver being 
 measured by trigonometry in Lilliput. — ^I'm devilish 
 glad to see you, boy!" 
 
XIV 
 
 On a hot summer evening, at the close of the hap- 
 piest yet most troubled week in his life, Boldero came 
 walking home with Jimmy through a green lane 
 sunken between hawthorns and pollard elms. Flow- 
 ers — ^wild thyme, mauve gypsy rose, and yellow toad- 
 flax — covered the bank on either hand; little move- 
 ments of wayside creatures frightened by the two 
 men's advancing shadows, fluttered the hedgerow now 
 and again before them ; above, where sea breeze cooled 
 the hilltop air, an English skylark twinkled like a 
 black star and filled the sunset light with an accom- 
 panying glory of song. 
 
 **Hold on!" said Boldero, pausing at the gate of 
 a field to stare aloft and listen. 
 
 ' ' Wish I could hear him, ' * growled Jimmy. ' * Used 
 to do. Skylarking ! The chap who coined that word, 
 by George, was a poet good as any, and saw the con- 
 trast of earth and heaven. We plod while our friend 
 sings. I envy you. Confound these dead ears of 
 mine; all they can do is remember what they're 
 missing!" 
 
 366 
 
BOLDERO 367 
 
 Through the barred gap in the hawthorn beside 
 them appeared a great bosom of snnlit turf, crowded 
 with sheep — some reddled, others earmarked in blue. 
 A young ram feeding before a scarlet golf flag seemed 
 to bear it over his shoulder like an Agnus Dei. Ewes 
 bleated for their lost lambs, or, having found them, 
 submitted to the hunger of brown fleece-mops that 
 burrowed underneath and waggled. A peaceful fore- 
 ground, the flock continued its wandering edge into 
 a valley, beyond which rose hill after broad hill 
 painted in squares of green crops and of pinkish fal- 
 low. Intervening ridges and the eastern sky-line 
 bore clumps of darker and older growth — here a 
 wood; there cottage roofs whose thatch made billows 
 round a Norman church tower. 
 
 " 'Can't never 'ear the 'um of zummer bees,' " 
 mourned the deaf man. 
 
 Boldero found a different meaning in the prospect. 
 
 '*And think — all this," he cried, ** belongs to you! 
 Far as we can see." 
 
 Jimmy, laying one hand on the youngster's arm, 
 made a weary grimace. 
 
 **What profit in thinking so, my dear boy?" said 
 he. "Yes, I'm legal owner of this landscape; but 
 lawyer's parchments and pothooks mean very little — 
 transient affairs. They pretend I own two or three 
 more landscapes, fair and smiling as this, in other 
 parts of the country. What then? Can they make 
 
368 BOLDERO 
 
 a man happy? No; nor unhappy, either. Did you 
 ever see the remarkable postage stamp issued by a 
 great dominion that proclaimed, 'We Hold a Vaster 
 Empire Than Has Been'? Like Corsica Boswell's 
 hatband ; or like wearing a sandwich board — * I 'm the 
 richest damned idiot on earth!' Such views, at my 
 age, lose their inflation. Ownership? Labor and 
 sorrow, soon cut off, and we fly away. The bird up 
 there is one of my tenants; I own his nest on the 
 ground, think of that; and yet he won't sing loud 
 enough for landlord to hear. Do you envy me. Jack? 
 Now as you are a Roman, tell me true." 
 
 Boldero watched a flight of black motes — jackdaws 
 or rooks — ^hovering to settle and vanish in the square 
 tower far away. 
 
 *'You always think right straight," he answered. 
 "My fool notions kind of make me ashamed." 
 
 The old man laughed and turned from the gate. 
 They walked on, a pair of knickerbockered trampers 
 homeward bound, comfortably tired, glowing with 
 twenty miles of fresh air and exercise. 
 
 **Fond of my own place, just the same," growled 
 Jimmy, as they topped the hill and saw their lane 
 reach downward into a valley of streaming sun and 
 shadow. Midway on the slope an avenue of huge 
 beeches led westerly, widening to become a grove in 
 which Lord Belsire's favorite farm, Lomansworthy, 
 reared a silhouette of old chimneys and gables. De- 
 
BOLDERO 369 
 
 spite his late renunciation, Jimmy's face brightened 
 with a look of something very close akin to pride. 
 
 **One does belong to certain places/' he said. 
 **Only, we have to leave all this." His eyes rested 
 affectionately on the grove and black roofs, the shin- 
 ing fields beyond, and the little river which in the 
 valley bottom reflected a drooping elm, the sky, and 
 a strip of fiery cloud. *'It's not so bad,'' mused 
 Jimmy. **As the thief said, going to be hung, when 
 he drank St. Giles's bowl, ' 'Twould be good if a man 
 might stay by it!' " 
 
 They turned into the avenue of mighty beeches and 
 went on. It was a tunnel of green and gold, upheld 
 by giant boles against the sunset. Down this tunnel 
 rode a man to meet them — a lean, swarthy man in 
 whipcord, mounted on a beautiful chestnut mare, who 
 came dancing sidelong, her haunches outlined with a 
 play of light. The man wore a pink turban and sat 
 grinning. 
 
 **How goes it, Ghanda Singh?" called Jimmy. 
 
 "She needs riding," the Sikh reported. While he 
 spoke the mare took him a pirouette. "Ho, child! 
 A woman with nothing to do." 
 
 "Jack will teach her behavior to-morrow," began 
 Belsire. 
 
 But the chestnut was gone flying toward the lane, 
 her rider glancing back with a joyful flash of teeth. 
 
 "Who killed Fingers the Miner?" asked Lord 
 
370 BOLDERO 
 
 Belsire, as if propounding a Cock Robin riddle. 1 
 
 '*I never said anyone killed him,'' replied Boldero. 
 
 Several days ago, in the stables of Lomansworthy, 
 he had met Ghanda Singh, looking like a man born 
 and reared there among horses. They had talked 
 much, but not of that slaying in the upper chamber. 
 
 ''I told you Fingers got it by happen-so." 
 
 *' Humph! I fear," retorted James Weechurch 
 dryly, **you wish to soak up merit belonging to my old 
 and faithful follower." 
 
 Boldero took the imputation without a word ; then, 
 chancing to look at his companion, knew by the smile 
 that it was irony. Lord Belsire meant anything but 
 displeasure. 
 
 They crossed the lawn and entered the gray 
 stone house. A boar's head snarled from above the 
 door. On a table, under a stand of riding-crops 
 where they hung their headgear, lay a dozen news- 
 papers over-lapped with names displayed in a row. 
 Jimmy glanced at them as he passed. 
 
 ' * Bad news from the continent. ' ' He had said this 
 a dozen times lately. 
 
 ** Ghanda Singh was a prophet," replied Boldero. 
 *'War's comin'." 
 
 ** Very like." 
 
 They parted, to meet again at dinner. In a great 
 stone hall, lighted by many candles and a fire, though 
 its windows were open on a terrace of bright turf and 
 
BOLDERO 371 
 
 laurels, they ate what seemed, after their exercise, the 
 best of many capital meals. At each man's elbow 
 stood a tall glass of Irish whisky and soda that, as 
 Boldero observed, would make a cat speak; yet they 
 ate in silence, for the most part, or made mention 
 briefly of things they had admired during the day's 
 walk. 
 
 "Adamson cut you pretty well,'* declared Jimmy, 
 at dessert. 
 
 Boldero felt surprise and pleasure. He had for- 
 gotten his grand evening clothes; everything always 
 fitted him, or soon grew familiar. 
 
 **I got 'em to please you." 
 
 **When you thought I was dead," his host added, 
 musing. 
 
 A serious elderly man watched them from before the 
 broad fireplace. 
 
 *'I want to see that Chinese painting again," said 
 Jimmy, turning to him. **Go fetch it, Faithome; 
 and have the coffee in." 
 
 The serious elderly man withdrew, but soon re- 
 turned. Jimmy unrolled among his candles and 
 weighted flat, with a pair of silver basins, the land- 
 scape created by a queen when the dust of antiquity 
 was alive, moving, recording thoughts for another age 
 to recognize. Boldero came round the dinner table 
 and leaned over his friend's chair. Once more the 
 homely picture of Three Cows performed its magic. 
 
372 BOLDERO 
 
 There lay the mountain peaks under the dawn, 
 ghostly, shimmering, unchanged even by time, but 
 quietly foretelling its power in an allegory of the 
 beasts that perish. 
 
 *'Well nigh perfect," said Jimmy. '*A wonder!" 
 He rolled it together carefully. **Loot," he contin- 
 ued. **Loot. Ill restore it into proper hands, to 
 the family that owns it rightfully. By the Five Hun- 
 dred Jinns, what a lovely old thing. Here; lock it 
 up again, Faithome, please." 
 
 He drank his coffee and sat pondering. 
 
 '*IVe collected many pieces roundabout the world. 
 Jack, but this piece marks high water. Number One 
 in my lot. Thanks to you." 
 
 **And thanks to little Ramdayal," said Boldero. 
 
 '*And to Ramdayal. But he's provided for; IVe 
 done nothing for you. Let's move outdoors." 
 
 Through a French window they gained the ter- 
 race, where bam swallows flew, darting, swerving, re- 
 doubling a hundred vagaries before the last glow 
 of summer day should fail into twilight. By Jimmy's 
 side Boldero paced a grassy level, fresh-mown, cool- 
 scented, which overlooked a long meadow slope and 
 the tiny English river. Wandering through verdure 
 below, the stream showed as a dark green glaze, an 
 evening pool where swans floated asleep, like cakes 
 of foam or ice drifting under a nightfall of elm and 
 willow shade. 
 
BOLDERO 373 
 
 *'Bad news from the continent/' repeated Jimmy 
 for the last time. 
 
 **Yeah. Sure! It's bad,'* assented Boldero. 
 
 Each man knew the other had been thinking of little 
 else all day. They walked a few turns without speak- 
 ing. The sallow green light covering the hills be- 
 came gradually musical with bells from church tower 
 and church tbwer, as villages in the distance rang 
 their evening chimes. All the countryside faded little 
 by little into an umber dusk and a harmony of sweet 
 bells. 
 
 **If war should spoil it!" Jimmy was talking to 
 himself. *'I sometimes think this earth has been con- 
 verted to the devil, peopled with Darwin apes that 
 invent new ways of murdering. You, my boy, are 
 a comfort. I'm a lonely old man without chil- 
 dren.'' 
 
 **You can't call me inventive, anyway," Boldero 
 answered. **My brains work awful slow." 
 
 There was light enough stiU for the reading of 
 lips and hearts. 
 
 **It's rather like finding a son," declared Lord 
 Belsire. ''Let us talk about your future. Come; 
 tell me what I can best do for you, Jack?" 
 
 The bells chimed to one another from their hills, 
 but Boldero hearkened for something else — for the 
 right answer to his inward questioning. 
 
 **A11 1 want's your advice." 
 
374 BOLDERO 
 
 The bam swallows had gone; the bats begun to 
 tumble above high clusters of rhododendron. 
 
 **I do a lot more thinkin' than you'd suspect, 
 Jimmy/' he said. **If this here war comes I'd kind 
 of like, maybe, to go fight on the French side. My 
 mother was French. I spoke it before I learnt Eng- 
 lish. No; I don't mean like to. That ain't the word. 
 Wish I wasn't so cussed ignorant, or I could tell you 
 what I do mean." 
 
 Jimmy stopped midway on the terrace, drew out 
 a cigar, and handled without lighting it. 
 
 ' * Ah ! " said he. * ' Must I find you only to lose you ? ' ' 
 
 Hooking their arms together, Boldero led him on, 
 up and down the sweet-smelling lawn. 
 
 ''You been like a father. Now tell me," he urged. 
 "They say France will feel the go-off hardest. Don't 
 you think I ought to be there ? " 
 
 Lord Belsire was watching his swans adrift in the 
 river. 
 
 ''If you feel so," he admitted, "I'm not the fellow 
 to stop you." 
 
 The bell-ringing ceased; hill and valley grew si- 
 lent; the darkness deepened. 
 
 "My brains work slow," resumed Boldero. "I fig- 
 ger it this fashion: There's a crowd of fire bugs 
 trying to bum the world up." 
 
 "Very like," said Jimmy. 
 
 "I've thought about 'em all this week. Seemed 
 
BOLDERO 376 
 
 kind of foolish, in a way, my settin' up to do any- 
 thing. You really suppose it would be . . . sensi- 
 ble?'' 
 
 *'Very!'' cried the owner of Lomansworthy, with 
 an odd, abrupt decision. *'My advice is not worth 
 much. I 've nothing but money, you know. Too old ; 
 too deaf. But I'd say — very sensible!" 
 
 They smiled at each other. 
 
 **Glad you back me," said Boldero; '^for that's 
 how I figgered, anjnvay. I expect they'll need all 
 hands. A lot of fire bugs trying to bum it up. Got 
 to go put 'em out." 
 
 From the windows of the farmhouse candlelight 
 began to streak the lawn; young fretful owls went 
 squalling through the beechwood avenue ; river, elms, 
 and sleeping swans blended in a darkness that might 
 have been the foundation of serenity. 
 
 ''Yeah! Got to go!" 
 
 And then, like history, a fragment of a child's 
 rhyme repeated itself, — the words and the wisdom 
 of Mother Goose : 
 
 **To put 'em out's the only way," said honest 
 John Boldero. 
 
 THE END 
 
YB 39712 
 
 9^/ 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY